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Primary School in Japan

The balance between individual independence and social interdependence is a

perennial debate in Japan. A series of educational reforms since 1990, includ-
ing the implementation of a new curriculum in 2002, has been a source of
fierce controversy. This book, based on an extended, detailed study of two
primary schools in the Kansai district of Japan, discusses these debates,
shows how reforms have been implemented at the school level, and explores
how the balance between individuality and social interdependence is man-
aged in practice. It discusses these complex issues in relation to personal
identity within the class and within the school, in relation to gender issues,
and in relation to the teaching of specific subjects, including language, litera-
ture and mathematics. The book concludes that, although recent reforms
have tended to stress individuality and independence, teachers in primary
schools continue to balance the encouragement of individuality and self-
direction with the development of interdependence and empathy.
Peter Cave is a lecturer in Japanese Studies at the University of Manchester,

and was formerly lecturer in the Department of Japanese Studies at the Uni-
versity of Hong Kong. His main research interest is Japanese education in
comparative context.
Japan Anthropology Workshop Series
Series editor:
Joy Hendry, Oxford Brookes University
Editorial Board:
Pamela Asquith, University of Alberta
Eyal Ben Ari, Hebrew University of Jerusalem
Hirochika Nakamaki, National Museum of Ethnology, Osaka

Kirsten Refsing, University of Copenhagen
Wendy Smith, Monash University
Founder Member of the Editorial Board:

Jan van Bremen, University of Leiden
A Japanese View of Nature Psychotherapy and Religion in Japan

The world of living things by The Japanese introspection practice
Kinji Imanishi of Naikan
Translated by Pamela J Asquith, Chikako Ozawa-de Silva
Heita Kawakatsu, Shusuke Yagi and
Hiroyuki Takasaki Dismantling the East-West Dichotomy
Edited and introduced by Essays in honour of Jan van Bremen
Pamela J Asquith Edited by Joy Hendry and
Heung Wah Wong
Japan’s Changing Generations
Are young people creating a new Pilgrimages and Spiritual Quests
society? in Japan
Edited by Gordon Mathews and Edited by Maria Rodriguez del Alisal,
Bruce White Peter Ackermann and
Dolores Martinez
The Care of the Elderly in Japan
Yongmei Wu The Culture of Copying in Japan
Critical and historical perspectives
Community Volunteers in Japan Edited by Rupert Cox
Everyday stories of social change
Lynne Y. Nakano Primary School in Japan
Self, individuality and learning in
Nature, Ritual and Society in Japan’s elementary education
Ryukyu Islands Peter Cave
Arne Røkkum
Primary School in Japan
Self, individuality and learning
in elementary education
Peter Cave
First published 2007

by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada
by Routledge
270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2007.
“To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s
collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.”
© 2007 Peter Cave
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or
reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic,
mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter
invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any
information storage or retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Cave, Peter, 1965–
Primary school in Japan : self, individuality and learning in elementary
education / Peter Cave.
p. cm.—(Japan anthropology workshop series)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Education, Elementary—Japan. 2. Japanese—Education
(Elementary) 3. Individuality in children—Japan. 4. Child development—
Japan. I. Title.
LA1314.C38 2007
372′.952—dc22
2007020622
ISBN 0-203-93581-0 Master e-book ISBN
ISBN13: 978–0–415–44679–2 (hbk)

ISBN13: 978–0–203–93581–1 (ebk)
ISBN10: 0–415–44679–1 (hbk)
ISBN10: 0–203–93581–0 (ebk)
For my parents
the best teachers
Contents
List of figures viii

List of tables ix
Acknowledgements x
Note on conventions xiii
Preface xiv
Introduction: self, society and education in Japan 1
1 Education and individuality in Japan 13
2 Groups and individuals at primary school 52
3 Stories of the self 88
4 Mathematical relationships 111
5 Learning gender 152
6 Ceremonial creations 175
7 The next stage – 2002 and all that 194
Conclusion 213
Glossary 223
Bibliography 224
Index 239
List of figures
1.1 Morikawa primary school in the late 1990s 7

1.2 Children playing in the playground at Morikawa 8
2.1 Class slogan poster in 6–3 at Nakamachi 61
2.2 Human pyramids at the Nakamachi sports day, 1996 64
2.3 Cleaning the school entrance at Morikawa, 1996 66
2.4 Class meeting in a fifth year class at Morikawa, 1994 67
3.1 Painting a picture to illustrate a story from the kokugo
textbook in 6–3 at Nakamachi, 1996 98
3.2 Kokugo lesson in 6–3 at Nakamachi, 1995 99
4.1 Illustrating things that change together in 6–3 at Nakamachi 117
4.2 Children explaining to the class in 6–3’s maths lesson at
Nakamachi, 24 November 1995 127
4.3 Maths lesson in 6–3 at Nakamachi, 1995 128
4.4 Group seven’s graph 131
4.5 Group four’s graph 132
4.6 Group three’s graph 133
4.7 Maths lesson in 6–1 at Nakamachi, 1995 140
5.1 Home economics lesson in 6–3 at Nakamachi 163
5.2 Children playing dodgeball at Morikawa 164
5.3 Children at Morikawa playing at keeping the volleyball
in the air 166
6.1 Cards recording memories and days until graduation 179
6.2 Sixth years at Morikawa cleaning the school walls
before graduation 185
List of tables
4.1 Group seven’s table 121

4.2 Group two’s table 123
4.3 Group three’s table 125
4.4 Group eight’s table 125
4.5 Table for paper sheet problem 138
Acknowledgements
My first and greatest debt is to all those teachers, children, and parents of the
primary schools of ‘Sakura’ who allowed me to participate in their lives and
gave so generously of their time. I hope that I have done them justice, and
offer my heartfelt thanks for all that they shared with me during the memor-
able and enjoyable time of my fieldwork visits. Though anonymity veils his
identity, I must particularly thank the principal of ‘Nakamachi’, who so
enthusiastically persuaded me to do research in the school of which he was
so justly proud.
Many friends deserve my deepest thanks for all the practical help and
kindness that they gave me over the years that this research was conducted.
Particular thanks to the Ikoma family for their ever-generous hospitality,
and for being an endless fount of humour and fun (and great cooking).
Many thanks also to my old friend Mr Katayama Chijo, for making many
introductions in schools for me, and for sharing his wisdom, along with the
wonderful hospitality of his home and family. Warmth, practical help, and
insight were also given by Inoue Kayoko, the Matsui family, Nakano Hideharu
and Michiyo, the Nakata family, Nakatani Ayami and Tsukahara Togo,
Yamasaki Kotoko, and Yukawa Emiko and Sumiyuki, among others. Jeffrey
Johnson gave invaluable practical help during my 2004 research.
For giving of their valuable time to be interviewed, I am very grateful to
Nishizawa Kiyoshi, vice-president of the Japan Teachers’ Union (Nikkyōso),
Higashimori Hideo, vice-president of the All Japan Teachers and Staffs Union
(Zenkyō), and Takano Kunio, Research Institute of Democracy and Educa-
tion (Minshū Kyōiku Kenkyūjo).
This book developed from a doctoral thesis supervised by Roger Goodman
at the Institute of Social and Cultural Anthropology (ISCA), Oxford Uni-
versity, and it is good to be able to thank Roger in print, not only for his
responsive supervision, but for his unfailing support and encouragement over
many years. I would also like to thank my other teachers at ISCA and, earlier,
at the Oriental and Nissan Institutes, for their rigour, stimulation, and inspir-
ation – especially John Davis, Paul Dresch, Phillip Harries, Wendy James,
and James McMullen. Indeed, writing a book about primary education made
me keenly aware (again) how much I owe to all my teachers, at primary,
Acknowledgements xi
secondary, and university levels. As the Japanese graduation song says, ‘How
far beyond treasure is the debt I owe to my teachers!’
Those who have helped me learn about Japanese education over the years
are too many to name, but I must express particular gratitude to all my
friends and colleagues from my time on the Japan Exchange and Teaching
(JET) Programme from 1987 to 1990, as well as to Robert Aspinall, Eyal
Ben-Ari, Ronald Dore, Fujita Hidenori, Rebecca Fukuzawa, Dawn Grimes-
MacLellan, Joy Hendry, Horio Teruhisa, Inagaki Tadahiko, Inagaki Kyoko,
Kariya Takehiko, Gerald LeTendre, Catherine Lewis, Okada Akito, Sato

Manabu, Len Schoppa, Tsuneyoshi Ryoko, Merry White, Yoko Yamamoto,
and Shoko Yoneyama.
I would like to thank Gordon Mathews and Lynne Nakano for their forth-
right yet constructive criticism of my original book proposal. Their sugges-
tions were pivotal in helping me to widen the scope of the book and make
it more accessible for readers. I also appreciated the helpful comments from
the Editorial Board of the Japan Anthropology Workshop series. I am very
grateful to Anne Watson for her encouragement and suggestions for improv-
ing Chapter 4, and to Lynne Nakano and Glenda Roberts for reading and
making very valuable comments for the improvement of Chapter 5. I would
also like to thank the anonymous Routledge reader for valuable comments on
the manuscript. Joy Hendry, the Senior Editor of the Japan Anthropology
Workshop series, was, as always, reassuringly helpful and efficient, and Peter
Sowden, Editor at Routledge, shepherded me through the editing and pro-
duction process with clarity and smoothness. Responsibility for the final
work rests, of course, with me.
The M.Phil. and D.Phil. research upon which much of this book is based
was financially supported by Postgraduate Training Awards from the Eco-
nomic and Social Research Council of Great Britain, and my fieldwork in
Japan from 1995 to 1997 was funded by a Research Scholarship from the
Ministry of Education, Japan. Completion of the doctoral thesis was much
assisted by the award of the Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO) Senior
Studentship for 1997–98 by Pembroke College, Oxford. Transcriptions of
some interviews and lesson recordings were funded by a grant from the Louis
Cha Fund, Faculty of Arts, University of Hong Kong. I am also grateful to
the Department of Japanese Studies and Faculty of Arts at the University of
Hong Kong for giving me four months’ sabbatical leave in 2003 and thus
freeing up time for me to make substantial progress on the book. As I am
about to leave the University of Hong Kong after nine years, it is a particu-
larly good moment to thank my colleagues in the Department of Japanese
Studies, present and past, for helping to create a supportive research
environment; and also to express my appreciation for the services of the
University’s splendid library. Special thanks to Mr C.K. Lee for his
invaluable technical help.
Chapter 1 draws on and expands material previously published in my
2001 article, ‘Educational Reform in Japan in the 1990s: “individuality” and
xii Acknowledgements
other uncertainties’ (Comparative Education 37: 2, pp. 173–191: http://www.
informaworld.com). I received stimulating feedback on an earlier version of
Chapter 5 at the First International Conference on Gender Equity Education
in the Asia-Pacific Region, 25–26 November 2004, organized by the Women’s
Research Program, Population and Gender Studies Center, National Taiwan
University, Taipei, whom I thank warmly for their invitation to present.
In Chapter 2, I am grateful to KYOGEI Music Publishers for permission
to use and translate the lyrics of Hiroi sekai e (© 1987 by KYOGEI Music
Publishers), and I am grateful to Ongaku no tomo sha for permission to use

and translate the lyrics of Michi o aruku no wa kimi (© 1988 by ONGAKU
NO TOMO SHA Corp., Tokyo, Japan). I am also very grateful to the Uni-
versity of California Press and to Mr Hiroaki Sato for permission to reproduce
his translation of Miyazawa Kenji’s November 3rd. For permission to quote
from and translate Ikiru, in Chapter 3, I am very grateful to Mr Tanikawa
Shuntarō. Every effort has been made to ascertain and contact copyright
holders of texts reproduced in the book; should any inadvertent omissions
have occurred, those concerned are requested to contact the publisher, in
order that such omissions can be rectified in future editions.
More than anyone, I must thank my family for all their love and encourage-
ment throughout my life. Words are quite inadequate to express even a frac-
tion of all they have given me. My parents have been my best and most
important teachers, and I dedicate this book to them.
Peter Cave
April 2007
Note on conventions
All Japanese terms are romanized in the modified Hepburn system used in
Kenkyūsha’s New Japanese–English Dictionary (4th Edition, 1974), with mac-
rons used to show long vowels. However, long vowels are not shown in the
case of familiar place names such as Tokyo, Kyoto, or Osaka. Japanese names
are usually given in the Japanese style, with the family name first and the
given name second. An exception is made in the case of Japanese authors of
works in English. In order to preserve anonymity, pseudonyms have been
used for places, institutions and people in the fieldwork site, and some details
that might inadvertently lead to identification have been changed.
Teachers are given the honorific suffix – sensei (meaning ‘teacher’ or ‘mas-
ter’) after their name, as in the original Japanese. Girls and boys at the primary
schools studied were referred to and addressed by teachers (and one another)
with the suffixes – san (for girls) and – kun (for boys) after their names, and
I have also used these suffixes.
Unless stated otherwise, all translations of Japanese texts are my own.
Preface
An important aim of the Japan Anthropology Workshop series is to present

studies that offer a long-term understanding of aspects of Japanese society
and culture to offset the impression of constant change that so tempts the
mass media around the world. The present volume combines the author’s
relatively long-term knowledge and experience of the Japanese education
system with a detailed ethnographic analysis of the outcome of some rather
well-publicised recent attempts at reform. Some of these reform ideas are
themselves partly the outcome of the attention of outside media, insisting that
Japan pay attention to the individual children in their efficient and (almost
too) effective school system, so this volume, which addresses precisely this
aspect of the proposals for change within wider ideas of selfhood in Japanese
society, is particularly welcome.
Peter Cave makes clear at the start of his book that this subject is actually
about much more than the elementary school children and teachers with
whom he did fieldwork. Debates about the nature of the education system,
which have been raging since the mid-1980s in government, universities and
the media, are essentially about how to train the forthcoming generations
for the society that Japan has become, the global position it now occupies,
and the future that is variously envisioned. An important concern is to nur-
ture creativity for a changing world without losing the effective socialisation
that Japanese schools and pre-schools have been so good at delivering in the
past, and Cave quite rightly emphasises the need to place all this discussion in
the context of the complex multiplicity of discourses about selfhood that
exist in Japanese society.
The book thus offers insights at two main levels. The first is a detailed
and comprehensive analysis of internal Japanese debates concerning peda-
gogy and its perceived contribution to wider sociocultural issues, with a focus
on the place of the self in Japanese society. This section also offers a com-
prehensive account of the reforms that have actually been implemented, the
debates out of which they emerged, and the practical ways in which they have
brought about change in schools. It also summarises much previous work on
this subject, and identifies a gap in the understanding, which is largely at the
level of practice. The second and longer part of the work, then, takes the
Preface xv
reader right on into the classrooms and staffrooms of two selected schools,
choosing as a focus for detailed description the mathematics and Japanese
language classes at the upper end of elementary school.
As well as some very fine analysis of the interaction between teachers and
pupils, and between pupils and pupils, which are also examined for gender
distinctions, there is an unusual level of attention to the views of the teachers
who are trying to implement the reform ideas of the policy makers who have
little experience on the ground. This is a nice feature, for teachers often play
only a marginal part in ethnography on Japanese education, quite dis-

proportionate in my view to the enormous role they play in practice. Cave’s
interviews with teachers illustrate the degree of freedom they have in design-
ing their classes, for example, and in choosing how to implement the educa-
tional aims laid out in the reform documents. A chapter is also devoted to the
preparations for and execution of a ceremonial event in the schools, demon-
strating ways in which these school-based social interactions are adapted to
situations beyond the purely pedagogical. Thus we see some broader themes
emerge for how the citizens of tomorrow will get along together in Japan. A
great contribution to the series!
Joy Hendry
Oxford Brookes University
Series editor of the Japan Anthropology Workshop Series
Introduction
Self, society and education in
Japan
Modern societies have invested huge expectations and huge resources in for-
mal education. This is particularly true of wealthy industrialized societies,
where the proportion of children and young people in schooling has reached
levels unprecedented in human history. Not only are schools expected to
impart knowledge and skills; they are also given a large part of the task of
socialization – expected to shape children into adults with the character qual-
ities that society demands. Education is asked to make children more co-
operative, more creative, more sensitive, more independent, less aggressive,
and more disciplined – among other things. In short, education is seen as a
shaper of selves.
The expectations placed on schools are as high in Japan as in other rich,
modern countries, if not higher. Japanese schools have long been entrusted
with a major role in the production of ‘desirable human beings’ (kitai sareru
ningen), to quote a 1966 report from the government’s education advisory
council (Yokohama Kokuritsu Daigaku Gendai Kyōiku Kenkyūjo, 1973:
97–107). In the course of the twentieth century, schools have been expected
to produce patriotic children (in the 1930s), democratically-minded children
(since the late 1940s), and skilled, disciplined and cooperative children
(throughout the century). In recent years, however, the image of the desirable
human being has changed again, in response to the perceived demands of a
fast-changing future where Japan is a world leader in economic and other
fields. The image now includes new emphases on individuality, independence
and creativity, alongside more traditional concerns that children be socially
well-adjusted. Once again, Japan’s schools have been called on to shape these
desired selves.
These new developments, together with accompanying changes in Japanese
society, prompt a re-examination of understandings of self in Japan, and the
ways in which Japanese people learn them. How is the individual understood
in Japan, and how individual is it really possible for Japanese people to be?
Japan has often been seen as a group-oriented society, and ideas about
individuality and individualism have faced a mixed reception in modern
Japan. Yet at the end of the twentieth century, the development of creative
individuals and independent self-starters began to be seen as essential for
2 Introduction: self, society and education
Japan’s future progress – so much so that the creation of people with these
qualities even became the focus of a major educational reform programme
undertaken by the Japanese government. This book explores the nature of
this programme, and its consequences in Japanese school classrooms. It asks
what can be learned from Japan’s schools about Japanese understandings of
selfhood. It also considers the significance of Japan’s classroom practices for
pedagogical thought and practice more widely.
Questions about the nature and formation of the Japanese self have been
repeatedly debated during Japan’s modern history, both by the Japanese

themselves, and by overseas observers. Japan has been seen by some as a
group-oriented society where individualism is frowned upon, and by others as
a society of strong-minded individuals who endlessly challenge or subvert an
official ideology of collective harmony. While the view that the Japanese self
is interdependent and situationally oriented seems to hold majority approval
among scholars, a significant minority of voices point to other ways of being
in Japan – ways that evince independence, individuality, and autonomy.
Further debate centres on the question of how Japanese people come to be
the kind of selves they are – whether that be group-oriented, individualistic,
or something else. Answers to this question have often been sought by look-
ing at Japanese education. Some writers see the postwar school system as a
highly successful socializing machine. They argue that bonds of indulgence
and dependence develop between mothers and infants, after which preschools
and primary schools use group activities to teach children to fulfil expected
roles. This ability to fulfil one’s role then continues to be developed in a group
context at secondary school – though at this stage children are also increas-
ingly expected to act as disciplined individuals with a limited degree of auton-
omy. Other writers focus more on teaching and learning processes than
socialization, praising what they see as the development of independent, cre-
ative thinking in the Japanese primary school. Still others see the school
system as an oppressive monster, crushing the diverse needs of individuals in
order to churn out suitably programmed resource units for Japanese employ-
ers. Yet whether malign or benign, liberating or oppressing, there seems
agreement that education plays a significant role in making Japanese people
who they are.
Analysts must also decide whether to see Japanese schools mainly in terms
of their contribution to Japanese society, or whether to look at their learning
and socializing processes in the light of wider educational thought. Both
approaches have been taken – some writers concentrating on how Japan’s
educational system and practices can be understood within its social and
cultural context, while others focus on Japanese schooling in terms of com-
parative pedagogy. Several writers have combined these approaches, using
Japanese education as a window into culture, personhood, and society, but
also pointing to lessons that can be learned from Japan by educators abroad.
This book examines the questions of how selfhood is understood and
formed in Japan, and in particular, the role of the education system in that
Introduction: self, society and education 3
process. Focusing on upper primary education, it attempts to understand the
schooling process and the ongoing educational reform programme in terms
of debates about selfhood and education within Japanese society. It also tries
to show how what goes on in Japanese upper primary classrooms can be
illuminated by the insights of a sociocultural pedagogy, and how, in turn,
these Japanese educational practices may contribute to the further develop-
ment of such pedagogy. The study is pursued through an ethnographically
grounded exploration of discourses and practices that are historically par-
ticular yet enduringly significant, representing as they do continuing debates

about ways of being and doing in Japan.
Settings and methods

In this book, I focus on the sixth and final year of primary school. The sixth
year makes a good subject for ethnographic study, because it represents the
culmination of primary education. Sixth year students are treated as school
leaders by their teachers, and are given various responsible roles. The ways in
which sixth years behave inside and outside class reveal much about the
impact and significance of the primary school experience. Sixth years are also
the focus of a climactic series of rituals that bring primary school life to an
end – most notably the graduation ceremony. These rituals are given great
importance by teachers and embody significant discourses about selfhood, as
viewed by the primary school. For these reasons, an examination of sixth year
education can show particularly well what Japanese primary schools aim at
and what they achieve.
Perhaps surprisingly, this final year of primary school has attracted rela-
tively little attention from scholars writing in English, though there is a fas-
cinating ‘insider’s’ account written by Anne Conduit, an Australian mother
whose son Andy (a co-writer of the book) spent most of the fifth and sixth
grades in a Tokyo primary school during the early 1990s (Conduit and
Conduit, 1996). Two studies have looked at the fifth year of primary school
from different perspectives. Gail Benjamin’s (1997) account deals with both
the first and fifth years of primary school in Saitama, in which her children
were enrolled in 1989–90, and takes the ‘semi-insider’ view of a mother of
primary school children. Nancy Sato’s ethnography of two fifth year class-
rooms at Tokyo public primary schools from 1986 to 1989 (Sato, 2004) also
provides valuable comparative data from a different part of Japan from the
present study. Catherine Lewis’s landmark study of Japanese primary educa-
tion (Lewis, 1995), concentrates more on the lower and middle years of
primary school, while Ryoko Tsuneyoshi’s comparative study of primary
education in Japan and the United States (Tsuneyoshi, 2001) takes a wide-
ranging view across all years. These and other qualitative or ethnographic
studies of Japanese primary education to date leave largely unexamined the
possible impact of the educational reform programme from the early 1990s
on. In addition, their view of Japanese schools comes mainly from the
standpoint of the educationalist, and with the exception of Benjamin, they
have less to say about the significance of Japanese primary education for the
sociocultural understanding of Japan. The current work addresses these rela-
tively untouched subjects.
In Japan, primary school (shōgakkō) lasts for six years, from age 6 to age
12. Almost all children also attend one or more years of preschool before
they enter primary school.1 After primary school, children go on to chūgakkō
(variously translated as ‘junior high school’ or ‘middle school’), which lasts
for three years, from age 12 until 15. Primary and junior high school comprise
compulsory education; however, since 1980 about 95 per cent of children
have gone on to high school (kōkō), a three-year institution for children
between 15 and 18. The proportion continuing to tertiary education has risen
from about 54 per cent in 1995 to 66 per cent in 2005, mainly due to the
declining numbers of children in Japan (Monbukagakushō, 2006).2
Over 98 per cent of Japanese children attend the local public primary
school, entering by virtue of living within the catchment area of the school
district. Nationwide, 92 per cent also attend the local public junior high
school, again entering on the basis of residence; there is no entrance exam for
public junior high schools (Monbukagakushō, 2006). In Tokyo, a much
higher proportion (about 25 per cent) of children go to private junior high
schools, for which they have to take a competitive entrance exam, and this is
also true to a lesser extent in other large cities (Chūō Kyōiku Shingikai, 2005:
95). However, in the small city where my research was conducted, very few
children went to private junior high schools (there were only three such chil-
dren out of about 200 sixth years at the two schools I studied). In fact, there
were hardly any private junior high schools within convenient travelling dis-
tance. As a result, children were not faced with extra study for junior high
entrance exams.
I have used two major research methods: ethnographic fieldwork, and
study of documents and other literature relating to Japanese educational
policy. By this means, I try to show the relationship between Japan’s edu-
cational reform as prescribed and debated at the national level, and actual
practices in particular local schools. This represents my own attempt to meet
a challenge that has confronted anthropologists for some time, namely, how
to retain the strengths yet transcend the limitations of the traditional com-
munity study (of which the school study is one variation) (Davis, 1980). It
was impossible to understand what went on in the schools I visited without
reference to the larger changes represented by the educational reform pro-
gramme; at the same time, analysis of the programme itself would have been
less significant, had its effects upon the experience of schooling gone
unexamined. Furthermore, to understand the reform programme and its
interpretation in schools, it was necessary to situate both within the context
of debates, discourses and sociocultural changes in the Japan of the late
twentieth and early twenty-first centuries.
The schools and their setting
My field research took place in a small city of about 100,000, which I call
Sakura (a pseudonym). Sakura is located in a semi-rural part of the Kansai
region of Japan – the six prefectures (Osaka, Kyoto, Hyogo, Nara, Shiga and
Wakayama) that surround the cities of Osaka, Kyoto, and Kobe. It has been a
significant town since the Tokugawa period (1603–1868). Parents who had
moved there from other parts of Japan, such as Kanto or Kyushu, often said
to me that Sakura was a conservative place where people didn’t speak their
minds. For them, its many temples and quasi-compulsory community activ-
ities showed the city’s old-fashioned outlook. It was hard to say how fair such
perceptions were (personally I have known some very open and open-minded
people from Sakura), but certainly the city had a traditional core.
Like many cities (shi) in Japan, in the mid-1990s Sakura was a sprawling
administrative area containing much agricultural land (mostly rice fields)
outside the city centre. Even so, 95 per cent of the population was employed
in manufacturing, construction, trading, or services; large manufacturing
companies in electrical goods, tyres and aluminium had factories in the city.
Incomes in the prefecture were close to the national average, while education
levels were a little higher than average. Overall, the city was relatively pros-
perous; 80 per cent of the population lived in owner-occupied dwellings,
higher than the national average of 60 per cent (Zaidan Hōjin Yano Tsuneta
Kinenkai, 1996: 474). About 2,000 people in the city received unemployment
benefit (shitsugyō kyūfukin) in 1996–97. The city was and is best known for its
heritage, such as large parks and gardens dating from the Tokugawa period,
and the many cherry trees under which people enjoy spring flower-viewing.
However, in recent years its commercial and cultural facilities have been
expanding. While I was living there in 1996, a large new shopping mall con-
taining a multiplex cinema opened, and just after I left in 1997, the city
unveiled a new cultural centre, containing three concert halls along with other
facilities. The first half of the 1990s had also seen a doubling of the number
of the city’s foreign residents to around 1,000, about 1 per cent of the city’s
total population; most foreign residents were either Brazilians of Japanese
descent, or Koreans. There was a small number of Brazilian children in the
primary schools I studied, but none in the sixth year classes upon which I
focused; nor were there any Korean children in these classes.
In this book, I call the two primary schools I studied Nakamachi and
Morikawa.3 Both were public schools administered by the city board of edu-
cation, drawing their pupils exclusively from their own school districts. The
two school districts were adjacent, and together with that of a third primary
school, Ishida, they formed the catchment area of Tachibana junior high
school. The three districts were located in the most densely populated part of
the city. During pilot research in 1994, the Tachibana vice-principal told me
that the junior high school’s district was a diverse mixture, composed of long-
established, traditionally-minded Sakura households, along with incomers
whose thinking was more modern. Traditional households saw no real div-
ision between home and school, which they considered part of a single com-
munity, he said, while modern-minded incomers drew a clear line between the
two. However accurate this perception was, it helped to indicate the terms in
which teachers viewed the local population.
Nakamachi school district occupied the city centre, and was seen as the
most traditional of the three primary school districts. Housing in the area
was a mixture of old-fashioned wooden buildings, modern detached houses,
and low-rise apartment blocks (manshon). The district contained many small
businesses, including many family-run shops in long-established shopping
arcades; city statistics showed that in 1991, a greater proportion of Sakura’s
population (20 per cent) were employed in this district of the city than any
other. The parents of sixth year Nakamachi children included a timber mer-
chant, the owner of a bicycle shop, a tyre merchant, a maker of Buddhist
altars (butsudan), the owner of an electrical goods shop, and more than one
restaurateur – along with a doctor, a firefighter, and a high school teacher
who was also the priest of a local Buddhist temple. Yet the district’s popula-
tion was declining, along with the number of children at Nakamachi; at
the time of my research in 1995–96, the school enrollment was about 500,
down from much higher numbers in earlier decades, and it has continued to
fall since then. The Nakamachi vice-principal saw the district as one where
older people had considerable power, due to their relatively large numbers.
Nakamachi children were also seen by teachers as lively and articulate com-
pared to more rural children, and as well brought-up, since they tended to
come from families that were seen as ‘traditional’ – owners of small busi-
nesses, living in three-generation households. There was no doubt some
stereotyping in this view, as in teachers’ generalizations about children in
other schools, and it was also clear from talking to teachers that the character
of a class could vary dramatically from year to year. The teachers of the sixth
year classes at Nakamachi in 1995–96 agreed that this group of children
had been brought up by their families with particular care, and saw them as
unusually close to their parents. Yoshioka-sensei, the head of year, contrasted
them to her previous sixth year class at Nakamachi, which, she said, had been
made up of much more uninhibited children who were more of a handful for
teachers.
Morikawa school district was larger, and further from the city centre.
Mostly agricultural in the early postwar period, it had since seen considerable
residential development, which was still continuing as the population of the
district grew. As a result, most of its housing was in the form of new estates
of small family homes (shinkō jūtaku), as well as some apartment blocks,
though it still also contained quite a number of older residences and sprink-
lings of paddy fields. Within the estates, houses were built in a fairly uniform
detached style, but elsewhere, there were a startling variety of dwellings
within a stone’s throw of one another. Large handsome houses, newly
built but in a traditional style, could be found close to rows of tiny and
shabby one-storey terraced houses – although I only discovered two small
groups of such poor housing as I cycled round the district. Morikawa pri-
mary school itself fronted a river said to be mentioned in the Manyōshū (the
oldest extant collection of Japanese poetry, dating from 761). Beyond the
school buildings rose two low wooded hills, from one of which the Meiji
emperor had reviewed the Imperial troops a century before. While hills and
river echoed more distant history, Japan’s postwar industrial development
had left its mark in the busy trunk road that crossed the river just a hundred
yards from the front gate of the school.

The main school buildings at Nakamachi and Morikawa had been built
in the mid-1950s and in 1960 respectively, with later additions. Both schools
were equipped with a large gymnasium, an outdoor swimming pool (used
only in summer), a music room, a home economics room, a science labora-
tory, an art room, and an audio-visual room equipped with televisions. In the
mid-1990s, they did not yet have computer rooms. Each had an extensive
playground (undōjō) made up of hard-packed sandy earth, which was used as
a playing field during Physical Education lessons. Around the edges of these
grounds were climbing frames and exercise bars which were well used by
children. Because of Morikawa’s expanding numbers of children (about 650
by 1996), two new wings had been built for the school by the time of my 1996
fieldwork. Even this was inadequate to cope with growing numbers, however,
and by the time I revisited the school in June 2004, construction of an entire
new school building was taking place on the same site; some children were
taking lessons in that part of the new building that had been completed, some
Figure 1.1 Morikawa primary school in the late 1990s.

Downloaded by [Universiti Pendidikan Sultan Idris] at 01:38 12 April 2013 8 Introduction: self, society and education
Figure 1.2 Children playing in the playground at Morikawa.
took lessons in the remaining part of the old building, and some in temporary
prefab classrooms.
Research methods
My research on the Japanese government’s educational reform programme
mainly relied on the study of primary documents in Japanese from the Minis-
try of Education, government advisory councils, and teachers’ unions. These
were supplemented by interviews with officials from the Ministry of Educa-
tion and the two leading teachers’ unions (Nikkyōso and Zenkyō) in July
1998.
Ethnographic research for this book has taken place over a decade; pilot
research at Morikawa was conducted in autumn 1994, while my most recent
visit to Morikawa took place in June 2004. The longest period of research, in
primary school classrooms at Nakamachi and Morikawa, was carried out
between October 1995 and March 1996.
I decided to carry out research in Sakura for two major reasons. First, I
had many personal contacts among teachers in the area, which I believed –
rightly, as it turned out – would considerably ease my access to local schools.
Second, I believed that Sakura and its schools had no strikingly unusual
features, and were reasonably representative of many communities within
Japan. Since there are significant variations in social, economic, political and
cultural features across Japan, it is impossible to find either a locality or a
school that can be called representative of the entire country. It is clear that
the educational situation in rich, urbanized, and hyper-competitive Tokyo is
very significantly different from that of rural areas in regions such as Tohoku
or Shikoku, for example. Nonetheless, I believed, as I still do, that a study in
Sakura would tell us much about Japan more generally. One important rea-
son for this is the postwar national standardization of education that has
resulted from the central control of Japan’s Ministry of Education, including
a national curriculum, centrally ratified textbooks, and relatively egalitarian
educational facilities and resource distribution (Cummings, 1980: 6–15).
Another is the nationwide reach of the media of pedagogical discourse, not-

ably the large number of action research journals written and read by
teachers (Sato and Asanuma, 2000: 116). Moreover, the broad commonalities
in outlook and practice reported from schools in different parts of Japan by
previous researchers support such a view.
I carried out pilot research in fourth, fifth and sixth year classrooms at
Morikawa for two months between October and December 2004, combin-
ing this with visits to classrooms at Tachibana junior high school. My ori-
ginal intention had been to return to Morikawa in October 2005; however,
in the interim the principal of Morikawa was transferred to the adjoining
school, Nakamachi, and he encouraged me to do fieldwork there, especially
since Nakamachi teachers were specifically doing action research on how
to teach in line with the government’s educational reform programme. This
seemed too good an opportunity to miss, not just because of the action
research being done by Nakamachi teachers, but because it allowed me to
see two different schools. In the end, therefore, I spent four months at
Nakamachi (from October 1995 to January 1996) and then six weeks at
Morikawa, until the end of the school year in March 1996. From April
1996 until March 1997 I continued research at the local junior high
school, Tachibana, some of the results of which have been published in Cave
(2004).
At Nakamachi, I began by observing each of the fifth year and sixth year
classes for an entire day. After this, I concentrated my observations on two of
the sixth year classes, both of which were taught by experienced and highly
skilled teachers in their mid-thirties. Most of my time was spent with class
6–3, taught by the head of the sixth year (gakunen shunin), Yoshioka-sensei.4
As a result of my earlier fieldwork, I felt that more could be learned about
teachers’ philosophy and teaching techniques from continuous long-term
observation of one or two classes, than from observing several classes less
frequently. It was clear that teaching was based on units of the textbook
(tangen), and that teachers thought of and planned lessons as series that
covered a particular unit. The style and format of lessons changed as differ-
ent stages of the series were reached, so it was better to observe the entire
series in order to grasp the teacher’s approach. Continuous observation of
one or two classes also allowed more extended exploration of the worlds
of meaning that the teachers were attempting to create in their classrooms.
Experienced and able teachers were chosen for observation because I felt
that they provided examples of Japanese primary teaching that were as
close as possible to what Japanese teachers themselves would see as its ideal
realization. Yoshioka-sensei’s class was prioritized for observation because its
children were the most lively and responsive, both to the teacher and to me,
of any of the three sixth year classes at Nakamachi. As well as observing
classes, I carried out 35 interviews with 11 teachers at Nakamachi, not includ-
ing informal conversations.
After four fascinating months at Nakamachi, I returned to Morikawa at
the beginning of February 1996. Having already managed to carry out in-
depth long-term observations in two classrooms, I decided to make observa-
tions in all four of the sixth year classes at Morikawa, in order to see several
teachers at work and gain a broader view of upper primary teaching. I also
carried out 24 interviews with ten teachers.
At both Nakamachi and Morikawa, I was given a desk in the staffroom,
and arrived each day in time for the morning staff meeting (uchiawase) at
8.20 a.m. After the staff meeting, I spent most of the day observing and
taking notes on lessons and other class activities, starting with the morning
meeting (asa no kai) in one class.5 Some lessons were also videotaped. During
breaks, I usually stayed in the classroom, or played with the children on the
exercise ground or in the gymnasium. I ate the school lunch with the children
in their classrooms, and participated with them in school cleaning. As time
went on, I usually spent an hour or two of the school day in the staffroom,
taking a break and updating my notes. After lessons finished, I was usually at
school until five or six o’clock, since this was the best time for interviewing
and conversing with teachers.
Besides observing everyday activities, I also took opportunities to attend
research lessons and seminars. At Nakamachi, there were several such
research lessons during my stay; these were preceded by preparatory meetings
and followed by discussion seminars, during which teachers discussed their
plans for these lessons with their colleagues, and later reflected on how they
had gone.6 Listening to such discussions helped me learn about the issues that
preoccupied teachers, as well as the key concepts and vocabulary they shared.
I also attended two two-day action research conferences for teachers during
the summer vacation of 1996, one in Yamanashi prefecture and the other in
Mie prefecture. Most participants were primary school teachers, while organ-
ization and leadership was shared between primary teachers and university
professors, the latter including Professor Inagaki Tadahiko, former Dean of
the Tokyo University Faculty of Education, and Professor Satō Manabu, also
of the Education Faculty at Tokyo University. At these conferences, several
discussion sessions centred on videos of lessons by teachers from various
parts of Japan, and this confirmed the similarity of basic pedagogical prac-
tices nationwide. Though teachers at these conferences came from widely
dispersed parts of Japan, they clearly talked and understood a common edu-
cational language. Conversations and discussions at these events were useful
for deepening my understanding of teachers’ approaches and assumptions.
Besides these educational meetings, I also joined a number of dinner and
drinking parties with staff at Nakamachi and Morikawa – an excellent
opportunity for informal conversation and relationship-building.
Since leaving Sakura in March 1997, I have revisited the city and its schools
several times. In June and July 1998, I returned to Tachibana to interview 21
third years who had been sixth year primary pupils in 1995–96, including 15
from Nakamachi and 2 from Morikawa. I also interviewed 4 teachers at
Nakamachi and 2 at Morikawa. In January 1999, I spent several weeks at
another of the primary schools in Sakura, conducting observations of fourth

and fifth year maths lessons there. In 2002, I observed single fifth year lessons
at Morikawa and Ishida primary schools, and in 2003 I conducted interviews
with the principals of Nakamachi and Taira primary schools about further
reform measures. Finally, in 2004 I revisited Morikawa for two weeks.
Since 1997, an important change affecting Japan’s primary schools has
been the announcement of a revised national curriculum in 1998, followed by
its introduction into schools in 2002. Equally important was the reduction of
the school week to five days, also in 2002. As described in Chapter 1, the
revised curriculum encountered sustained criticism, amid concern about
allegedly falling academic standards in Japan’s schools. In response, the
Japanese government encouraged primary schools to introduce small-group
teaching ‘adapted to the needs of the individual’, mainly in mathematics. In
June 2004, I made a two-week visit to Morikawa, to learn how the school was
dealing with the challenges posed by the new curriculum and the backlash
against it. The new curriculum and its impact are discussed in Chapter 7.
Visits to Sakura since 1997 have enabled me both to observe a larger num-
ber of teachers at different schools, and to continue to talk to teachers about
the ongoing educational reform process. In all, since the beginning of my
research in 1994, I have observed sixth year primary lessons by 15 different
teachers in various Sakura schools, mostly on more than one occasion, as
well as observing lessons in other years of primary education by 11 other
teachers. I remain in touch with many of the teachers mentioned in this book.
It was also a personal pleasure to meet many of the children – now adults – at
their coming-of-age ceremony (seijinshiki), held at the Sakura Cultural Plaza
in 2004. These continuing observations and conversations have confirmed my
view that the discourses and practices described in this book are reasonably
representative of Sakura primary schools – and, evidence from other authors
would suggest, of primary schools elsewhere in Japan. Having said this, I
would also echo Nancy Sato’s insistence (2004: 15–17) that Japanese primary
teachers are individuals; though they work within a broadly shared para-
digm, and choose from roughly the same extensive repertoire of practices,
they do so in a way that suits their own personal capacities, and the perceived
needs of their particular pupils at the time. The variety in teachers’ practices
was repeatedly emphasized to me by the teachers I observed, and could also
be seen while watching lessons at Nakamachi and Morikawa. Different
teachers often approached the same textbook unit in different ways. It is also
worth repeating that the teachers whose lessons are discussed at length in this
book were very good teachers, both in my judgement and that of their peers
and pupils. Of course, not all teachers in Japan are so good, nor is every
lesson in Japan successful. But even so, I consider that the discourses and
practices that I describe would be recognized by Japanese primary school
teachers as individual teachers’ variations on common themes. They are not
idiosyncratic or far from the mainstream. They represent the attempts of
talented professionals to meet the challenges of the time, and do their part in
bringing up Japanese children who can flourish in the twenty-first century.
Notes
1 In 2004, 1,753,393 children were enrolled in kindergartens (Monbukagakushō,
2006), and 1,544,659 children aged 3 to 6 were enrolled in day-care centres
(Zenkoku Hoiku Dantai Renrakukai/Hoiku Kenkyūjo, 2006 182), a total of
3,298,052 children. In comparison, the total number of children enrolled in the six
years of primary school in the same year was 7,200,933 (Monbukagakushō, 2006).
2 Tertiary education includes four-year universities, two-year junior colleges (almost
entirely female), and a very wide range of vocational courses at specialist training
schools (senmon gakkō). In 2005, 47 per cent of high school graduates entered either
university or junior college.
3 All names of schools, teachers and children in the book are pseudonyms.
4 The names of teachers and certain other respected, educated professionals, such as
doctors, are customarily followed by the suffix – sensei, a word which can also itself
mean ‘teacher’.
5 At primary schools in Sakura, morning meetings were held by individual classes;
the week did not begin with a whole-school assembly, as it did in the schools
observed by Nancy Sato in Tokyo (Sato, 2004: 65).
6 Action research lessons in Japanese schools are described in Fernandez and Yoshida
(2004).
1 Education and individuality
in Japan
The period since the mid-1980s has been a time of ferment for Japanese
education. There have been frequent expressions of dissatisfaction with the
educational system, and repeated calls for reform, in response to what are
seen as new demands resulting from changes in Japanese society and the
world economy. Debates have taken place in government, universities, and the
media about what kinds of change are needed, and why. Reform programmes
have been published, and reform measures implemented. As the foundation
of Japanese schooling, primary education has been significantly affected
by these developments. This educational ferment reveals much about the
challenges facing Japan’s contemporary society, and provides a window on
the different visions of Japan’s future that are being debated. Particularly
important have been arguments about the extent to which education should
develop individuality, and what this should mean in practice. Debate has
centred on the issue of how to develop children who are not only creative
individuals, but also well-socialized members of society. These debates can-
not be adequately grasped without understanding discourses of selfhood in
Japan, and in turn, the focus on developing individuality shows the need for a
reappraisal of those discourses.
In this chapter, I will first describe key debates about education that have
taken place in Japan since the late 1980s, along with the major reform meas-
ures implemented, particularly those affecting primary education. I will then
analyse the discourse about ‘individuality’ (kosei), which has been a domin-
ant motif in reform debates, and trace the history of this concept within
Japanese education. The question of whether or not more individuality is
needed in education is related to the issue of selfhood in Japan, which has
often been seen as stressing the group over the individual. This chapter argues
that analyses of selfhood in Japan have not sufficiently recognized the multi-
plicity of discourses of self in Japanese society. After outlining these dis-
courses, I suggest that emphasis on individuality has grown with postwar
social change.
Finally, I introduce recent educational research that illuminates the wider
pedagogical significance of practices in Japanese primary schools. This work
in sociocultural pedagogy has attracted wide interest among educational
14 Education and individuality in Japan
researchers, but has not yet been connected with the practices of Japanese
teachers. The summary of this research in this chapter provides the founda-
tion for more detailed analyses of practices in Japanese primary education
later in the book.
Demands for reform in Japanese education

In the second half of the roaring eighties, with the Nikkei and the yen
soaring, Mitsubishi buying New York’s Rockefeller Center, and Japan pro-
claimed ‘Number One’ by a Harvard professor (Vogel, 1979), Japan found
itself the object of admiration, emulation, and envy throughout the world.
Japanese society and culture were ardently scrutinized by overseas observers
eager to discover the secrets behind Japan’s success. One of the most fre-
quently identified causes of Japanese strength was education (Vogel, 1979:
158–83; White, 1987), especially primary education (Cummings, 1980; Lewis,
1995). Yet while many abroad were praising Japan’s education system,
within Japan itself there was concern about its perceived shortcomings. As
Goodman (1990: 91–4) noted, there was long-standing dissatisfaction about
schools among various groups, including parents, business leaders, and
commentators from across the political spectrum. Japanese education was
seen as too uniform and rigid, too restrictive of children’s freedom, too
focused on the goal of entrance examinations, and too concerned with incul-
cating knowledge at the expense of self-motivated inquiry and creative
thought. Problems such as violence in schools (kōnai bōryoku), bullying, and
school refusal were blamed on the pressure that children allegedly felt as a
result (White, 1987: 165–78).
Dissatisfaction with education continued through the 1990s, though the
sources of discontent differed. Some on the Right wanted more stress on
patriotism, ‘Japanese tradition’, and moral education; business leaders wanted
more emphasis on creativity; teachers’ unions wanted smaller class sizes and
more resources; and some on the Left wanted the opportunity of high school
education for all and the end of high school entrance exams. Nonetheless, a
mainstream consensus did emerge in the discourse on education, partly due
to its reiteration by successive high-profile governmental advisory committees
such as the Ad Hoc Committee on Education (Rinkyōshin) in the late 1980s,
and the Central Council for Education (Chūkyōshin) in the 1990s.1 The
pronouncements of such committees both reflected and shaped widely held
public views about Japan’s education and its ‘problems’.
This mainstream discourse levelled two major complaints at Japanese edu-
cation. First, schools were criticized for allegedly cramming children with
knowledge, yet stifling their ability to think creatively and independently.
Fujita (2000: 46) has divided these criticisms into a ‘functionalist’ strand,
more concerned about how Japan could cope with a postmodern society in a
globalized world, and a ‘progressivist’ strand, more focused on schools’ dam-
aging effects on children. In practice, the two strands often overlapped, at
Education and individuality in Japan 15
least superficially. Business leaders argued that too much emphasis was being
placed on students’ equal progress and on the inculcation of knowledge, and
too little on developing the individual thinking needed for Japan to compete
in the information age (Goodman, 1990: 92; Nakatani, 1996: 245–52; Keizai
Dantai Rengōkai [Keidanren], 1996). Concerns about the need for creative
thinking and communicative abilities were voiced by Tokyo University’s
Satō Manabu (Satō, 1999: 33), an educationalist usually associated with the
liberal Left, and similar misgivings were voiced in the Final Report of the
21st Century Vision Committee of the largest teachers’ union, Nikkyōso:
The conventional Japanese education system . . . has forced ‘mass-

production’ educational methods . . . on children or people who by
nature have diverse personalities and abilities and grow differently. . . . At
the level of elementary and early secondary education, the scholastic
ability of Japanese children is reportedly high with regard to international
standards. Their ability to think and create, however, is open to question.
(Japan Teachers’ Union, 1995: 2–3)
At the educational grassroots, one primary school teacher succinctly summed

up this view to me with the words, ‘We need more people like Bill Gates.’
A second focus of discontent was anti-social and asocial behaviour by
children and young people, inside and outside school. This took various
forms; violence in schools (kōnai bōryoku) in the early 1980s, bullying in the
mid-1980s and mid-1990s, classroom indiscipline (gakkyū hōkai) and
social withdrawal (hikikomori) in the late 1990s, and steadily rising levels of
school refusal through the entire period.2 Though it is hard to gauge the
seriousness of these problems, especially in an international comparative per-
spective (Okano and Tsuchiya, 1999: 195–207; Lewis, 1995: 178–9; Wray,
1999: 25–6), intense media coverage certainly created the impression within
Japan of an educational crisis, epitomized by book titles such as A Hard
Age for Children (Sukemune, 1996) and the bestselling School Collapse
(Kawakami, 1999). Behavioural problems were frequently blamed on chil-
dren’s allegedly decreasing social interaction, together with the pressures
resulting from a rigid and exam-centred education system. The educational
role of the family and local community (chiiki shakai) was seen as having
declined compared to thirty or forty years before, when children had acquired
much of their moral and social education informally – from parents,
grandparents, and neighbours, and from playing with other neighbourhood
children.3 Children in the 1980s and 1990s were thought to spend less time
playing together outside, because of increased pressure to study, more organ-
ized enrichment activities (o-keikogoto), and the rise of indoor, sedentary
activities such as television and computer games. Meanwhile, it was claimed
that the trend for both parents to work outside the home meant that
few children learned about the world of work and adult society from
direct experience, as many did in the days when farms and small businesses
dominated the Japanese economy. Such views have been reported in studies
of preschool (Tobin et al., 1989: 58–60) and junior high (LeTendre, 1994:
73–7) education, and I heard similar views from several teachers and
parents during fieldwork in Sakura. In response, there have been calls to
revive the educational role of the home and the locality in order to ensure
children’s healthy moral and socio-emotional development.4 Meanwhile,
children were also thought to be stressed by study pressure and a discipline-
oriented school system that made few concessions for individual differences.
The Educational Reform Programme issued by the Ministry of Education in

1998 began with a summation of this view of the situation of contemporary
children:
While life [for children] has become affluent and education has quantita-
tively expanded, the educational influence of the home and local com-
munity has declined, excessive examination competition has emerged as
educational aspirations have risen, and the problems of bullying, school
refusal, and juvenile crime have become extremely serious.
(Monbushō, 1998a: 1)
Baba Masashi, an official of the left-wing teaching union Zenkyō, blamed the
ills of children and young people on excessive competition: ‘Competition in
education has been so accelerated that new words, i.e. “examination hell” and
“school failure” have been coined. This has resulted in a great many school
refusers and high school drop-outs. Bullying and consequent suicides by chil-
dren have sharply increased’ (Baba, 1997).
Individual commentators might well have disputed diagnoses such as
the above as simplistic. Nonetheless, during the late 1980s and 1990s they
attained the status of common sense among large parts of the public and
media. Within Japanese public discourse, a broadly-based consensus emerged
about the chief problems of the country’s education, and any reform pro-
posals had to contend with this consensus if they were to be publicly credible.
Individuality and educational reform: the development of

government policy
It is the government that ultimately sets the education policy agenda in
Japan. Particularly influential in the development of the government’s edu-
cational reform agenda was the Ad Hoc Council on Education (Rinji Kyōiku
Shingikai or Rinkyōshin). This was a high-profile advisory council, set up by
former Prime Minister Nakasone under his own office in 1984, which pro-
duced four reports before winding up in 1987. The Rinkyōshin made few
concrete proposals, but was highly influential in setting an agenda for sub-
sequent policy through its focus on key directions for education, including
internationalization (kokusaika), information technology ( jōhōka), lifelong
learning (shakai kyōiku) and most fundamentally, increased individuality
(koseika). ‘Stress on individuality’ (kosei jūshi) was laid down as the first
principle of educational reform by the Rinkyōshin’s first report in 1985
(Kyōiku Seisaku Kenkyūkai, 1987: 68–9; Katagiri, 1995: 76). By the mid-
1990s, educationalists such as Satō Manabu (Satō, 1995b: 44–5) and officials
such as the Ministry of Education’s Tsujimura Tetsuo (Tsujimura, 1997: 34)
alike saw the influence of the Rinkyōshin as decisive in producing a situation
in which ‘individuality’ had come to hold what Tokyo University’s Fujita
Hidenori called ‘a virtually absolute position in debates about the state of
Japanese education’ (Fujita, 1995: 85). In 1999, another Tokyo University

educationalist, Shimizu Kōkichi, wrote that ‘ “individuality” (kosei) has been
the key word of Japan’s educational reform in recent years’, again pointing to
the Rinkyōshin as the starting point of this movement (Shimizu, 1999: 193).
The new emphasis on individuality had its first major impact on schools
with the introduction of a revised national curriculum (gakushū shidō yōryō),
published in 1989 and implemented in 1992–93 (Kariya, 2002: 55–64). The
curriculum’s most prominent new feature was what was called the ‘new
view of academic attainment’ (shingakuryokukan), which emphasized pupils’
interest and motivation (kyōmi, kanshin, iyoku) rather than just the know-
ledge and understanding (chishiki, rikai) that had previously been seen as
constituting academic attainment (gakuryoku) (Hirahara and Terasaki, 1998:
33). The change was prominently signalled by a new paragraph at the very
start of the revised curriculum:
When devising and carrying out the school’s educational activities,

efforts must be made fully to realize education which gives thorough
guidance on basic content and makes the most of individuality (kosei o
ikasu). Also to be fostered are motivation to learn for oneself, and the
capacity to cope as an independent subject with changes in society
(mizukara manabu iyoku to shakai no henka ni shutai-teki ni taiō dekiru
nōryoku).
(Monbushō, 1989: 1)5
This paragraph was not present in the previous 1977 curriculum. Further new
sections instructed teachers to emphasize experiential (taiken-teki) activities,
harness children’s interests, adapt teaching to individual pupils’ needs, and
encourage independent and spontaneous learning ( jishu-teki, jihatsu-teki
gakushū) (Monbushō, 1989: 3). The result was a tone significantly different
from that of earlier curricula. However, the only major change in curriculum
content came in the first two years of primary school, with the replacement
of Social Studies and Science by the new subject of Daily Life (seikatsu-ka),
which was intended to allow more integrated, experiential, and exploratory
learning.
Educational reform during the 1990s
The next major step in the educational reform programme came with the
publication of the 1996 report of the 15th session of the government’s
advisory council, the Central Council for Education (Chūō Kyōiku Shingikai
or Chūkyōshin), entitled On Education for the Twenty-First Century in Japan
(Monbushō, 1996b). The report effectively authorized the mainstream view
of the failures of Japanese education and socialization, outlined above. On
the one hand, it deplored what it saw as the decline in the quality of children’s
socialization, linking this to a decline in local community and correspond-

ingly, in children’s ethics, social skills (shakaisei) and independence ( jiritsu).
An important element in this supposed deterioration, according to the
report, was that children were spending less time in experiences of play, daily
life, and nature that the report’s authors considered natural and appropriate
for them (kodomorashii seikatsu taiken/shizen taiken). On the other hand, the
report also urged the need for more creative self-starters to cope with what it
envisioned as a rapidly changing future society in which knowledge would
quickly become obsolete. It argued that having achieved the long-standing
goal of catching up with the West, Japan’s economy was now a world leader
and could no longer rely on copying from elsewhere; the situation therefore
called for the creation of new scientific technology and the penetration of
new frontiers. Moreover, as the structure of the economy changed, practices
such as lifetime employment and seniority-related promotion were being
questioned (Monbushō, 1996b: 12–19). In these circumstances, knowledge
acquired by rote-learning alone would be inadequate for coping with new
situations. Children would need to be able to learn, think, and act independ-
ently, identifying and solving problems for themselves, and so there was
a need to identify children’s individual talents (sono ko nara dewa no kosei-
teki na shishitsu) and actively develop their creativity (sōzōsei) (Monbushō,
1996b: 21).
The report thus advocated the development of both traditionally valued
qualities – feeling for others (omoiyari), cooperation, and sociality – and
newly demanded ones, particularly creative, individual, and independent
thinking. It labelled this combination ‘ikiru chikara’ (literally, ‘power to live’,
though somewhat misleadingly translated by the Ministry of Education as
‘zest for life’). The key to developing this combination of qualities, according
to the report, was to enable children to live less pressured lives with more time
in the family and community, while introducing more interdisciplinary study
and subject choice at school. What the report called ‘excessive exam competi-
tion’ should therefore be relaxed, while the educational role of the home and
locality should be recognized and used to the full.
Concrete measures to realize these aims were proposed both in the 1996
Chūkyōshin report (Monbushō, 1996b) and in a second report a year later
(Monbushō, 1997). Besides further curricular reform, the proposed measures
included the expansion of alternatives to conventional exams for entrance to
high school and university, and the introduction of six-year secondary schools,
which would remove the need for children to take a high school entrance
exam. These and other measures have since been implemented on a limited
scale.6
The Chūkyōshin also made the very significant recommendation that
Japan’s schools move fully from a five-and-a-half day to a five day school
week. This move had originally been advocated in the late 1980s, for reasons
connected with foreign relations rather than education. A major motive was
the desire to align Japanese working practices and lifestyle with those of
other leading industrialized countries, to counter overseas criticisms that
Japanese trade competition was unfair because Japanese working hours were
too long.7 One Saturday a month was made a full day’s school holiday from
1992, increasing to two Saturdays a month from 1995. The policy was then
given educational rationalization by the argument that giving children more
free time would allow them to learn freely through experience and explor-
ation outside school (Monbushō, 1996b: 66).
The Chūkyōshin’s proposals were put into effect in the curriculum revision
published in 1998. The major feature of the revision was a cut in the content
and hours of traditional compulsory subjects at primary and junior high
level, in order to allow more hours for elective subjects and a new, cross-
disciplinary area called sōgō-teki na gakushū (usually called by teachers sōgō
gakushū, and literally translated as Integrated Studies).8 The media trum-
peted the changes as a ‘30 per cent cut’ in the traditional curriculum; the
reality may have been less dramatic, but even so, the changes represented the
most radical overhaul of the school curriculum since its inception in the late
1950s.9 At primary level, the introduction of sōgō gakushū was the curric-
ulum’s major new feature. The aim of sōgō gakushū was given as to develop
children’s abilities to think, learn, and explore independently and creatively,
discovering and solving problems by themselves (Monbushō, 1998b: 2–3).
The curriculum gave teachers considerable freedom in this new area, laying
down only the briefest and most general guidelines about content and teach-
ing approach – a stark contrast to the detailed specifications for traditional
subjects, and a radical departure for an educational system that had trad-
itionally been regarded as subject to strong central control.
Controversies surrounding the 1998 curriculum

The 1998 revisions came into effect from the 2002–3 school year. Between
their publication and their implementation in schools, however, the revisions
came under sustained attack. Despite the long consultation process that
had preceded them, and the apparent prior consensus that such revisions
were a move in the right direction, the actual publication of the curriculum
seemed to galvanize those who had misgivings or who thought the changes
were an outright mistake. Four main concerns were voiced. The first expressed
fears about falling academic standards and the further exacerbation of this
situation. University professors of economics and science pointed to their
students’ inability to do sums with fractions and decimals, and credible
evidence was produced from longitudinal tests to suggest that Japanese
children’s mathematical performance had declined during the twenty years
between the late 1970s and the late 1990s (Nishimura, 2001: 5–20). Second,
critics were alarmed at evidence that Japanese children were studying less at
home, and were less motivated to study. Educational sociologist Kariya
Takehiko marshalled longitudinal survey evidence that indicated a dramatic
increase in the proportion of children who reported not studying at all out-
side school, especially since the late 1980s (Kariya, 2002: 118–36). He also
pointed out that surveys from 1995 and 1999 suggested that Japanese chil-
dren’s interest in and motivation towards study were decreasing (Kariya,
2002: 32–5; Tsuneyoshi, 2004: 373–4). The third concern expressed about the
revisions was egalitarian. It focused on evidence of increasing disparities in
achievement between the best- and worst-performing children, and expressed
fears that devoting less time to traditional subjects would disadvantage
children from homes with less economic and cultural capital (Kariya, 2002:
174–5). All these concerns were exacerbated by the results of the 2003 PISA
international tests of the educational attainment of 15-year-olds, organized
by the OECD. The facts that drew attention were negative: Japanese students
dropped to sixth place out of forty countries in maths tests, from the first
place they had occupied in the 2000 PISA tests (OECD, 2004a: 356), and
their reading scores dropped from eighth to fourteenth place (OECD, 2004a:
444).10 There was also clear evidence of a widening gap between the scores of
the best and worst performing students, while Japanese students showed less
interest than any others in what they learned in maths (OECD, 2004a: 120).
The facts that Japanese students, along with Finns, performed best out of
40 countries in science tests (OECD, 2004a: 448), and that Japan was in the
top group of four equally-performing countries for problem-solving (OECD,
2004b: 42) drew less attention.11 Finally, some critics argued that admirable
though the aims of the reforms were in some respects, their implementation
and resourcing had been inadequately thought through. As a result, they
risked lowering standards and intensifying inequality, for a return that was
doubtful at best (Kariya, 2001: 80–1).
Some writers tended to give the impression that they saw little wrong with
postwar school education in its pre-1989 (or even pre-1977) guise – high
academic standards for all, hard work, tests and a focus on the basics had
served Japan well and should continue to do so. Psychiatrist Wada Hideki,
one of the most active critics, argued that Japan faced a choice between either
maintaining the thrust of its postwar educational and social systems, or
transforming itself to try to become like the United States. For Wada, Japan’s
postwar education delivered uniformly high standards at the price of failing
to nurture outstanding geniuses. The price, however, was worth it because of
the social stability that he thought resulted. In contrast, he saw the United
States as a polarized country whose education system aimed at creating a few
brilliant leaders, but also accepted that many would do very badly – an
approach that led to economic inequality, crime and social disorder (Wada,
1999: 10–20, 122–41). Wada also argued that in any case, the United States
(and Britain) had recognized that flirtations with ‘progressive’ education had
been a mistake, and had restored a traditional focus on tests and hard work
during the 1990s. Indeed, Wada claimed that trying to raise academic stand-
ards was the trend all over the world, with only Japan’s Ministry of Educa-
tion going against ‘international common sense’ by cutting school hours and
curriculum content (Wada, 2001: 32). Kariya Takehiko also pointed to dis-
continued US experiments with progressive education as experiences from
which Japan should learn caution (Terawaki and Kariya, 2001: 93; Kariya,
2002: 163–76). While Kariya was not as negative about child-centred educa-
tion as Wada, he did warn against imposing it top-down without giving
teachers necessary preparation and resourcing (Kariya, 2002: 180–5, 210),
and he drew attention to the difficulty of producing evidence for its benefits
(in contrast to the relative ease of measuring academic attainment as con-
ventionally understood). Kariya also shared Wada’s view that Japan’s post-
war education system had benefited the nation, especially the economy, by
concentrating on giving a high-level education to everyone, rather than focus-
ing on the education of an elite (Terawaki and Kariya, 2001: 92–3). Kariya’s
Tokyo University colleague, Fujita Hidenori, similarly drew attention to the
success of the postwar system in combining high academic performance with
a relatively egalitarian structure and ideology (Fujita, 2000: 43).
The response of the government was fourfold. First, it tried to assuage
concerns about falling standards by stating that the standards set out in the
national curriculum were only a minimum, meaning that schools were free to
teach to a higher standard. Second, it instituted national achievement tests, in
order to provide better information about children’s academic attainment.
Third, it encouraged teaching children in groups organized according to aca-
demic performance, particularly in maths and (at junior high level) in English
(Tsuneyoshi, 2004: 366, 379–80, 384–5). And finally, in December 2003 it
made minor revisions to the curriculum, expressly indicating that the curric-
ulum was indeed a minimum, and adding a new aim for sōgō gakushū, that of
integrating knowledge and skills acquired in academic subjects – thus linking
sōgō gakushū more closely to the existing academic curriculum (Monbuka-
gakushō, 2007).
Individuality and basic academic attainment

Rather than centring on concepts such as individuality, the debate on the 1998/
2002 curriculum reforms focused on other issues, especially falling academic
standards, falling motivation to study, and inequality. ‘Koseika’ (increased
individuality) had been displaced as a media catchword by ‘gakuryoku
teika’ (falling academic attainment), while the term that served as the main
target of attack was not ‘individuality’ but ‘yutori kyōiku’ – a term that
could be positively translated as ‘education that will allow children “room
to grow” ’, or negatively as ‘relaxed education’ (Tsuneyoshi, 2004: 367).
Indeed, most criticism of the 1998/2002 curriculum was not an outright
attack on the idea that education should promote individuality. One vocal
critic, economics professor Nishimura Kazuo, explicitly denied that he was
opposed to individuality:
People’s individuality (kosei) flourishes in a free environment. It is

important to remove the framework of uniform control (kakuitsu-teki

kanri no waku), and this has nothing to do with studying or not studying.
Individuality flourishes even when one is studying.
(Nishimura, 2001: 25)
Kariya Takehiko did not voice outright opposition to the goals of the
reforms, but argued that they could not be achieved if the acquisition of basic
knowledge and understanding were neglected:
At first glance, it seems as if judgement and thinking ability might be

increased by ‘ikiru chikara’-type education that tries to develop the ability
to think and learn for oneself. However, if basic attainment (kiso-teki na
gakuryoku) and knowledge are treated too lightly, the ability to build up
discriminating arguments will not be learned, and it is possible that what
will be formed is a critical attitude capable of nothing but self-assertion.
(Kariya, 2001: 80)
In a later publication, he argued that the notion of autonomy (shutaisei) was

being misunderstood by enthusiasts for the educational reform programme:
There is an over-hasty notion that if we just give children chances to say

what they think, this on its own will develop their ability to think for
themselves. In fact, that is likely to result in supposedly ‘autonomous’
study (‘shutai-teki’ na gakushū) that is nothing more than a hollow
shell. . . . The autonomy of the learner is an important factor in acquir-
ing knowledge, and making study that can develop such autonomy mean-
ingful should be at the foundation of what the teacher does.
(Kariya, 2002: 204)
Yet while there were few direct attacks on ‘individuality’, there could be no
doubt that the weight of criticism favoured teaching all children ‘the basics’
(kiso/kihon) (usually conceptualized as those academic subjects that had
been central to the postwar curriculum, especially maths, Japanese, science,
English and social studies). Whether or not this was ‘back to basics’, in the
sense of an explicit preference for the past, depended on the writer; Wada
(1999, 2001), for example, definitely gave this impression, while Kariya’s
position was more complex, arguing that the past achievements of Japan’s
schools should not be despised, and that any reform should be pursued with
care and with adequate support for the teachers who had to carry it out.
Kariya also pointed out that the idea that Japan’s primary teachers had
simply been stuffing knowledge into children’s heads before the 1990s was
far from the truth, as research done in the 1980s had shown (Kariya, 2002:
193–6).
Concern about falling standards and inequality did not necessarily trans-
late into opposition to the introduction of sōgō gakushū and exploratory,
project-style learning into the curriculum. Some writers, such as Kariya, criti-
cized the obligatory introduction of sōgō gakushū in all schools, arguing that
teachers often had an inadequate understanding of how to make this time
into a genuinely valuable learning experience (Kariya, 2002: 80–90). Others
were positive about the potential of sōgō gakushū, but unhappy about the
cutting back of traditional subjects to make way for it: for example, Kyoto
University professor Ueno Kenji wrote that ‘if sōgō gakushū could be set up
and run well without cutting core subjects, it could send a fresh wind through
education’ (Nishimura, 2001: 42). Primary school principal Kageyama
Hideo, who became a ‘poster boy’ for critics of yutori education through his
energetic advocacy of practice exercises and drilling in the ‘three Rs’, none-
theless welcomed the possibilities offered by sōgō gakushū, setting out a
plethora of practical examples of this kind of learning (Kageyama, 2002:
181–204).
Ryoko Tsuneyoshi (2004: 366–7, 388) has plausibly suggested that the
debate was affected by a national loss of confidence about Japan, its society,
and its future in the late 1990s and early 2000s. After ten years of economic
stagnation and amid increasing media reports of youth crime and disorder,
there was a general sense of malaise encapsulated by the popularity of the
term ‘collapse’ (hōkai). First used with reference to classroom indiscipline
(‘class collapse’ or gakkyū hōkai), it was soon being used in book titles about
falling academic standards (‘the collapse of academic attainment’ or gakury-
oku hōkai) (Wada, 1999) and ‘school collapse’ (gakkō hōkai) (Kawakami,
1999). Without wishing to minimize the genuine concerns raised by critics, it
is hard not to agree with Tsuneyoshi (2004) that the anxiety and harking back
to the past that characterized the criticisms were remarkable, when one con-
siders the continued good performance of Japanese children in international
tests.
The government’s response to its critics was not a dramatic reining back of
the promotion of individuality. In fact, the measures that were taken tended
to further promote individualized teaching, at least in the sense of teaching in
small groups organized according to children’s academic attainment. Despite
the calls for an earlier-than-scheduled full-scale revision of the curriculum,
no such revision was carried out. Sōgō gakushū, the cuts to traditional sub-
jects, and the five-day school week remained in place. Moreover, by no means
all those who participated in the debate were critical of the reforms, as
Tsuneyoshi (2004: 380–3) has pointed out. On the other hand, the intense
public concern stirred up about academic standards did force the government
to institute measures to deal with the issue. The furore also forced schools to
pay close attention to the kind of academic attainment and study habits that
critics of reform favoured. As a result, the debate did not end in a clear-cut
victory for either the proponents or critics of educational reform. This was
perhaps not surprising, since the debate clearly showed how wide a variety
of views existed within Japan about the nature of teaching and learning,
the importance of discipline and freedom, and the relationship between
individuals and society.12 There was obviously no consensus in favour of

either full-blown ‘progressive’ education, or education focused on teacher-
transmitted, exam-tested knowledge. The debate also suggested that while
there was considerable support in Japan for increased emphasis on ‘individu-
ality’, there was also disagreement about what exactly that might mean in
practice – as well as suspicion among some that too much emphasis on indi-
viduality might result in laxness, indiscipline, and a weakened social order. As
we shall see, ‘individuality’ is a term whose meaning has been variously inter-
preted and debated in Japan over the last hundred years, and which has
been claimed by proponents of various points of view in support of their
arguments.
‘Individuality’ and its meanings

Despite the frequency of its use in Japan’s educational reform debate,
the exact meaning of the word ‘individuality’ (kosei) is by no means clear.
This has been pointed out both by Kataoka (1996: 33), and by Fujita
Hidenori, who writes: ‘I have no objection to arguments for “education that
stresses individuality” (kosei jūshi no kyōiku) or “respect for individuality”
(kosei no sonchō). But to what does that “individuality” (kosei) refer?’ (Fujita,
1997: 46).
In fact, not only the Ministry of Education and educational advisory
councils, but also many other writers on education have treated the word
‘individuality’ as a positive term that refers to something of which they
approve. What is disputed is the meaning of the word, in terms of its practical
implications for education. Some critics of the government’s educational
reform programme have argued that the government’s version of kosei is
not ‘real’ kosei. In particular, it has often been suspected on the Left that
government rhetoric about ‘individuality’ is a way of masking intentions to
introduce neo-liberal market principles into education, along with intensified
academic selection designed to produce an academic elite. For example, in the
late 1980s Hamabayashi Masao criticized the Rinkyōshin’s version of ‘stress
on individuality’ as threatening to translate in practice into a mechanism for
sorting children according to abilities conceptualized as fixed. Hamabayashi’s
counter-argument was that children had limitless potential, and that real
stress on individuality meant allowing each child’s abilities and aptitudes
to flourish (Hamabayashi, 1987: 24–5). Similarly, in the mid-1990s Satō
Manabu argued that if what the government proposed were truly education
that stressed individuality, it would be welcome, but ‘the problem is that
what they are saying is grounded in neo-conservative policies and ideology’
(which he implied were inimical to such education) (Satō, 1995b: 46). Fujita
Hidenori (2000: 54) has argued that modern societies have three main organ-
izing principles, two of which involve stressing the individual, but in radically
different ways. In what he calls segregated symbiosis, ‘different groups of
people are separated from each other socially, culturally, and sometimes,
even spatially’; in civic symbiosis, ‘all individuals are assumed as being

equal, autonomous and independent, but at the same time, as having an
orientation to accept different people, ideas and cultures, and to cooperate for
improving their welfare’; and in market-oriented symbiosis, ‘individuals tend
to be self-oriented, concerned with personal benefits, indifferent toward
others, and not willing to cooperate in order to improve social benefits’.
Fujita advocates ‘civic symbiosis’ and the cooperative, socially-oriented indi-
vidual over ‘market-oriented symbiosis’ and the selfish, socially indifferent
individual, criticizing what he sees as government moves towards marketiza-
tion and elitism, especially in policies concerning school choice (Fujita, 2000:
48–50, 53–5). Concerns about elitism are justified, given the influential sup-
port for increased selection into elite and non-elite tracks within public edu-
cation (Yoneyama, 2002: 200–5), though it is important to note that there
is no immediate prospect of such changes.
In fact, the word kosei has a long history in Japanese educational debate,
and both Katagiri (1995) and Satō Manabu (1995a) suggest that during that
history there have been more or less constant disputes about its meaning.
According to Satō (1995a: 34), the word came into Japanese in the early years
of the Meiji period (1868–1912), and was first used in educational discourse
in the 1880s, to mean physical or mental difference. Katagiri puts its appear-
ance in the educational world a little later, in the mid-1890s, but both authors
agree that it was in the decade 1900–10 that the use of the term spread in
educational journals. Satō suggests that this arose from psychological interest
in educational efficiency, linked to the contemporaneous spread of IQ and
achievement tests, and the interest in eugenics, which led to attempts to iden-
tify outstanding or inferior children (Satō, 1995a: 34). At this stage, then,
‘kosei’ was being used to mean ‘difference from others’, a difference which
could be either positive or negative.
In the decade 1910–20, articles including the word ‘kosei’ in the title
became frequent in the educational journals, and the concept was discussed
with passion. The number of such articles rose further in the 1920s, reaching
a peak in 1928 (Katagiri, 1995: 56, 67–8). These two decades were the heyday
of the Taisho Free Education (Taishō jiyū kyōiku) movement, for whose pro-
ponents kosei was a key word (Nakano, 1968; Satō, 1995a: 26, 32ff.). The Free
Educationalists’ understanding of kosei does not seem to have been consist-
ent, however; at some times, they seem to have thought of it as meaning
‘uniqueness’, and having an unequivocally positive meaning; at others, as
meaning ‘difference’, ‘ability’, or ‘aptitude’, in which case it could be positive
or negative. Despite a common emphasis on individuality, moreover, key
figures of the period took strikingly different approaches in crucial areas of
pedagogy. Whereas some figures, such as Oikawa Heiji, favoured ability
grouping for the sake of pedagogical efficiency, others such as Kinoshita
Takeji opposed it (Nakano, 1968: 116ff., 183–5; Katagiri, 1995: 65–7). In
Kinoshita’s case, this was because he believed that the individual could only
be understood in the context of social relationships. Kinoshita conceived of
the class (gakkyū) as primarily a unit of social organization, in which children

of varying academic abilities could learn from one another, and he therefore
thought that ability grouping damaged the progress of the class, considered
in this light. Here we already see the belief that children learn from diverse
others, which Lewis (1995: 93, 99) finds to be characteristic of primary
teachers today. Moreover, Satō Manabu has pointed out that although the
leading figures of the Free Education movement believed that education had
to be centred on children’s self-motivated learning, rather than on instruction
by the teacher, by and large they fell into line with the nationalist ideology of
the prewar period, seeing no ultimate contradiction between their goals and
those of the state (Satō, 1995a). Satō goes so far as to argue that for the
pioneers of the movement, being a subject13 (shutai) was tied up with loyalty
to the state, and that the education they developed ultimately amounted to a
method for the internalization of expanding state power (Satō, 1995a: 33).
Nakano also points out that while the movement was much occupied with
trying to improve educational methods, it had little impact on the content of
education (Nakano, 1968: 271). Nakano suggests that the movement was
important for the modernization (kindaika) of educational methods, but that
modernization was not necessarily linked to democratization (minshuka)
(Nakano, 1968: 287). In terms of the discourses of selfhood discussed later in
this chapter, it might be suggested that while leading members of the move-
ment accepted the individual uniqueness of children, their notions of indi-
vidual autonomy were either weak, or of a kind which understood autonomy
as inseparable from loyalty to the state and society, conceived as one unit.
According to Matsumoto Sannosuke, this type of fundamental outlook was
typical of many Taisho intellectuals, unable to rid themselves of ‘the assump-
tion that the state is a prior and self-justifying entity, sufficient in itself’, in
contrast to individuals, who were ‘not believed to exist for and of themselves
as autonomous entities’ (Matsumoto, 1978: 38).14
In 1927, the Ministry of Education itself issued a directive stressing the
importance of ‘respect for individuality’ (kosei sonchō) and the dangers of
uniformity, in terms which bear a striking resemblance to Ministry rhetoric
during the 1990s. However, Katagiri suggests that this position was not quite
what it might seem. In his view, the Ministry’s line derived mainly from
concern about possible labour shortages as a result of the increasing prefer-
ence for a secondary education over post-primary employment. Katagiri
suggests that what the Ministry really meant by ‘individuality’ (kosei) was
‘aptitude’ (tekisei) (Katagiri, 1995: 67–8). As we shall see, this is also a charge
levelled at the Ministry today.
Official rhetoric soon became more complicated, however, as nationalism
increased through the 1930s, culminating in the Ministry’s publication of the
Kokutai no Hongi (Cardinal Principles of the National Entity of Japan) in
1937. This document directly condemned ‘individualistic pedagogy’ (kojin-
shugi kyōikugaku) and ‘education that devotes itself to the cultivation of
individual creativity and the development of individuality (kosei no kaihatsu)’
as alien and inappropriate to the essence of Japanese education (Katagiri,

1995: 69). Four years later, however, while some Ministry directives continued
to condemn education which aimed solely at individual development, in other
regulations the Ministry was directing teachers to show concern for kosei,
among other educational factors. Contemporary educationalist Ishiyama
Shūhei argued that while ‘mistaken totalitarianism (ayamatta zentai-shugi)
ignores individuality’, Japanese totalitarianism ‘respects the individualities
(kosei) of the people and demands that they discharge their duties according
to their individualities’. Ishiyama made a distinction between kojin-shugi
(individualism), which ‘makes the individual its object and ignores the total-
ity’, and kosei-shugi (‘individuality-ism’), which ‘makes the totality its object
and gives play to individuality in its service’. The latter was compatible with
totalitarianism (1995: 70). Despite embracing this position in 1940, under the
postwar Allied Occupation Ishiyama was an official in the Ministry of Edu-
cation textbook bureau, and according to Katagiri, was a central figure in the
composition of the New Education Guidelines (shin kyōiku shishin) issued
under the Occupation in 1946–47. The third chapter of Part One of the
Guidelines was entitled ‘Humanity, Character, and Respect for Individuality’
(ningensei, jinkaku, kosei no sonchō), and explained that: ‘Education from
now on must make the completion of each person’s individuality (kosei) its
primary aim. That is the correct meaning of individualism (kojin-shugi)’
(1995: 71–2).
The document went on to explain that:
to complete individuality (kosei o kansei suru) is not to make each person

into a lonely human being, separated from every other. Human beings
are ‘social organisms’ (shakai-teki seibutsu), and have the ability to live
their lives cooperating with and helping one another. . . . As a matter of
course, therefore, completing individuality includes developing this kind
of ability. The more individuality is perfected, the more this kind of
ability will be displayed, and the stronger will become links with other
individualities, in other words, social solidarity (shakai-teki rentaikan).
(Katagiri, 1995: 72–3)
By considering sociality to be an integral and inevitable aspect of individual-

ity, this interpretation makes increased social solidarity the natural corollary
of increased individualism. In contrast to earlier versions of kosei which
stressed difference, uniqueness, or aptitude, this version is paradoxically
designed to de-emphasize the individual nature of individuality and to empha-
size its social nature. Given the complexity of Japanese ideas about selfhood,
to be discussed later, this attempt to reconcile individuality and social
solidarity does not seem so surprising. The contrasting positions taken up by
Ishiyama in 1940 and 1946 can be seen as two attempts to achieve such a
reconciliation. What the two versions have in common is an unwillingness to
see human beings as fundamentally ‘isolated, independent choosers’ (Midgley,
1994: 113). In the 1940 case, this involves denying individual autonomy
altogether. In 1946, the position is more complex; individual autonomy is
not explicitly denied, but it is implied that since human nature is ultimately
interdependent rather than independent, it will ensure that individuality and
solidarity are compatible. Since people will want to live in solidarity, their
autonomy to do otherwise is not seen as a potential problem.
According to Katagiri, the term kosei appeared little in education policy
documents issued by the government during the high-growth period (1955–
1973). Rather, key words were ‘ability’ (nōryoku) and ‘aptitude’ (tekisei). Both
these words occur frequently in the influential 1963 Report Concerning
Policies on Human Ability ( jin-teki nōryoku seisaku ni kan suru tōshin) issued
by the Economic Investigation Committee (keizai shingikai), and again in
the report on high school education issued by the Chūkyōshin in 1966,
whereas kosei appears only once in the latter report and not at all in the
former (Katagiri, 1995: 74; Yokohama Kokuritsu Daigaku Gendai Kyōiku
Kenkyūjo, 1973: 90–6, 225–32). The importance of developing kosei was
emphasized in the controversial 1971 Report of the Chūkyōshin, but rather
than using a single term to drive home its message, this report made use of a
whole variety of terms, such as ‘according to ability’ (nōryoku ni ōjite) or
‘according to the special qualities of the individual’ (kojin no tokusei ni ōjite)
to express its emphasis on proposals for streaming and diversification in the
education system (Monbushō, 1973: 113–44) – which eventually came to
nothing (Schoppa, 1991: 204–7). In contrast, the reports issued by the
Rinkyōshin and by the 1996 Session of the Chūkyōshin simplified their lan-
guage to emphasize the universally attractive quality of kosei, thus making a
wider appeal.
It is indeed arguable that prior to the Rinkyōshin, it was government critics
such as liberal educationalists and teachers’ unions who were more likely to
advocate encouragement of individuality. In the early 1970s, for example, the
Japan Teachers’ Union (Nikkyōso) set up a Committee to Investigate the
Education System (kyōiku seido kentō iinkai), chaired by noted educationalist
Umene Satoru. This Committee’s 1974 report contained many references to
the importance of encouraging the development of children’s individuality
(Umene, 1974). There were also a number of similar references in the 1983
report issued by a second Nikkyōso-sponsored Investigation Committee
(Ōta, 1983). Liberal and left-wing critics of the government, such as Satō
Manabu (afterword in Ishii, 1995) continue to use the term kosei approvingly;
in my interviews with the respective vice-presidents of teachers’ unions
Nikkyōso and Zenkyō in 1998, both insisted that they were in favour of
encouraging kosei.
As I have already noted, however, critics on the Left tend to suspect that
when it comes from the government or business, encouragement of individu-
ality masks a hidden neo-liberal agenda that will result in more unequal
educational opportunities. For the more left-wing of the two major Japanese
teachers’ unions, Zenkyō, using the language of individuality merely allows
Japan’s conservatives to put a more attractive gloss on the policies they have
been trying to implement for over thirty years – namely, to introduce a higher
degree of selection into school education and to promote education for an
academic elite, while abandoning any serious attempt to ensure that all chil-
dren achieve basic academic standards (Baba, 1996, 1997). According to this
view, the Ministry of Education has been using the term individuality (kosei)
to refer to what it previously called ability (nōryoku) or aptitude (tekisei). The
larger of the two teachers’ unions, Nikkyōso, has taken a more cooperative
stance which accepts the government’s rhetoric at face value, but criticizes
government for aspects of policy which Nikkyōso considers hinder the devel-
opment of ‘genuine’ individuality. When it comes to specifics, in fact, the two
unions appear largely to agree on what is necessary to allow individuality-
oriented education. In my interviews with the respective vice-presidents of
Nikkyōso and Zenkyō, both emphasized that what was needed was more
money, in order to increase the number of teachers and bring down class sizes
from their current maximum of 40. Nikkyōso has also been in favour of sōgō
gakushū and increased hours for elective subjects. Indeed, the five-day school
week, Integrated Studies, and increased hours for electives were all proposed
in the 1974 report of the Nikkyōso-sponsored committee chaired by Umene
Satoru (Umene, 1974).
What this history makes clear is the flexibility with which the word kosei
can be and has been used. It also makes clear the recurrent attempts to
reconcile simultaneous emphases on individuality and sociality – attempts
which continue today. As explained above, many critics of the educational
reform programme deny being opposed to individuality. What they disagree
about are the meaning and practical implications of the term. Meanwhile,
writers across the political spectrum show considerable concern that educa-
tion should promote sociality and the integration of society as a whole. The
Left in Japan has long emphasized the importance of a common basic educa-
tion for all (kyōtsū kyōyō), and there has been a continuing debate about the
amount of curricular choice that secondary students should be allowed
(Umehara, 1998).15 There has also been much emphasis on creating strong
class groups within which it is intended that students can learn that though
they are individuals, they are not devoid of common interests with and
responsibilities for others; rather, they have obligations to play a constructive
part in a democratic society (Nakano and Oguma, 1993: 244–63). As
Nikkyōso Vice-President Nishikawa Kiyoshi pointed out to me in interview,
postwar left-wing educators have been strongly influenced by Dewey and
the Soviet educator Makarenko, both of whom were much concerned with
developing sociality (Nakano and Oguma, 1993: 244; Goodman, 1990: 122).
Accordingly, left-wing critics often suspect the government of aiming at an
education system that emphasizes competition and the production of human
resources at minimum cost, meaning that neither individuality nor sociality
would be properly developed. Such critics would certainly argue that their
notion of the properly socialized individual – autonomous, yet committed
to cooperating with others for the good of society – differs fundamentally

from that of conservatives, since the conservative ideal is seen on the Left as
amounting to a reliably docile and hard-working employee (Baba, 1996,
1997). When considering Japanese ideas of selfhood, however, what is inter-
esting is the shared assumption on both sides that individuals must recognize
their roles in society and their obligations to others, and that schools should
play a key role in this socialization process.
Kosei and the power of ambiguous rhetoric

Why has the language of kosei proved so powerful? The answer is partly related
to the changing nature of Japanese society, which has become increasingly
diverse during the postwar period. However, kosei is also a powerful term
because of its ambiguity. As we have seen, the term has been interpreted and
used in a startling variety of ways since it entered the Japanese language. Its
ambiguity means that while the word itself is used with approval by practic-
ally everyone in the world of education, ideas about what ‘stressing individu-
ality’ requires in practice may vary dramatically. As a result, the language of
kosei has the capacity to attract wide support. Problems arise, however, when
the rhetoric of individuality is translated into specific policy measures, about
which disagreements are much more likely.
This is not to say that kosei cannot be perceived negatively. Even when it is
criticized, however, it is unlikely to be condemned outright; rather, critics are
likely to argue that kosei has been overemphasized, or that its meaning has
been misunderstood. To borrow Moeran’s terms (1989), kosei belongs to a
discourse which recognizes the legitimacy of individual qualities and private
feelings and interests, and one can therefore anticipate its denigration when
people feel that the situation calls for stress on alternative discourses, such as
self-discipline or interdependence. As this suggests, discourses of selfhood
in Japan are multifarious and complex – far from the caricature of a ‘group-
oriented’ society that is still sometimes encountered. These discourses affect
educational debate and what goes on in schools at primary and other levels;
they are also constantly being recreated in new forms through the practices of
teachers and children within schools themselves. To grasp how ‘individuality’
and the individual are understood in Japan, it is necessary to examine these
discourses of selfhood in greater depth, along with the role that schools play
in shaping them.
Selfhood in Japan
Writers who draw attention to the strength of discourses of individuality in
Japan have been in a minority. More frequently, emphasis has been placed on
the ‘interactionist self’ (Smith, 1983: 74) or the ‘social preoccupation’ (Lebra,
1976: 2) of the Japanese. Even so, there has been a longstanding recognition
that the individual has an important place in Japan. The tension between
internalized social control and individual autonomy was a central concern of
Ruth Benedict’s classic study, The Chrysanthemum and the Sword (Benedict,
1974 [1946]). Benedict used the two images in her title as symbols of two
contrasting Japanese notions of the self and its cultivation. On the one hand,
the chrysanthemums shown in annual flower shows, ‘each perfect petal . . .
held in place by a tiny invisible wire rack inserted in the living flower’, symbol-
ized the model of severe socialization into ‘a simulated freedom of will’
(Benedict, 1974: 295). On the other hand, the sword for whose shining bril-
liancy the wearer was responsible symbolized ‘ideal and self-responsible man’
(Benedict, 1974: 296), accountable for his own individual actions – an ideal
which Benedict saw as already existing in Japanese thinking.
Much of The Chrysanthemum and the Sword is devoted to expanding
upon these two models. Benedict emphasized the importance in Japan of
accepting one’s place and social role, and also the extent to which notions of
indebtedness and reciprocity permeate Japanese society, so that each person
is regarded, and regards himself, as a ‘debtor to the ages and the world’
(Benedict, 1974: 98) who is obliged to spend his life attempting to make some
repayment for his debts if he wishes to retain any self-respect. Benedict sug-
gested that, in Japan, ‘self-respect’ itself meant prudent effort to avoid the
adverse judgement of others, so that external sanctions for self-respect were
more important than the internal sanction of conscience, which she saw as
crucial to American understandings of self-respect (Benedict, 1974: 219–24).
On the other hand, Benedict also pointed out the Japanese emphasis upon
self-reliance and ‘self-discipline’, the title of her antepenultimate chapter. She
explained what might have appeared a contradiction with her suggestion that
whereas in America self-discipline tended to be seen as self-sacrifice and frus-
tration of the individual, in Japan it was not seen as involving loss to an
individual, but as part of the system of reciprocal exchange, and furthermore,
as necessary for the true enjoyment of life (Benedict, 1974: 230–4).
Benedict’s analysis is particularly interesting because of her identification
of a dual emphasis in Japanese understandings of selfhood. On the one hand,
she pointed to a stress upon interdependence – individuals can never be
thought of as independent of others, but must be aware of what they owe to
the rest of society, past and present. On the other hand, she identified a
strong emphasis on self-reliance and individual accountability. Later writers
have tended to pay more attention to the first of these two elements, though
there have always been those who point to discourses in Japan that stress the
individual too.
The interdependent self
The interdependence of the Japanese self with others has been emphasized by
writers such as Doi (1981), Nakane (1973), and Lebra (1976). Doi (1981) has
been influential in arguing that Japanese psychology is marked by its readi-
ness to show dependency (amaeru) on others; ethnographic instances of
this have been found in caregiving (Long, 1996), family and family-like rela-
tionships (Kondo, 1990: 151–2; Rosenberger, 1994; Borovoy, 2005: 95–101),
and hostess clubs (Allison, 1994: 170–83), though most of these ethnograph-
ers are careful to note that dependency is not innocently natural or inevitable,
but is often an aspect of hierarchical (especially gender-hierarchical) rela-
tionships.
Psychological anthropologists William Caudill and George DeVos traced
the formation of the interdependent self back to the Japanese family. Caudill’s
studies of Japanese child-rearing and sleeping arrangements (Caudill and
Plath, 1986; Caudill and Weinstein, 1986) suggested that these tended to
encourage dependence on the parents (especially the mother). DeVos (1974:
122–3), meanwhile, suggested that it was the ‘quiet suffering’ and ‘self-
sacrifice’ of the Japanese mother that caused her children to internalize a
powerful sense of the obligations they owed her, her compelling example
influencing them to imitate such other-oriented behaviour. Rohlen (1989:
19–20) points to evidence that Japanese mothers tend to seek to control their
children through ‘a close emotional bond’ that ‘sensitize[s] the child to the
parent’s feelings and wishes’, rather than through assertion of authority, and
Hendry (1986: 159–60) also states that ‘relations of trust and security with a
child are . . . regarded as essential if it is to become sunao – compliant and
cooperative’.
Lebra (1976) too has stressed that in Japan, the self tends to be seen as
inextricably interdependent with others, rather than autonomous. She directs
attention to what she sees as the sensitivity of Japanese social interaction to
the demands of a particular situation, even at the cost of personal inconsis-
tency. Lebra argues that situations are defined in terms of the indigenous
categories uchi (inside, private), soto (outside, public), omote (exposed to pub-
lic attention), and ura (hidden from public attention) (Lebra, 1976: 112, 2004:
37–176). To be able to discriminate among situations and behave accordingly
is a skill known as kejime, which is ‘a part of moral discipline, as well as a sign
of maturity’ (Lebra, 1976: 136). Doi (1986: 33) has similarly argued that ‘to
be Japanese is to be aware of the fact that things have an omote and an ura,
and a person is not considered to be an adult until he or she has grasped this
distinction’. The work of Doi and Lebra has been taken up by ethnographers
of Japanese preschools such as Hendry (Hendry, 1986: 138–9), Peak (1989;
1991) and Tobin (1992). Peak argues that while infants learn to expect indul-
gence of dependent or even selfish behaviour at home (an ‘inside’ or uchi
arena), at preschool (an ‘outside’ or soto arena) they must learn to do things
for themselves and be a cooperative group member (Peak, 1989: 93–9). Life
outside the home is defined as shūdan seikatsu – life in a non-family group,
demanding a degree of self-restraint (enryo). While agreeing that shūdan
seikatsu is defined as a collective experience that demands more discipline
than infancy in the family, Hendry (1986) and Tobin (1992) suggest the
situation is somewhat more complex than Peak describes; they argue that
at preschool, children experience both periods of exuberant freedom (ura
behaviour) and rituals and routines that demand self-control and active
cooperation with the group (omote behaviour) (Hendry, 1986: 134–9, 144–52).
Tobin therefore argues that preschool is an important place for Japanese

children to learn kejime, which he describes as ‘the knowledge needed to shift
fluidly back and forth between omote and ura’ (Tobin, 1992: 24).
Several writers have argued that Japanese grammatical structures indicate
how pervasive and deep-rooted interdependence is as a way of being. Robert
J. Smith notes what he calls ‘two absolutely fundamental characteristics of
the Japanese language’, the inescapability of language that is marked with
regard to status differences, and ‘the absence in Japanese of anything remotely
resembling the personal pronoun’ (Smith, 1983: 74). The result is that self-
reference in Japanese is ‘constantly shifting’ and ‘relational’ (Smith, 1983: 79),
so that ‘there is no fixed centre from which the individual asserts a non-
contingent existence’ (Smith, 1983: 81). Self can only be defined in linguistic
terms with reference to the other, a point previously made by Suzuki (1986).
Dorinne Kondo agrees (1990: 26–31), and also draws attention to the per-
vasive use of linguistic structures which imply that actions are carried out
not independently, but for the sake of others or due to their benevolence.
As Kondo points out, using a phrase such as sasete itadakimasu (literally, ‘I
humbly receive your allowing me to do’) implies that ‘in simply acting, you
are linked to others in relations of obligation and connectedness’ (1990: 146,
emphasis in original). Bachnik (1994) has taken this further by linking
relational linguistic structures and sensitivity to situational context, and argu-
ing that pragmatic (i.e. context-dependent) meaning is crucial in Japan (and
many other societies). She states that ‘Japanese perspectives on human nature
. . . [define] society as profoundly human, and self as quintessentially social’
(Bachnik, 1994: 21).
Though linguistic and other cultural structures mean that ‘interdepend-
ence’ as a way of behaving and understanding may to some extent be
acquired unconsciously, many writers have noted that considerable effort is
also made in Japanese society to try to ensure that such behaviour becomes
ingrained. Nakane argued that Japanese social groups seek to endure by
creating ‘a feeling of “one-ness” ’ within the group, together with ‘an internal
organization which will tie the individuals in the group to each other’
(Nakane, 1973: 9). The result, in her view, is that ‘the power and influence of
the group not only affects and enters into the individual’s actions; it alters
even his ideas and ways of thinking. Individual autonomy is minimized’
(Nakane, 1973: 10). As already noted, educational institutions have been seen
as very important in the process of socializing the self into interdependence.
Peak notes that preschool teachers operate on the fundamental premise that
children will come to ‘understand the fun of being together with others’
(Peak, 1989: 116), since to enjoy ‘the experience of camaraderie, of fusion, of
unity with something larger than the self’ is part of human nature (Tobin et
al., 1989: 39). Participation in the group is thus made as attractive an option as
possible; but it is also, effectively, the only option, for those who do not join in
are not even accorded the dignity of punishment, which might serve as an
acknowledgement of their independent existence, but are ignored, quietly
ridiculed, or smilingly coerced (Hendry, 1986: 144–52; Peak, 1989: 117–23).

Independent selfhood outside the group’s activities is thus rendered virtually
impossible. Peak suggests that this is an early encounter with a pervasive
phenomenon in Japanese life, the group as ‘both the unsympathetic force to
which the child’s ego must submit and a primary source of companionship
and fulfillment’, with the result that ‘to the Japanese individual, the group
both beckons and binds’ (Peak, 1989: 123). She thus points to a deep-seated
Japanese ambivalence about the interrelationship of self and society.
Lewis (1989; 1995) points out many continuities between practices at pre-
schools and in the early years of primary school. At both stages, teachers
continue to strive to ensure the active participation of all children in class-
room routines and management, partly through a system of classroom organ-
ization that rotates positions of authority and responsibility around the
entire class (for preschools, see also Hendry, 1986: 170). Teachers seek to
develop the ability of children to manage themselves and to help and support
one another, and often avoid imposing discipline themselves unless absolutely
necessary. Some even prefer children themselves to deal with fights (unless
these are out of control), using such incidents as opportunities for children to
learn to take responsibility for stopping others’ conflicts through negotiation
(Hendry, 1986: 147; Lewis, 1989: 145–6; Peak, 1989: 107–11; Tobin et al.,
1989: 33). Teachers also encourage children’s managing of themselves and
one another by dividing the class into small groups, in which children work
together both on academic tasks and on non-academic activities such as
serving lunch and cleaning (Lewis, 1989; 1995: 74–100; Tsuneyoshi, 2001: 24–
34). ‘Groups are arranged, not by ability, but according to considerations of
what will make them effective in terms of their internal dynamics. Teachers
report putting friends together, balancing talents and allocating leadership
qualities’ (Rohlen, 1989: 23). This institutionalized practice seems to reflect a
belief that such mixed-ability groups best allow children to interact with and
learn from one another, in a way which is most beneficial for the development
both of individuals and of the group as a whole. This in turn reflects an
understanding of development which considers academic, social, moral and
personal development as parts of one integrated whole. The key assumption
is that a person cannot develop properly without learning to deal construct-
ively with diverse others. It has been suggested that experiencing the full
gamut of roles, from leader to follower and server, helps children to appreci-
ate the roles’ importance and put themselves in the place of those who hold
them (Hendry, 1986: 170; 1992: 62). Meanwhile, collective identity is also
fostered through cooperative class projects such as wall pictures and musical
performances (Hendry, 1986: 170), as well as through the gradual extension
of common, standardized routines for activities such as greetings, eating
lunch, cleaning, and preparing to go home (Hendry, 1986: 134–41; Peak,
1989: 115–16; Rohlen, 1989: 26; Tsuneyoshi, 1994: 120–8).16
Writers on junior high and high school continue to see a strong emphasis
on learning to identify with a group and behave as a group member. At junior
high, classes decide on collective goals and mottos for themselves, and work
together on class projects, such as those for cultural festival (Fukuzawa
and LeTendre, 2001: 39–40). In many cases, however, researchers see a shift
towards an emphasis on ‘social control’ through ‘peer pressure’, particularly
at junior high school (Fukuzawa, 1994: 79, 83). LeTendre argues that while
junior high school clubs, like preschools, train students in ‘group life’ (shūdan
seikatsu), this term has a new meaning in junior high, referring to ‘function-
ing as part of a chain of command’ rather than living in ‘groups where
mutuality and communality [are] the overarching concerns’ (LeTendre, 1996:
278–9). Both Fukuzawa and LeTendre suggest that there is little room for
individual difference or independent action at junior high school; rather,
there is ‘one path’ that all must follow (Fukuzawa, 1994: 84; LeTendre, 1996:
288–9). Junior high and high school clubs, meanwhile, can also generate an
intense sense of identity as a group member – though they also develop
individuality, since students can choose their own clubs (Cave, 2004). Rohlen
notes that Japanese high schools too use institutions such as homerooms and
annual school events to try to create a sense of unity, participation, and group
focus (Rohlen, 1983: 178–209), while Yoneyama (1999) draws attention to
problems that may be caused by overemphasis on social control, including
student alienation, bullying, and school refusal.
The individual self

As described above, writing on self and personal identity in Japan has tended
to focus on interdependence and group orientation. However, there has also
been significant attention to independence, individuality and autonomy.
Lebra (1976), for example, notes how behavioural norms can be manipulated
and exploited by individuals for their own ends. Smith points out aspects
of Japanese custom and practice that emphasize the individual, notably
the significance of individual names, and the recruitment of members into
households, through adoption, on the basis of performative ability and in
preference to blood kin (Smith, 1983: 87–90). Hendry also draws attention
to the significance of the individual at preschool, and the acceptance of
an idiosyncratic private self, clearly separated from a defined public role (a
form of kejime) (Hendry, 1992: 59–60, 63). Mouer and Sugimoto (Mouer
and Sugimoto, 1980, 1986; Sugimoto and Mouer, 1980) argue that many
writers on Japan have failed adequately to portray the variation, conflict, and
self-interest within Japanese society. One chapter of their 1986 work, Images
of Japanese Society, is entitled ‘The Autonomous Individual’, and in it they
point out the strong Japanese sense of ‘the importance of individual effort
and willpower’ (Mouer and Sugimoto, 1986: 195), the widespread admir-
ation for strong-minded individuals (fed by many popular biographies), the
popularity of sports and pastimes for the individual, the emphasis on
household privacy, and the existence of proverbs affirming human diversity,
such as jūnin toiro (‘ten people, ten colours’). Long (1999) has pointed out
that a degree of direction and control over one’s own life is widely valued in
Japan. Befu (1980) and Atsumi (1980) also emphasize the importance of
individual self-consciousness, agency, and self-interest. Atsumi’s study of
Japanese personal relationships showed that her informants clearly dis-
tinguished between relationships ‘cultivated out of social necessity or a
sense of obligation’, and ‘personal relationships sought for their own sake’
(Atsumi, 1980: 69). (In contrast, Nakane (1973: 130–1) and Lebra (1976:
118–19) had made no such distinction.) Atsumi’s study suggests that while
Japanese people may be adept at performances of social solidarity, this may
not represent what the actors regard as their real feelings. Kiefer (1999),
meanwhile, has described the independence shown by some better-off
elderly Japanese who choose to live in a retirement community, rather than
with their grown-up children.
A number of scholars have drawn attention to forces that have made for
increased diversity and ‘incremental gains in personal autonomy’ (Allinson,
1994: 179) during the postwar period. Allinson (1994: 179) mentions ‘afflu-
ence, more leisure, higher levels of education, and the demise of cooperative
village agriculture’. Tada Michitaro discusses the emergence of ‘my-home-
ism’ (maihōmu-shugi), or ‘the attitude that one’s family should be of central
importance’ in the 1950s and 1960s (Tada, 1978; see also Dore, 1973: 212–13).17
Eyal Ben-Ari argues that Japan’s modern residential suburbs are ‘com-
munities of limited liability’ (1991: 271), into which individuals invest time
and energy voluntaristically and for the sake of ‘personal fulfilment’ (1991:
273), rather than out of a sense of obligation. Brian Moeran (1989: 51–4)
has argued that modern consumer advertising appeals to the individual and
thus promotes individualistic attitudes, while Gordon Mathews (1996) has
drawn attention to the emergence of the idea that one’s purpose in life (ikigai)
should be the self-realization ( jiko-jitsugen) of the individual. Kuniko Miya-
naga (1991) has suggested that two types of individualism have developed in
Japan – the active form of independent-minded people such as entrepreneurs
in new industries, and the passive form of people who seek fulfilment in
private life while maintaining involvement in mainstream society only as
necessary.
Since the 1980s, there have been signs of increased desire for individualiza-
tion, along with antipathy to uniformity and standardization. Moeran (1989:
68) described ‘the newly fashionable word “individual” or “idiosyncratic”
(kosei)’ as one of the ‘in words’ of the Japanese advertising and art worlds
during the 1980s. Ellis Krauss (1998) has written of how television news has
diversified to attract a more individualistic younger generation, while Hikaru
Suzuki (2005) vividly describes a strong trend towards personalized funerals
in the decade between 1994 and 2004. Expressions such as ‘looking for one-
self ’ ( jibun-sagashi)18 and ‘living one’s own way’ ( jibunrashiku ikiru) have been
common in the media during the 1990s and 2000s. An 18-year-old participant
in an organized walk across the US wrote that ‘I want to make it a journey
of self-exploration’ ( jibun-sagashi no tabi ni shitai) (Morishima, 2001). The
18 March 2001 issue of the Yomiuri Weekly magazine carried a feature head-
lined, ‘For women, 29 is the key age for looking for yourself.’ One very
popular TV drama around the turn of the century was Shomu-ni, a comedy
about a group of maverick office ladies, headed by the tall, assertive, and self-
willed Tsuboi Chinatsu (played by Esumi Makiko). The question, ‘Are you
living your own life?’ ( jibunrashiku ikiteimasu ka) was part of the theme song
of the first series, and doing what they wanted was the guiding principle of
the show’s heroines. Wanting to do things in one’s own way ( jibunrashii
ikikata) is a key aspiration for a retired salaryman and community volunteer
interviewed by Lynne Nakano (2005: 21–2), and Colin Smith (2006) notes
that freelance workers (furı̄tā) often voice the desire to do work that suits
their individuality ( jibunrashiku hatarakitai) or allows self-exploration ( jibun-
sagashi). Fiona Graham (2003: 232) similarly observes a shift towards ideas
‘of finding work that matched one’s “individuality” ’.
At the same time, an increased emphasis on the individual is a complex
matter, and is not generated only by the agency of individuals themselves.
Volunteer activities have been increasing in Japan since the 1990s, and work
on this suggests that volunteers are often doing such activities for themselves,
to enhance their own lives and feel a sense of self-actualization (Ogawa, 2004;
Nakano, 2005: 21–2). Nakano (2005: 168) suggests that for the volunteers she
studied in Yokohama, volunteering was a matter of ‘individual reflection and
conscious choice’. At the same time, the activities are also promoted by the
state as a way of replacing public social services and thus cutting costs;
moreover, enriching one’s own life as a volunteer is often about making
friendships and getting to know people (Ogawa, 2004), so that it is hard to
separate doing such activities ‘for oneself ’ and ‘for others’ (Nakano, 2005:
168). Similarly, the phenomenon of freelance workers or ‘freeters’ ( furı̄tā)
reflects both the desires of young people to pursue their dream career outside
the organizational straitjacket, and the unwillingness of companies to hire
permanent staff (seishain) with the stagnation of the Japanese economy
during the 1990s (Smith, 2006). Emphasis on the individual may also partly
be a by-product of a labour market that has become more competitive,
with a larger rewards gap between permanent staff and the rest (Borovoy,
2006). As Borovoy points out, not only the language of individuality and
self-exploration, but also that of individual merit, opportunity, and risk is
increasingly prevalent.
Individualism and ‘the individual’ as concepts
The language of analysis is a problem for any English-language discussion of
‘the individual’ in Japan. Use of the English words ‘individual’, ‘individual-
ity’, or ‘individualism’ involves the analysis of Japanese realities in terms that
were developed in and for modern Western society. Moreover, though such
terms are in daily use in English, their familiarity may disguise the fact that
their meaning is by no means clear or unambiguous. This necessitates an
examination of the terms themselves. When we try to discuss Japanese self
and society in relation to the concept of ‘the individual’, what do we really

mean?
That the individual is the dominant concept of the person in modern West-
ern societies seems generally agreed. Mauss (1985 [1938]: 14) described the
modern Western notion of the person as that of ‘a complete entity, independ-
ent of all others save God’, and identified legal, moral, metaphysical, and
psychological sources for this idea. Philosopher Mary Midgley suggests that
the origin-myth of modern Western civilization is the myth of the Social
Contract, which ‘sees the pre-ethical human state as one of solitude’ (Midgley,
1994: 109). Midgley argues that this ‘myth of the original isolated, independ-
ent chooser . . . still provides the main image that we in the West are supposed
to have of our moral nature’ (1994: 113). In their study of modern American
ideology, Habits of the Heart, Robert Bellah and his co-authors argue that
‘individualism has marched inexorably through [American] history’ (Bellah
et al., 1996: xlii). Louis Dumont defines the conception of the individual
found in modern Western ideology as ‘the independent, autonomous, and
thus essentially non-social moral being, who carries our paramount values’
(Dumont, 1986: 25).
However, as Lukes notes (1973: ix), ‘ “Individualism” is a word that has
come to be used with an unusual lack of precision’. Lukes suggests that the
term is often used to give ‘an illusory air of unity and coherence’ to a congeries
of diverse ideas, ‘from individual autonomy to equality of respect to the idea
that society is the product of individual wills; from Roman law to Christian
morality; from Rousseau and Kant to Bentham; and from a methodological
to a practical doctrine’ (1973: ix–x). Lukes goes on to describe the differing
histories and correspondingly differing associations of the term in France,
Germany, America and England, and then outlines a whole range of separate
ideas which are commonly assimilated into the ideology of individualism,
from ‘the dignity of man’ to autonomy, privacy, self-development, political
individualism, economic individualism, and several others. Lukes’ work is
important because it suggests that individualism is not a coherent philosophy,
but a term that refers to a loosely-constructed ideology or myth. It also
becomes clear that the term embraces so many different ideas that it can
readily be used to lend its talismanic power to any selection of its parts. This
ambiguity allows ideological variation to be disguised and legitimated. A
good historical example is provided by José Harris’s account of debate about
society and the individual in England between 1870 and 1914. Harris notes
that many influential men and women of the period embraced views which
combined ‘individualism’ in the economic sphere with idealist notions of a
group mind in the philosophical – or, alternatively, like Sidney Webb, com-
bined an atomistic conception of society with advocacy of interventionist
state action (Harris, 1994: 231–2). The notion also changed: ‘for many
people, by 1914, individualism . . . meant something quite different from what
[it] had meant fifty years before’ (1994: 233). Harris’s account supports
Lukes’ contention that individualism is not a coherent philosophy. Scarcely

coherent enough to be called an ideology, it is simply a convenient term used
to bundle together a loosely associated set of ideas. What these ideas have in
common is the notion that the person can be considered as fundamentally
separate from other persons, whether as a moral, spiritual, political, eco-
nomic or expressive agent. The ideas are supported by powerful myths, in the
sense of stories which have acquired a justifying symbolic power: such myths
range from stories such as Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, or journals by
authors such as George Fox or John Wesley, which focus on the spiritual
progress of an individual, to the origin myths offered by Hobbes, Rousseau,
or Sartre (Midgley, 1994: 109–11), and economic myths of prosperity
through individual effort, ranging from the works of Benjamin Franklin and
Samuel Smiles to Adam Smith and his famous metaphor of the ‘invisible
hand’. It may well be that these separate myths effectively help to legitimate
types of individualism other than those with which they are originally con-
nected. However, as Lukes (Lukes, 1993) points out, this does not mean that
the ideas themselves cohere into a single whole.
Realizing this allows us to recognize that debates about whether or not
Japanese society is individualistic can be misleading. Once it is realized that
there is no such thing as a coherent individualist philosophy that necessarily
applies across all areas of life, it will not be surprising to find that in relation
to some aspects of life, there are influential or even dominant discourses in
Japan which place importance on the individual agent. However, nor will
such a discovery lead us to expect to find such ‘individualism’ in other areas
of life, merely for the sake of a consistency which is actually unnecessary. Nor
will it mean that the concept of the person as an isolated individual that is
dominant in the West is also dominant in Japan.
Japan’s multiple discourses of self

Much of the disagreement about selfhood in Japan has resulted from the
fundamentally misguided search for a single Japanese understanding of self-
hood, and the consequent failure to recognize that there are a variety of
discourses about the self in modern Japan, discourses that are potentially or
actually in conflict. Moreover, different aspects of Japanese social organiza-
tion also involve implicit discourses about the self, and exert conflicting pres-
sures towards different modes of acting and being. In this respect, we can
apply to Japan André Béteille’s (2005: 86–8) argument that societies are best
viewed as ‘field[s] of conflicting forces’, with dominant and contrapuntal
values, meaning that every society has potential for change. The discourses of
self that I will identify are my own analytical categories, though some of them
are based upon indigenous Japanese terms.
The first discourse is that which sees the self as interdependent with others
and inextricably entwined in obligations to others in a variety of social groups,
from the family to the neighbourhood and the work group. This discourse
emphasizes the inescapability of human interdependence; Benedict’s state-

ment that a Japanese sees himself as a ‘debtor to the ages and the world’
(1974 [1946]: 98) captures it well. This discourse is found embedded in many
aspects of social organization, from the close dependent relations fostered by
Japanese child-rearing practices to the kind of exchange relationships, involv-
ing activities such as gift-giving and eating and drinking together, that are
described by Befu (1968; 1986) and Atsumi (1980), as well as the more or less
extensive welfare systems that have been organized by many Japanese com-
panies for their workers and dressed up in a language of interdependence and
mutual obligation (Cole, 1971: 171–224; Dore, 1973: 201–21). The discourse
is also embedded in the Japanese language, with its relationally-determined
personal pronouns, and its many linguistic structures that present action as
integrally dependent on others. Finally, it is reinforced by the emphasis of
Japanese Buddhism on the interdependence of all things in the cosmos, an
idea with considerable appeal in Japan (Morioka, 1991).
It is important to realize that the discourse of interdependence is neither
simple nor monolithic. In political terms, for example, it can be part of either
left-wing or right-wing agendas, left-wingers coupling the discourse with
egalitarianism or ethical socialism, right-wingers linking it with arguments
against disharmonious activities such as strikes. This complexity is common
to all the discourses outlined here. Each can itself be interpreted by being
combined with other ideas, and in the process can assume modified forms.
A second discourse is that of seishin (spirit), ‘one’s inner being which often
derives spiritual fortitude from self-discipline’ (Moeran, 1989: 59). The dis-
course of seishin focuses on the individual who shows his strength of char-
acter by disciplining himself for some worthy purpose. It thus contains what
may appear to be a paradox, since this discourse glorifies individual strength
of character, yet that strength of character is shown in what could sometimes
be seen as self-sacrifice. In the seishin discourse, however, self-discipline for
the sake of something greater than the self is seen not as self-sacrifice, but as a
means of self-realization, a point perceived by Benedict (1974 [1946]: 230–5)
and reiterated by Frager and Rohlen (1976). This is at least partly because this
discourse is much influenced by Buddhist and Neo-Confucian ideas about
conquering the self and achieving liberation from its enslaving desires. Seishin
discourse is embedded in many spheres of Japanese life where self-discipline
is needed, from companies (Rohlen, 1986; Kondo, 1990: 76–115) to sport
(Moeran, 1989; Whiting, 1989) and exam preparation, particularly in juku
(supplementary tutorial colleges) (Rohlen, 1980: 217–21).19 It also lies behind
much of the emphasis upon perseverance and effort that pervades Japanese
life (Holloway, 1988; Singleton, 1989; Kondo, 1990: 108–9, 235–41; Ben-Ari,
1997: 83–94).
A third discourse is that of individual feeling and desire. Historically, and
in particular during the Tokugawa period (1603–1868), individual feeling
was seen as subordinate to the public interest, and the desires of the private
person tended to be denigrated as selfish. Nonetheless, the power and attrac-
tion of private feeling was recognized in the urban literature of Tokugawa

Japan, one of whose perennial themes was the conflict between giri (social
obligation) and ninjō (human feeling) (Keene, 1976: 260–1). In plays such as
those of Chikamatsu (1653–1725), for example, ninjō is depicted with con-
siderable sympathy, even though social obligation must finally be satisfied,
usually by the suicides of those whose passion has led them to infringe the
rules of society. In the post-1868 period, and particularly since 1945, this
discourse has been enormously strengthened, particularly by Western influ-
ences, so that in contemporary Japan, people can assert the legitimacy of
conduct stemming from private and individual desires – even if such asser-
tions may still be powerfully opposed by voices stressing the primacy of the
group. Legitimate desires are likely to be differentiated by being seen as nat-
ural, common and reasonable (using terms such as kimochi or ninjō), whereas
illegitimate desires (yokubō, yokushin, gayoku) may be seen as unreasonable,
excessive, and selfish. Naturally, Japanese daily life sees incessant negotiation
about where the boundary defining legitimate and illegitimate desire should
be drawn. In practice, however, modern Japanese consumer capitalism
depends upon appealing to the desires of the private individual in all sorts of
spheres (Moeran, 1989; Skov and Moeran, 1995), so that this discourse is an
integral part of life in contemporary Japan.
A fourth discourse is that of the independent agent who takes responsibility
for providing for himself and his family without depending on the state, and
who engages in economic and social competition. Such competition has been
a part of Japanese life for many centuries, but has been particularly marked in
the post-1868 era. Dore (1967) has noted the Japanese tradition of ‘success
literature’, beginning as early as 1871, with Nakamura Keiu’s translation of
Smiles’ Self-Help. While this tradition has often drawn upon Western sources
(such as the stories of Franklin and Lincoln), it has become a thoroughly
assimilated genre. Dore points out that in ‘success literature’, some authors
suggest that it is the truly moral person with others’ interests at heart who will
succeed, thus trying to reconcile collective ideology with competitive social
organization. Others have no such qualms, however, and explain without
embarrassment how the codes of obligation described by Benedict can be
manipulated for individual self-interest (1974: 125–9, 143–4).20
Despite the widespread practice and acceptance of what Lebra has termed
situational behaviour, there is also a strong conflicting discourse of personal
integrity in Japan. It is considered bad to be two-faced (omoteura ga aru), and
people who try to please everyone may attract the critical phrase happō bijin
(‘a beauty from every angle’). A striking example of the power of this dis-
course appears in Shimizu (2001), who presents one high school girl’s agonized
criticism of her own tendency to talk and act hypocritically just to be liked
by others.
Linked to personal integrity is the discourse of the autonomous self. In
the sphere of thought, in particular political philosophy, it is embodied by
the concept of shutaisei, literally meaning ‘being a subject’ (i.e. a thinking
agent), and sometimes translated as ‘autonomy’ (Kersten, 1996; Koschmann,

1996).21 In popular speech, it is expressed by the common approbatory phrase
jibun ga aru (‘to have a self’, or to know one’s own mind) (Doi, 1981: 132–4;
Lebra, 1976: 156). These are by no means new discourses – they can be found,
for example, in the 1914 essay, ‘My Individualism’ (‘Watakushi no kojin-
shugi’) by Natsume Sōseki, within Japan the most renowned of modern
Japanese novelists (Rubin, 1979).
Finally, there is the discourse of individuality – what makes people different
from others. As I have described earlier, this concept has been in use since
before the twentieth century, often with a positive connotation. However, it
has also not been uncommon to use the term critically; to call someone ‘indi-
vidual’ (kosei-teki or kosei ga tsuyoi) has often been used ironically as a polite
way of implying ‘idiosyncratic’, ‘eccentric’ (kawatta) or ‘weird’ (hen). On the
other hand, the term jibunrashisa (also meaning ‘individuality’, or literally
‘that which captures one’s real individual self’) is unequivocally positive. As I
have noted, individuality seems to have become increasingly valued during the
1980s and since, not only in education but in Japanese society more generally.
While I have separated these discourses out for the sake of clarity, they are
not normally found in such pure forms. Rather, they are mingled, as people
draw on several different discourses (usually without being conscious that
they are different) to support a point of view for which they are arguing. For
example, Moeran has pointed out that the discourse of seishin is often com-
bined with the idea of interdependence and the priority of the group (1989:
64–5). Seishin discourse can also be used in combination with a discourse of
the individual as competitor, however, and is so used by the private tutorial
colleges ( juku) that undertake to equip children for the ‘examination war’
( juken sensō) (Rohlen, 1980: 217–21). Yet such associations are by no means
inevitable; since seishin discourse is primarily about self-discipline for a pur-
pose greater than the self, it may potentially be turned to many ends, just as it
was suggested above that the discourse of interdependence may assume vari-
ous forms as it is interpreted.22
The differing discourses of the self are also embodied in different terms to
denote the self. While the most common term for the self is the neutral or
positive jibun, the term ga is also found, usually with negative connotations.
Read as wa, this character appears in the expression wagamama (selfish), for
example. Rohlen refers to it as ‘the primitive self’ which must be conquered to
allow a person to ‘achieve contentment through the development of an ordered
and stable psyche’ (1986: 332).23 One junior high teacher in Sakura dis-
tinguished the favourable expression jibun ga aru (‘to know one’s own mind’)
from the pejorative ga ga tsuyoi (‘to be self-willed’), saying that the latter
indicated selfishness, while the former meant that one kept one’s own point
of view, while being receptive to others (ta o ukeirenagara, jibun o tōsu). Thus
differing discourses on the self are embodied, by implication, in different
phrases, both of which are generally felt to be widely applicable in daily life.
This supports the argument of Billig that ‘common-sense is not a harmoni-
ous system of interlocking beliefs, but is composed of contraries’ (Billig,

1996: 235) and can thus ‘provide us with dilemmas to think and argue about’
(1996: 238).
It must also be noted that discourses do not simply emerge; they are pro-
moted and manipulated, particularly by interested parties. Thus, as Kondo
has written (1990: 43), ‘ “a concept of self” is inevitably implicated in rela-
tions of power’. For example, Sheldon Garon has documented the complex
process, starting in the Meiji period and continuing to the present day,
whereby the Japanese state and other interested parties have deliberately
fostered the idea of self-reliance, partly in order to keep down welfare bills
(Garon, 1997: 3–59, 215–30). As places where children learn behaviour,
absorb cultural understandings, and develop personal identity, schools are
powerful institutions in which selfhood and its discourses are constantly
being reshaped. As writers such as Lewis (1995), Tsuneyoshi (2001), and Sato
(2004) have shown, there is no doubt that Japan’s primary schools have
played a key role as places where children have learned the cooperation and
empathy that are central to the interdependent self. The organization of
learning has also fostered self-reliance and autonomy, as children have been
given individual assignments and tests to complete, and have been encour-
aged to explore different ways of solving problems in subjects like maths and
science. At the same time, there have been some questions raised about the
extent to which individuality is encouraged; Lewis notes, for example, that
children are sometimes required to conceptualize and behave according to
approved cultural scripts. Despite their considerable attention to the indi-
vidual (Sato, 2004: 99), it may nonetheless be the case that Japanese primary
schools have tended to place most emphasis on the development of inter-
dependence. The new stress on individuality in educational reform pro-
grammes since the late 1980s therefore raises questions: to what extent have
teachers changed their practices in order to emphasize the individual? What
form have the changes taken? And how do teachers feel about the results? The
answers will provide insights not only into Japanese education, but also into
the question of what kind of people will make up Japan’s future society.
Sociocultural pedagogy and Japanese primary education

Ironically, as researchers on Japan have started to pay more attention to the
individual, researchers on education have increasingly been emphasizing the
importance of community participation and interaction with others for
learning. These approaches have gathered momentum in the English-
speaking world since the 1980s. However, they have taken little account of
teaching and learning practices in Japanese schools as yet; nor have writers
on Japan related their accounts of Japanese educational practices to these
new currents of thought. Since Japanese primary schools emphasize learning
through group interaction and discussion (Stigler and Perry, 1990: 329, 351;
Lewis, 1995; Stigler et al., 1996), one can expect that examining their peda-
gogical practices in the light of these new theoretical approaches may not
only lead to better understanding of Japanese primary teaching, but also
provide a wider empirical base through which to consider the validity and
applicability of these innovative educational theories. This is particularly
important given the evidence that learning through genuinely thoughtful
interaction among members of the classroom is often in short supply in
primary classrooms in some countries, such as England (Galton et al., 1980;
Galton and Williamson, 1992) and the United States (Stigler et al., 1996). I
will therefore give a brief introduction to these new approaches and outline
their relevance to the analysis of primary educational practices in Japan.
More specific analyses will be presented in later chapters on particular cur-
ricular subjects.
I use the term sociocultural pedagogy to indicate theories of teaching and
learning that focus on the learner’s interaction with her or his sociocultural
setting. Research in this area is wide-ranging and derives from a number of
different intellectual sources. However, what they have in common is dissatis-
faction with the individual-focused theories of teaching and learning that
dominated much of the twentieth century.
At the risk of oversimplification, two particularly important intellectual
influences on research into sociocultural pedagogy can be identified. The first
is the work of the psychologist Vygotsky and his associates in the Soviet
Union from the 1920s onwards. This came to the attention of English-speaking
scholars as a result of the translation of the work, starting in the 1960s.
Vygotsky placed social activity at the centre of his theories of cognitive
development, in contrast to Piaget, the dominant Western figure in twentieth-
century developmental psychology, who focused on the individual as central.
To quote Rogoff (1990: 144), ‘For Piaget, development moves from the indi-
vidual to the social, and for Vygotsky, development moves from the social to
the individual.’
Vygotsky . . . emphasized that cognitive development occurs in situ-

ations where the child’s problem solving is guided by an adult who
structures and models the appropriate solution to the problem (in the
‘zone of proximal development,’ the region of sensitivity to social
guidance where the child is not quite able to manage the problem
independently). In Vygotsky’s view, the child’s individual mental func-
tioning develops though experience with cultural tools in joint problem
solving with more skilled partners working in the zone of proximal
development.
(Rogoff, 1990: 36)
One of those whose work was influenced by the Vygotskian tradition was the
American psychologist Jerome Bruner. In a study of the tutoring of young
children, Bruner and the British psychologist David Wood introduced the
influential concept of ‘scaffolding’, referring to the process whereby a more
skilled person helps a child to learn to do a task by showing her how to

perform key activities, simplifying the task, removing distractions, or high-
lighting an important point that the child had overlooked (Wood, 1998:
98–101). This and later studies of ‘scaffolding’ showed how a key element in
Vygotsky’s theoretical paradigm was borne out in practice.
Another important writer stimulated by the Vygotskian tradition is Neil
Mercer. Together with other British social psychologists such as Michael
Billig and Derek Edwards, Mercer was instrumental in creating what has been
called ‘discursive psychology’ during the 1980s and 1990s, focusing on ‘how
discourse accomplishes and is a part of social practices’ in order to better
grasp the relations between language and understanding (Edwards and Potter,
1992: 17). Mercer’s work is especially important because it takes into account
the realities of formal education systems. It is thoroughly grounded in quali-
tative classroom research, analysing particular school situations using detailed
discourse analysis. Mercer points out the limitations of Vygotskian theory
when applied to school education, and the further work that needs to be done
if such theory is to be of use in such settings:
. . . the theory must take into account the nature of schools and other
educational institutions, as places where a special kind of learning is
meant to happen. . . . Although Vygotsky offers us valuable insights into
the relationship between thought, language and culture, his theory was
not based on research in classrooms. . . . the concept of ‘scaffolding’
emerged from research on one-to-one relationships . . . the differences
between these and classroom education are obvious – a matter of the
number of learners per teacher and their effects on the kind and quality
of communications involved. . . . But one of the most crucial differences
between classroom education and other, more informal kinds of teaching
and learning is that in school there is a curriculum to be taught.
(Mercer, 1995: 78–9)
Thus, if the insights of Vygotsky are to be of practical use in school educa-

tion, it is necessary to take seriously the particularities of schools as socio-
cultural institutions.
A second major influence on sociocultural pedagogy has been the work of
Jean Lave and her associates on learning through participation in socio-
cultural practices. Lave’s most well-known work stems from two studies of
learning and cognition: the first, research on apprenticeship among Liberian
tailors, and the second, research on how American adults use mathematics
in everyday situations (supermarket shopping and weight-watching). An
important influence on her work has been practice theory, as developed by
Bourdieu, Giddens and others (Lave, 1988: 13–18). She challenges the view
that learning is most effective when formal instruction provides learners with
‘ “abstract, decontextualized” knowledge’ which can then be generalized and
transferred to situations outside the classroom (1988: 41). Instead, she argues
that ‘direct experience is . . . the more basic condition of learning’ (1988:

183). These arguments are formidably supported by qualitative evidence
showing that American adults showed themselves capable users of mathemat-
ics in practical situations such as the supermarket, yet were much less capable
of solving formal mathematical problems, similar to school maths problems,
that had exactly the same logical form as the maths they used in the super-
market (Lave, 1988: 45–71).
Lave has gone on to argue that ‘social practice is the primary, generative
phenomenon, and learning is one of its characteristics’, or, to put it another
way, ‘learning is . . . an aspect of all activity’ (Lave and Wenger, 1991: 34, 38).
Learning is thus inseparable from relations within social communities and the
construction of personal identities:
As an aspect of social practice, learning involves the whole person; it

implies not only a relation to specific activities, but a relation to social
communities – it implies becoming a full participant, a member, a kind of
person. In this view, learning only partly – and often incidentally –
implies becoming able to be involved in new activities, to perform new
tasks and functions, to master new understandings. Activities, tasks,
functions and understandings do not exist in isolation; they are part of
broader systems of relations in which they have meaning. These systems
of relations arise out of and are reproduced and developed within social
communities, which are in part systems of relations among persons. The
person is defined by as well as defines these relations. Learning thus
implies becoming a different person with respect to the possibilities
enabled by these systems of relations. To ignore this aspect of learning is
to overlook the fact that learning involves the construction of identities.
(Lave and Wenger, 1991: 53)
In attempting to capture this perspective on learning, Lave and Etienne

Wenger have described learning as ‘legitimate peripheral participation’ in
‘communities of practice’.
Although Lave and Wenger have not made formal schooling a subject of
their research, they do consider that ‘rethinking schooling from the perspec-
tive afforded by legitimate peripheral participation will turn out to be a fruit-
ful exercise’, writing that ‘such a study would . . . raise questions about the
social organization of schools themselves into communities of practice, both
official and interstitial, with varied forms of membership’ (Lave and Wenger,
1991: 41).24
Lave’s influence, like that of Vygotsky, has been enormous, though it
has probably been more evident in research on workplace rather than school
learning (Edwards, 2005: 49). This is probably not surprising, given that
Lave’s own research has been on learning outside formal educational institu-
tions, and given her hostility to the idea of ‘transfer’ on which much school
instruction continues to be at least notionally based. However, the concepts
that Lave and Wenger provide have been developed with specific reference to
schools by other writers, notably Canadian educationalist Gordon Wells.
Wells has proposed that schools be seen as ‘communities of inquiry’, where ‘a
“community of inquiry” is a particular type of “community of practice” ’
(Wells, 1999: 122). He prefers this term to the alternative, ‘community of
learners’, since the latter might suggest (contrary to the arguments of Lave)
that learning is the object of what the community does, rather than a by-
product of its activities. For Wells, classroom activities should be focused on
an improvable object, such as model buildings, newspapers, role-plays, or
multi-media representations, and should be filled with the spirit of inquiry,
understood as ‘a stance towards experience and ideas – a willingness to won-
der, to ask questions, and to seek to understand by collaborating with others
in the attempt to make answers to them’ (Wells, 1999: 121–4).
The work of Vygotsky, Bruner, Mercer, Lave, Wells, and others concerned
with what I have called sociocultural pedagogy has clear relevance for
research on Japanese primary education. As Stigler et al. (1990; 1996), Lewis
(1995) and others have clearly shown, Japanese primary teachers encourage
children to express their ideas and engage in dialogue and discussion about
objects such as mathematical problems. Japanese primary schools are not
dominated by the idea that learning is primarily something that involves the
individual child’s cognition, with social interaction at best a useful means to
an end. Like the Japanese preschool teachers studied by Tobin, Wu and
Davidson (1989), Japanese primary teachers place great importance on the
way children learn from one another, and see one-to-one attention from the
teacher as less important than, for example, American preschool teachers
(1989), or British primary teachers. They place great importance on creating
classroom communities in which children have a secure identity as a member
of the class group (Lewis, 1995; Tsuneyoshi, 2001; Sato, 2004). One reason
for this, no doubt, is the strength of the discourse of the interdependent self
in Japan, and the way in which it is embedded in everyday life. It is therefore
important to examine in more detail the extent to which the approaches
of sociocultural pedagogy are indeed useful for understanding practices
in Japanese primary classrooms. Sociocultural theories of learning suggest
that one of the keys to the effectiveness of Japanese primary classrooms
could be their emphasis on interaction and community. We also need to
consider whether a greater emphasis on individuality is changing Japanese
primary practices, and if so, in what ways. Are Japanese primary classrooms
abandoning their stress on identity as an interdependent member of the class-
room community, or is this being maintained, alongside increased attention
to the individual?
Conclusion
The educational reform debates of the last twenty years have revealed much
about views of Japanese society within Japan, as well as the different visions
of the country’s future that exist. There have been arguments about whether
education should place more emphasis on the individual, or else continue to
stress standardization, equality, discipline, and the teaching practices that are
seen to have maintained high levels of academic attainment as traditionally
conceived. There have also been debates about what increasing stress on the
individual actually means in practice – how it should be translated into spe-
cific policy and practical measures. In addition, educational reform has
addressed concerns that children are inadequately socialized, as a result of
too much studying and school time, and too little experience of social life
outside school. The debates have taken place in the context of anxieties about
Japan’s changing society, and the changing international reality with which
the country has to deal. On the one hand, concerns about quality of life and
social order at home spur arguments that children need either more freedom,
or more discipline, depending on the diagnosis of the ‘problem’. On the
other, the demands of the rapidly changing, high-tech and globalized world
that many envisage lead to calls either for a focus on developing creative,
independent individuals, or for a return to the rigorous and egalitarian
across-the-board schooling that accompanied the postwar economic miracle.
The overall picture is one of anxiety and confusion. While individual com-
mentators may have strong and clear views about how to identify and meet
Japan’s educational needs, it is currently hard to detect a consensus on these
issues among the public at large.
It can be seen, however, that Japan’s ongoing debates about education are
conducted in the context of broader arguments about self, society and human
nature. Behind the discussions lie questions about what kind of people the
Japanese believe they are or should be, and what kind of society they want to
live in. As Fujita (2000) has pointed out, an emphasis on the individual can
mean very different things, since individuals can be self-oriented and indiffer-
ent to others, or socially oriented and cooperative. Ishiyama Shūhei’s postwar
education guidelines also remind us that ‘individuality’ does not necessarily
have to be understood as opposed to sociality. Understanding human beings
as inherently social may result in a simultaneous stress on individuality and
interdependence. Indeed, this seems to me the most likely outcome of current
debates in Japan, given the fundamental differences between the Japanese
understanding of human selfhood and that prevalent in the West. The kind
of ‘individuals’ the country ends up with will depend partly on the education
system and educational practices Japan adopts.
Debates about educational policy among policy-makers, academics, and
other commentators, while important, are almost always conducted at a
remove from schools and classrooms, the places where formal education
actually goes on. The following chapters therefore move to the school level,
exploring how primary teachers themselves tackled the practical challenge
of placing greater emphasis on the individual. Did they see this as incompat-
ible with developing interdependence and sociality among children? How did
they face the twin challenge of trying to develop individuality, while provid-
ing more opportunities for healthy socialization? What kind of choices did
they make as they tried to ensure that children learned? Did they abandon
interactive, class-focused teaching strategies in the quest to develop the
strengths of individuals? The answers to these questions may shed light on
the fundamental understandings that infuse Japanese primary teachers’
approaches, as well as help illuminate how Japan’s educational dilemmas can
be resolved in practice.
Notes
1 For more details on the Rinkyōshin and the Chūkyōshin, see Schoppa (1991),
Roesgaard (1998), and Okano and Tsuchiya (1999: 210–28). Schoppa refers to the
Rinkyōshin by the acronym AHCR, whereas Roesgaard uses NCER (National
Council for Educational Reform) to refer to the same body. Schwartz (1993)
analyses the role of government advisory committees in Japan.
2 For violence in school, see Kakinuma and Nagano (1997). For bullying and school
refusal, see Okano and Tsuchiya (1999: 195–207) and Yoneyama (1999). For class-
room indiscipline, see Asahi Shinbun Shakaibu (1999) and Takahashi (1999).
3 Hendry (1986: 59–60) refers to this phenomenon, and also notes that the idea that
children learn sociality from neighbourhood play goes back at least to the early
twentieth century and celebrated folklorist Yanagita Kunio.
4 For examples from a leading business organization and the largest teachers’ union
respectively, see Keizai Dantai Rengōkai (1996: 18) and Japan Teachers’ Union
(1995: 21).
5 The wording of the Primary and Junior High Courses of Study is identical.
6 For more details on these measures and their implementation, see Cave (2001,
2003), and Aspinall (2005).
7 This point has been made by Fujita in (1997: 135ff.), and at the Symposium ‘New
Challenges to Japanese Education: Economics, Reform, Immigration and Human
Rights’ at the University of California, Berkeley on 8 April 2006. In 2001, an
official from the Ministry of Education also confirmed to me in conversation that
the five-day school week was not originally a Ministry initiative.
8 This translation is somewhat misleading, since it is not clear that sōgō-teki na
gakushū actually integrates studies. The content would be better described as
cross-curricular exploratory learning. For this reason, I will refer to the subject by
the abbreviation usually used in Japanese schools, sōgō gakushū.
9 For details, see Cave (2001: 179; 2003).
10 As the OECD report made clear, the drop in the score of Japanese students was
the result of the introduction of extra areas of mathematics into the 2003 tests,
and there was no drop in score in the areas that were tested in both 2000 and 2003
(OECD, 2004a: 90). The mean score of Japanese students in 2003 was 534 from a
possible 700, compared to 550 in the top-ranked ‘country’, Hong Kong. Other
countries above Japan were Finland, South Korea, the Netherlands, and Liechten-
stein (!). One wonders in how many other countries such a performance would be
greeted with concern.
11 In the Daily Yomiuri (8 December 2004), for example, the headline of an article
translated from Japan’s bestselling Yomiuri Shinbun newspaper read ‘Japan
academic skills fall’. The article placed all its emphasis on negatives such as the
drop in maths and reading scores, with Japan’s top-ranking scores in science and
problem-solving mentioned almost in passing.
12 In this summary, I have not mentioned the reports of the National Commission on
Education Reform (Kyōiku kaikaku kokumin kaigi) set up by former Prime Minister
Obuchi, which met during 2000. This is partly to avoid complicating the already
complicated picture further, and also because the Commission seems to have made
little impact on curriculum or pedagogy. Its focus was on attempting to push
forward neo-conservative proposals such as introducing community service in
schools and revising the Fundamental Law of Education (FLE), along with neo-
liberal proposals for increased school choice and tracking into elite and non-elite
streams. A number of changes have been introduced in line with the Commission’s
recommendations (e.g. schoolchildren are now required to do short periods of
community service), and education policy seems to be moving increasingly
towards a combination of closer external evaluation of schools, and greater choice
of schools for students. However, such changes are at present gradual and incre-
mental. Most hopes of the Commission’s members have not yet been realized, nor
is there a clear prospect of their realization. Nonetheless, the Commission’s
reports do make clear the views of the neo-conservative and neo-liberal Right in
Japan, and one of its major recommendations, to revise the FLE in a conservative
direction, to stress the importance of ‘Japanese tradition’ and love of country, was
realized in December 2006. For more on the Commission and the move to revise
the FLE, see Okada (2002) and Yoneyama (2002).
13 That is, ‘subject’ in the sense of ‘thinking agent’.
14 The first of these quotes is of Matsumoto’s own words, the second, of the words
of prewar socialist thinker Kawakami Hajime, whose analysis Matsumoto cites
approvingly.
15 Though he is not explicitly aligned with any political camp within the educational
debate, Fujita Hidenori’s opposition to the extension of school choice is based on
a similar view of the importance of a ‘basic, common education for all children’ at
primary and lower secondary schools that are rooted in their local communities
(Fujita, 2000: 54). Satō Manabu has also suggested that ‘basic academic attain-
ment’ (kiso gakuryoku) should be understood not as ‘the three Rs’, but as ‘a
common basic education for all’ (kyōtsū kyōyō), which he also regards as equiva-
lent to the English concept of ‘literacy’ (Satō, 2001: 39–42).
16 It is worth noting that Japanese superhero dramas aimed at small children, such
as Ultraman, Sailor Moon, and the Ranger (Renjā) series, often also feature
cooperation and interdependence among teams and families, rather than the self-
sufficient independence of American superheroes such as Superman (Gill, 1998).
17 Tada also pointed out that ironically, in practice, ‘my-home-ism’, often meant that
an employee became more strongly tied to the company, by taking out a company
loan in order to buy his new house. Nonetheless, Tada sees ‘my-home-ism’ as
showing a new tendency to accept the legitimacy of the private sphere, especially
among the young.
18 The Japanese term literally means, ‘looking for oneself’, in contrast to the English
‘finding oneself’. The difference is subtle, but possibly expresses a less confident or
more relaxed attitude towards the quest.
19 Writers of juku literature can be highly eclectic, drawing on Western as well as
indigenous sources of seishin advice. In a book of pep-talks used by a well-known
and highly successful Kyoto-based juku, for example, the author draws on Bertrand
Russell and Plato to emphasize his point that taking exams should be a contest
with oneself, not with others (Momose, 1995: 72–5)
20 While competition indicates that an individual places importance on his success
vis-à-vis others, it does not indicate that he is not other-oriented or group-oriented
– in fact, rather the reverse. Being competitive means wanting to achieve according
to a scale of values that one shares with one’s reference group (Béteille, 2002). As
Kuwayama (1992) has pointed out, in Japanese farming villages being competitive
often means wanting to be ‘at least as good as’ everyone else in terms of the status
brought by possession of the latest machinery. This implies that people are
expected to be able to succeed by their own efforts, but according to a common

scale of values. In a sense ‘individualism’ and ‘group-orientation’ are thus
combined.
21 The meaning of the term shutaisei has been fiercely debated by postwar Japanese
thinkers, as Kersten and Koschmann show, but it is arguable that it is most
closely associated with the renowned political scientist Maruyama Masao, who
believed that it represented the Lockean idea of autonomy as disciplined self-
determination, an idea which Maruyama believed had not developed adequately
in Japan, but which needed to do so (Koschmann, 1996: 149–202). Koschmann
suggests there is a certain ambiguity in the concept of shutaisei as developed by
Maruyama and, before him, Ōtsuka Hisao, as it may be hard to distinguish
between apparent autonomy that results from internalizing the gaze of state
authority, and true autonomy (Koschmann, 1996: 169, 239). The apparent auton-
omy he posits is, of course, that of the modern individual according to Foucault,
who comes into being as a result of techniques for self-surveillance developed by
the modern state (Foucault, 1977; Koschmann, 1996: 169, 241). The ambiguity of
the concept, and the variety of its permutations, should thus be kept in mind, but
its importance should not therefore be forgotten.
22 An interesting example of this involves what might be regarded as a British piece
of seishin literature, Rudyard Kipling’s poem If. Kipling is not considered a polit-
ically progressive writer, but according to Sheila Cassidy (1978), If was very popu-
lar among left-wing activists imprisoned in Chile after the Pinochet coup of 1973.
They found its emphasis upon self-discipline and perseverance entirely appropri-
ate to their situation. Similarly, imprisoned Burmese democracy leader Aung
San Suu Kyi has used If at political rallies and describes it as ‘a great poem for
dissidents’ (Garton Ash, 2000).
23 Long (1999: 13) similarly points to the term jiga, glossed as ‘egotistical self’.
24 There seem to be important similarities between Lave’s view of learning and that
implied by the concept of the ‘hidden curriculum’.
2 Groups and individuals at
primary school
In Japanese primary schools, learning takes place through both academic and
non-academic activities (Lewis, 1995). Teachers attach great importance
not only to subject lessons, but also to the activities that take place outside
lessons, ranging from everyday matters such as serving lunch and cleaning
the classroom, to major events such as sports days and graduation cere-
monies. Considerable trouble is taken to try to achieve the aim of a cohesive
class group whose members help, support, and feel for one another. As part
of this process, children learn implicit understandings of selfhood – what
kind of person they are expected to be. While there were variations in the
ideals of moral and personal development that teachers at the schools stud-
ied embraced, as well as the approaches they used, these remained vari-
ations within the common basic paradigm of the class group as a cohesive
community.
In this chapter, I first give more details about the schools and teachers
studied. I then go on to explain the concept of the class group as community
in Japanese education in general, and at Nakamachi and Morikawa primary
schools in particular. Particular attention is given to the concept of the class
group as nakama – people who naturally belong together. I then explain vari-
ous approaches that were used by different teachers to try to shape the chil-
dren’s experiences and achieve the goal of a warm and cohesive class group.
Though the class group was the dominant organizational concept at the
two schools, teachers’ concerns for children’s development went beyond this.
Teachers also wanted to develop children’s autonomy, and their ability to
have good social relations with older and younger children. The increasing
importance attached to the individual also led to debates about the extent to
which unorthodox behaviour by children should be accepted. These issues are
discussed later in the chapter.
Nakamachi and Morikawa primary schools and

educational reform
As explained in the introduction, Nakamachi and Morikawa were both
ordinary public primary schools, non-selective and only accepting children
Groups and individuals at primary school 53
who lived in their school catchment areas. Nonetheless, there were differences
between the two schools. Nakamachi had a long-standing reputation as a
school whose teachers put greater than normal efforts into lesson develop-
ment and practical pedagogical research. In the past, it had been considered
second in this regard in the prefecture only to a national primary school that
was attached to the Education Faculty of a national university. During the
four months I spent there, hardly a week seemed to go by without one or two
‘research lessons’ (kenkyū jugyō) – lessons that were open to other teachers to
attend, allowing colleagues to learn from one another’s practices. Such les-
sons take place at all schools in Japan (Fernandez and Yoshida, 2004), but
at Nakamachi they were unusually frequent.1 A few years earlier, the Ministry
of Education had designated it a pilot school2 for early introduction of the new
subject of ‘daily life’ (seikatsu-ka), which had been introduced into the cur-
riculum in the 1989 revision to replace social studies and science in the first
two years of primary school. This showed that the school was recognized as
being at the cutting edge nationally in developing progressive educational
approaches characterized by cross-curricular, experience-based learning, cen-
tring on children’s own interests. From 1995 to 1997, the Sakura City Board
of Education designated Nakamachi to pursue research about developing the
ability to study (gakushūryoku o sodateru). The presentation of its results,
including several open research lessons, took place in November 1996.
According to the principal, the school was generally able to secure highly
regarded staff in personnel transfers,3 because of its high research reputation
and the corresponding demands on teachers. Nakamachi teachers themselves
saw the school as progressive and innovative (susundeiru), and devoted
particularly to developing in its pupils the ability to act and study as
independent individuals. They were generally well aware of the government’s
pedagogical agenda, and my survey in July 1998 showed that seven of the
school’s 25 teachers subscribed to the Ministry of Education’s journal, Shotō
kyōiku shiryō (Primary Education Materials). The same survey showed
Nakamachi teachers’ level of commitment to ongoing professional develop-
ment: 19 of the 25 subscribed to a pedagogical journal,4 while four had
formerly done so, and ten subscribed to two or more such journals. Six
teachers were members of privately organized pedagogical research groups
(kenkyūkai),5 and six more had formerly been members of such groups.
Nakamachi was thus a school with a conscious commitment to the develop-
ment of independent individuals, and with a well-informed and professionally
committed teaching staff.
Morikawa was not a self-consciously progressive school, although its
teachers were aware of the educational reform agenda. During my six-week
visit in 1996, two of its staff were sent to observe a presentation of reform-
oriented research and research lessons at a Tokyo primary school. In com-
parison with Nakamachi, however, there was less pressure on teachers to
develop their teaching along reform-oriented lines, and indeed, less pressure
to present research lessons in general. One Morikawa teacher told me that he
54 Groups and individuals at primary school
thought his colleagues were unsure how to change their teaching methods,
and also lacked the time to do so. Yet it must be borne in mind that the annual
personnel transfer between schools ensures a constant intercourse of ideas
between schools, with new staff bringing with them the expertise and experi-
ence they have gained at previous schools. In 1998, for example, there were to
my knowledge at least two former Nakamachi teachers at Morikawa, and two
former Morikawa teachers at Nakamachi. This constant interchange of per-
sonnel among schools helps to prevent differences between schools from
becoming too great.

When interviewing and talking to teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa
during my fieldwork in 1995–96, the topic of the government reform agenda
sometimes arose spontaneously, and my notes record comments related to
reform by seven or eight teachers, roughly evenly divided between the two
schools. Without exception, their attitude to reform was positive, even if they
were uncertain about how exactly to teach in the new style they felt was
demanded. What was interesting, however, was that they rarely talked about
‘individuality’ (kosei); what they were enthusiastic about was having pupils
think, make judgements, and initiate study themselves. Expressions such as
‘think and judge for oneself ’ (mizukara kangae, mizukara handan suru) were
used positively by teachers. One sixth year teacher at Morikawa, Satoyama-
sensei, told me that she had heard that in England, pupils did self-directed
study ( jibun de gakushū o susumeru), and she thought this was wonderful.
This attitude was also reflected in her own practice as a teacher, as I observed
it, as she gave pupils considerable scope for deciding how they wished to
study.
The same positive attitude to change was apparent in the interviews I con-
ducted in July 1998. On this occasion, I specifically asked the seven teachers I
interviewed what they thought about educational reform. Again, the attitude
of all was basically positive. It was again apparent that teachers at the pri-
mary level interpreted reform as centring on discovering and thinking about
problems for oneself, and that it was this that they were welcoming. When
they expressed misgivings about aspects of reform (as several did), their con-
cerns centred on the danger that weaker pupils and relationships between
pupils within the class might be neglected. In terms of the discourses of self
discussed in Chapter 1, they seemed to be interpreting reform as encourage-
ment of autonomy, and welcoming it on that basis. On the other hand, they
seemed less likely to favour interpretations of reform that might emphasize
competition or diminish either the interdependence or equality of children. It
was particularly interesting that two teachers told me spontaneously that in
reality, as they saw it, reform was not something new, since primary schools
had been emphasizing learning and thinking for oneself for many years. It
was the government and the wider society that had caught up with primary
practice, they suggested. This perception of basic continuity between edu-
cational reform (as interpreted by primary teachers) and long-standing school
practice helps to explain why there was such a uniformly positive attitude to
reform among the primary teachers I talked to. A similarly positive attitude
to reform was again apparent among teachers at Morikawa during my return
visit in 2004, even after the criticisms of the reform programme by commen-
tators and media reported in Chapter 1.
Description and analysis in this and the following two chapters mainly
makes use of observations and interviews at Nakamachi. This is mainly
because of the longer continuous time I spent there (three months against six
weeks), and because that time was in the middle of the school year. The six
weeks of my main fieldwork study that I spent at Morikawa were at the end
of the school year, with the result that teachers were sometimes hurrying to
complete the syllabus, or teaching portions of the textbook devoted to revi-
sion lessons. This meant that some of the lessons I watched at Morikawa may
not have been representative of teachers’ normal approach.
In all, I observed lessons by three sixth year teachers at Nakamachi and
four at Morikawa. Greatest use is made of observations of the experienced
head of year at Nakamachi, Yoshioka-sensei, as explained in the Introduc-
tion. As I spent most time in her class, I was able to observe her practices
more fully than those of any other teacher. Yoshioka-sensei seemed to me a
very accomplished and committed teacher, with an excellent rapport with her
class, an assessment which was supported in interviews with ten of her former
students two years later, in July 1998. Her philosophy and teaching practices
seemed to me to be reasonably representative, judging by my observations of
and interviews with other Japanese primary teachers, although ‘representa-
tive’ does not of course mean ‘identical’. As with any other teacher, Yoshioka-
sensei’s philosophy and practice had their own particular emphases, yet these
were well within what may be considered the normal paradigm of Japanese
primary teaching. Attention to individuals helps to make clear that Japanese
teachers are agents with their own personally worked out beliefs and practices,
not merely representatives displaying a shared approach. This has not always
come across strongly enough from previous works on Japanese primary
schools.
The following chapters consider what understandings of self and person
are implicit in the philosophy and practices of Yoshioka-sensei and other
teachers, and in turn, how such understandings may be transmitted to pupils
through school practices. In particular, I examine whether the new peda-
gogical emphasis on the individual in recent educational rhetoric has been
accompanied by changes in school practice, and if so, what kind of changes
have come about.
The concept of the class group in Japanese pedagogy

All the teachers whose classes I observed at Nakamachi and Morikawa took
for granted the central importance of the class group (gakkyū). Such a view is
long-established in Japanese schools, and is integral to their organization.
According to Nakano and Oguma (1993: 1), the class group is the key unit in
Japanese pedagogy. This is not a tradition that goes back before the Meiji
period (1868–1912), as instruction in schools of the Tokugawa period
(1603–1868) was mainly individual (Dore, 1992). The class group was an
idea imported from the West for the purpose of mass schooling. Indeed,
according to Sato (1998: 194), it was not until 1900 that ‘the modern group-
based classroom’ was created, through legal definition of a class as ‘a
group of students of the same age’. Nonetheless, it did not take long for
pedagogues to begin to pay attention to management of the class group
(gakkyū keiei). Noted educator Sawayanagi Masatarō6 devoted a chapter to

the class group in his 1909 book Jissai-teki kyōikugaku (Practical Edu-
cational Studies), and as early as 1912 there appeared what was probably
the first book actually entitled Gakkyū keiei (Class Management), by an
author named Sawa. Sawa compared the class teacher to the head of a
household (kachō):
If he can bring forth the fruit of communal harmony (kyōdō wagō), with
the pupils as his beloved children (aiji), together growing in friendly
intimacy, discipline and good health, and serious and diligent too, then I
think we can probably say that most of the purpose of class management
has been achieved.
(quoted in Nakano and Oguma, 1993: 5)
Nakano Akira points out that Sawa stressed the influence of the class over
the characters of its members, and quotes his statement that: ‘The atmos-
phere of the class (gakufū) possesses a special air, with the character ( jinkaku)
of the teacher as its centre, and the character of the children as a whole ( jidō
no sōgō-teki jinkaku) as the surrounds’ (Nakano and Oguma, 1993). Even at
such an early date we see the stress upon the central role of the class teacher,
upon class atmosphere, and upon the feeling that the teacher should have for
his ‘beloved children’. These emphases on the role of the teacher and the
importance of class atmosphere developed in subsequent decades, and have
continued to be central to Japanese school pedagogy throughout the twen-
tieth century. Sato (1998) outlines prewar developments in the theory and
practice of the class group. One thinker and practitioner whose emphasis
upon the class spans the prewar and postwar periods was Saitō Kihaku, not
only a primary teacher and principal himself but also one of the most widely
read authors of books on primary pedagogy in postwar Japan. According to
Saitō, ‘Good things will appear for the first time when there is a good class
group (yoi gakkyū shūdan)’ (Matsumoto and Takahashi, 1983: 153). One
should also note the influence of groups such as the Zenseiken (Zenkoku
Seikatsu Shidō Kenkyū Kyōgikai), or National Life Guidance Research
Association, which has disseminated its particular, Makarenko-influenced
approach to the class group widely through books and meetings. Many
books have been and continue to be published on the topic of ‘creating
the class group’ (gakkyū-zukuri), and the important anthology of Japanese
pedagogical writings, Nihon no kyōshi, devoted one of its 24 volumes to the
topic (Nakano and Oguma, 1993).
Images of the teacher and the class group in television dramas

The idea that the class group is a central educational unit is accepted beyond
the educational world, as was demonstrated by portrayals of school life in
television dramas broadcast during my fieldwork. The school drama (gakuen
dorama) is a popular television genre in Japan, dating back to at least 1968.7

The three school dramas that attracted the largest viewing figures during my
fieldwork were all broadcast on commercial channels during prime time
(between 9 and 11 p.m.). What was interesting was that the central focus in all
three was the teacher and his efforts to forge a good relationship with his
class, helping individual students and creating a sense of unity and comrade-
ship in the class group as a whole. In contrast, the British tradition of school
stories, for example, has largely concentrated on relations between individual
students or groups of friends. In British stories, teachers may be respected,
loved, feared, or viewed with ambivalence, but they are generally peripheral
figures as far as the plot is concerned, making only occasional interventions
to complicate the story or to resolve knotty crises. This is as true of a modern
television drama like the BBC’s Grange Hill as of older school stories such as
the prewar Billy Bunter tales in the Magnet magazine. Nor is the class group
as a whole more than a shadowy presence in such stories.
In the Japanese school drama, however, the teacher is the central figure,
and this role is taken by a leading popular actor or actress. One of the three
series broadcast during my fieldwork was the most well-known Japanese
school drama of all, Sannen B-gumi Kinpachi-sensei (Kinpachi-sensei of
Class 3-B), seven series of which have been broadcast to date since its inception
in 1979. The very title of the programme announces the centrality of the
teacher and the class group. Each episode of the third series (1995–96) began
with Kinpachi-sensei standing outside and yelling out to his class, ‘Sannen
B-gumi!’ whereupon the whole class responded with a yell of ‘Kinpachi-
sensei!’, rushed towards him, and lifted him off the ground. This was an
excellent expression of the obedience and affection that the class came to show
towards their teacher as the series progressed, and which the series presented,
by implication, as the ideal relationship between a teacher and his class.8
Kinpachi-sensei is set in a Tokyo public junior high school. Of the other two
dramas, Shōri no megami (Goddess of Victory) was set in a juku for sixth year
primary children in Tokyo, while Minikui ahiru no ko (The Ugly Duckling)
was about a fourth year primary teacher and his class. Although the three
settings were different, the development of the relationship between the
teacher and his pupils (all three teachers were men) was fundamentally the
same. In each case, the teacher began with a class full of problems, divided
amongst itself and hostile to him. Each week or two, a new problem would
emerge to become the focus of attention. Little by little the teacher won the
trust of alienated or recalcitrant individuals, while the class as a whole grad-
ually developed a spirit of unity and mutual support. This was achieved mainly
through the teacher’s emotional sympathy with his pupils, and through his
unstinting devotion to them, manifested in the time and energy he spent with
them, listening and talking to them. All three teachers gave up their free time
to help pupils outside school hours, inviting pupils to their homes for extra
tuition, for counselling, or to help build props for a school concert. On their
side, the pupils called on the teacher at home in minor crises. The teachers
made sacrifices for their pupils, most dramatically when a teacher in Minikui
ahiru no ko was accidentally stabbed by a child he was trying to dissuade from
harming himself with a knife. In short, the relationship between teacher and
pupils was portrayed as one of deep personal commitment. The teachers were
concerned not only about their pupils’ academic progress, but also their per-
sonal growth and welfare. Moreover, in the world of television drama the
teacher can and does play a major role in changing the direction of children’s
lives for the better. This is accomplished, above all, by the teacher’s commit-
ment and understanding, which convinces pupils that the teacher believes in
him or her, and can be trusted.
Of course, these dramas are fiction, not reality, as many teachers I met were
keen to point out. I met a number of teachers who disliked Kinpachi-sensei.
‘You never see Kinpachi-sensei doing paperwork, and he never has meetings
to go to’, said one teacher at Morikawa over coffee, while one Tachibana
junior high school teacher who was a very active homeroom teacher and
club supervisor said he didn’t like the programme because it was unrealistic:
‘Teachers like that don’t exist. In my experience, whenever I’ve really put time
and effort into trying to rescue a child, it hasn’t worked out.’ Without doubt,
Kinpachi-sensei and series like it are examples of the idealising, didactic side
of Japanese television, to which Harvey (1995) and Painter (1996) draw atten-
tion. (The ideal teachers are often depicted as surrounded by less dedicated
colleagues.) On the other hand, I also met some teachers who enjoyed
Kinpachi-sensei, and heard of others who seemed to see their role in a way
that recalled Kinpachi-sensei and his like. Yoshioka-sensei told me that when
the first Kinpachi-sensei series had been shown on television in her first year as
a teacher, she had watched it and thought that she would like to be a teacher
like that, if only she could. Nakamachi teachers also told me that their former
colleague Nishihara-sensei, recently transferred to another school, put great
time and energy into the quest to forge a class group whose positive atmos-
phere would influence children’s lives for the better. Nakamachi sixth year
teacher Sanada-sensei said that Nishihara-sensei spent time with his class at
weekends as well as in school – though Sanada-sensei’s own view was that
this was not practical for all teachers. Certainly the teachers portrayed in
drama series are idealized figures. But the point is not that all Japanese
teachers are like Kinpachi-sensei (they are not, nor could they be), but that
such an ideal exists at all. The portrayal of teachers in mass media forms such
as television drama is significant because it shows the ideal image of a teacher
who cares for his pupils individually and also tries to create a unified class
group, shows remarkable continuity with the ideal delineated as early as 1912.
Though by no means all teachers believe such an ideal attainable, and some
may not think it even desirable, it does cast an influence over the way they
fulfil their roles.
Sixth year classes at Nakamachi and Morikawa

There were three classes in the sixth year at Nakamachi, and four classes at
Morikawa. At Nakamachi, two of the three classes (6–1 and 6–3) were taught
by experienced teachers in their mid-thirties, while the teacher of 6–2, Fujitani-
sensei, was a younger woman in her third year of teaching. Yoshioka-sensei,
the head of year, taught 6–3; her teaching experience was mostly with fifth
and sixth year classes. Sanada-sensei, who taught 6–1, had taught classes in
all age ranges during his career. Both Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei
were from rural households; Sanada-sensei was married with two young
children, while Yoshioka-sensei was unmarried. The sixth year classes at
Nakamachi were on the small side by Japanese standards; the maximum legal
size for a primary class being 40, the 82 children in the year had only just
escaped being divided into two classes (and in fact, their numbers had come
down to 80 during my visit, after two children left). In Yoshioka-sensei’s
class, 6–3, and in Sanada-sensei’s class, 6–1, there were 26 children, 16 boys
and 10 girls in each case, while there were 28 children in 6–2.
At Morikawa, there were altogether 124 children in the sixth year, divided
into four classes of about 30 each. All the sixth year teachers were experi-
enced, ranging from around 30 to 40 in age. The head of year, Kotani-sensei,
taught 6–1; 6–2 was taught by Satoyama-sensei; 6–3 was taught by the experi-
enced Hayashi-sensei, and 6–4 by the only male teacher in the group, Teraoka-
sensei. I had observed Teraoka-sensei’s class for several days during my pilot
visit to Morikawa in the autumn of 1994, when they were fifth years.
During my fieldwork, the classes I most frequently observed were those
taught by Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei at Nakamachi. Both were
strong characters with their own styles of teaching and class management.
‘Even if we agree to do something the same way, it always ends up different,’
Yoshioka-sensei admitted. Similarly, there was significant variation among
the approaches to teaching and class management of the four sixth year
teachers at Morikawa. Yet such variations took place within the framework
of a common paradigm – shared assumptions and ideas common to all the
teachers as a result of having been educated as pupils and as teachers within
the same system and culture. Much consultation and exchange of ideas went
on, aided by the configuration of the staffroom, in which (as usual in Japan)
the desks of teachers in the same year were placed together to form an
‘island’. The combination of similarity and difference showed how a funda-
mentally similar approach could be developed in different ways by individual
teachers dealing with different groups of children.
The class group as nakama
The idea that the class is a group whose members belong together and there-
fore have a special responsibility to help and support one another was best
expressed by the term nakama, a word used at both Nakamachi and Morikawa
to refer to the class group. The word nakama can be used in a number of
senses, but as used by teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa, an English
approximation would be, ‘a set whose members naturally belong together’. In
contrast, there are other words that can be translated into English as ‘group’,
such as shūdan or gurūpu, but which carry no implication that the group
members belong together by necessity. This distinctive meaning of nakama
can also be seen in the term nakama-wake (categorization), which is often
used in primary classes, especially maths. Nakama-wake involves allocating
disparate items (such as maths problems) so that these items are arranged in
the sets (nakama) to which they belong. To take a simple example, sparrows
should be allocated to the bird family (tori no nakama) rather than the dino-
saur family (kyōryū no nakama). The implication of belonging together is
reflected in the suggested translations for nakama in Kenkyūsha’s New
Japanese-English Dictionary (Masuda, 1974), which include ‘a company, a
set, a circle, a bunch, a gang’ to translate the use of the word to denote a group,
and ‘a companion, a mate, a comrade, a colleague, an associate, a confederate’
to indicate an individual (that is, an individual member of a group).
To call a group of people a nakama should be seen not so much as a
reflection of the real relations within the group, as an assertion by the speaker
about how the group should be perceived. In other words, it is a (sometimes
unconscious) rhetorical strategy. Such an assertion may in fact be an accurate
assessment of the group, or it may be an attempt to appeal to an ideal fiction
of group relations and to try to persuade group members that their relations
should conform more closely to that ideal fiction than they currently do.
Given the difficulty of getting an entire class of children to cohere as a unified
group, one may expect that when teachers use the word, it is an assertion with
a strongly persuasive intent. In fact, this point was made in a July 1998
discussion I had with a teacher at Tachibana junior high, who noted that he
tended to use the term when articulating the ideal group to students. On the
same visit, I noted an interesting usage on a union poster pinned to a staff-
room noticeboard. The headline urged, ‘Have your new colleagues join up
with [the local union branch] immediately’, the word for ‘colleagues’ being
nakama, rather than its impersonal alternative, dōryō. Clearly the poster
designers had felt that thinking of new colleagues as nakama, a term loaded
with feelings of solidarity, was appropriate in the context.
There are similarities between the concept of nakama and that of uchi, a
word used in Japan to refer to primary groups to which one belongs and with
which one identifies (notably the family and the company) (Lebra, 1976: 112).
However, there are also differences between the two concepts. In the first
place, uchi inevitably has a contrastive dimension, differentiating ‘us’ from
‘them’, whereas nakama does not. Second, when used as a noun, uchi tends to
denote groups that are truly primary and central to a person’s life and iden-
tity over a long period (especially the family, and to a lesser extent the work-
place). Though nakama can be used to express a sense of solidarity and
belonging, it does not necessarily indicate such a primary group. These differ-
ences from uchi are what make it suitable for use about a class of primary
school children. Teachers would not wish to foster a ‘them-and-us’ feeling
between different classes in the school, which would be unavoidable if the
term uchi were used; and clearly, a class that will only stay together for two
years cannot be seen as a long-term primary group.
I did not hear all teachers observed at Nakamachi and Morikawa use the
term nakama, and of those who did, some used it much more frequently than
others. Yoshioka-sensei used the term very frequently, whereas Sanada-sensei
did not. Yet Sanada-sensei too emphasized the unified class group, as we shall
see later in this chapter. Teachers at Tachibana junior high also seemed to use
the term relatively rarely, yet when I discussed it with them in July 1998, none
of them seemed to find it strange to use the term about the class group. In
other words, it seemed to be quite normal to see the class as a set whose
members belonged together in a special way. Teachers like Yoshioka-sensei,
who used the word frequently, placed particular emphasis on the concept.
For Yoshioka-sensei, there was a subtle difference between being nakama
and simply being friends (tomodachi). ‘I emphasize being nakama more than
Figure 2.1 Poster over the front blackboard in 6–3 at Nakamachi. In a format seen in
many classrooms, each child paints her or his own face, and the pictures
are then put together – uniting individuals as a group.
being friends,’ she told me. ‘And I emphasize warmth (attakasa)9 more than
kindness (yasashisa).’ For Yoshioka-sensei, ‘friends’ was a broader category
than nakama – a distinction illuminated by the contrast she drew between
‘warmth’ and ‘kindness’, whose relationship seemed to be parallel to that
between nakama and friendship, in her terms. Whereas yasashisa (kindness)
was something one could show to anyone in the school, she suggested,
attakasa (warmth) could only come about between children who had been
together in a class for a long time. It was a question of ‘whether one is really
thinking of the other person or not’. It was hard to get across to the pupils in
the fifth year, but by the second half of the sixth year, she thought they began
to realise what it meant. Because she set out the aim of a warm class (atatakai
kurasu) from the start of the fifth year, the children gradually came to realise
what was and wasn’t in accordance with this aim, through talking through all
sorts of incidents in class as they happened. The process of tackling projects
all together (minna de tsukuriageru) was also important.
According to this view, therefore, kindness is something one can show to
anyone, whether they are a member of your nakama or not, and furthermore,
being friends has no necessary connection with membership of the nakama.
One may have friends outside the nakama, and one may have special friends
within the nakama. This is a matter of individual attachment. Being nakama,
however, is a relationship that demands that you give special help and support
to one another, regardless of personal likes and dislikes. Calling the class
group a nakama is thus to state that its members belong together in a special
way – not out of personal volition but simply by virtue of having been placed
in the same class – and that they have a special responsibility to one another.
This idea is clearly linked to the notion of necessary human interdependence,
introduced in Chapter 1.
What is particularly interesting is that the implications of the nakama rela-
tionship seem to go beyond duties to act in a certain way. There should also
be a special feeling in a nakama, as Yoshioka-sensei’s comment about aiming
for a ‘warm class’ suggests. There may appear to be a paradox here, since I
have suggested that being nakama is independent of personal likes and dis-
likes. Insofar as the paradox is resolved, it is resolved on the basis that mem-
bers of the class should come to feel warmth for one another on the basis of
their shared experiences and efforts together, even if their personalities are
very different. This is why being together for a long time is important, as
Yoshioka-sensei suggested.
Such an understanding is suggested by an essay in the 1994 Nakamachi
graduation album (sotsugyō arubamu), by one of that year’s graduating
pupils, in a class taught by Nishihara-sensei. The essay is entitled, ‘From
Friends to Nakama’ (tomodachi kara nakama e):
I made lots of friends (tomodachi) from the first year onwards. As I went
up with my friends from the fifth year to the sixth year, from being
friends we became nakama who helped one another in all sorts of ways.
There were various opportunities for becoming nakama. There was all
the helping one another on the school trip (shūgaku ryokō). I experienced
the ties (tsunagari) with my nakama, the hardship (kurushisa) and the fun
(tanoshisa) when we stayed overnight together (gasshuku) at [a local
countryside centre].10
We experienced hardship and learned endurance (gaman) at the sports
day in the autumn. We tried our hardest and managed to achieve great
success making human pyramids11 and in coming third for the Fighting
Spirit Prize. Everyone gave all they had in the cheering (ōen) and the 100
metres race too. It was a really good feeling. . . .
Through the school events (gyōji) in the sixth year, we changed from
friends into nakama. Sometimes being joyful together, sometimes going
through hardship together, we became nakama. . . .
If one person was away, everybody was concerned (ki o tsukau). That
showed we had become nakama. It was really good that I became nakama
with everyone.
There is an implicit understanding that compositions for the graduation

album should dwell appreciatively upon school experiences. It is therefore not
surprising to find that this composition presents school experiences positively
and in terms of an idiom used by teachers. Nonetheless, the composition is
significant because it shows that this boy has learned the idiom thoroughly,
and has become able to articulate experience in its terms; this naming turns
inchoate individual experience into social reality (Strauss and Quinn, 1997:
116–17). He defines nakama as people who help one another, are concerned
for one another’s welfare, and share experiences of effort and emotion as the
group works towards a common goal. It is clear from this account that school
events such as the sports day and overnight trips were important in the pro-
cess of becoming nakama, since they provided opportunities for these experi-
ences of shared endeavour and emotion. According to this composition, it is
this shared endeavour and the emotion accompanying it that seem to be
crucial in bringing people together into what the boy defines as the nakama
state. Claudia Strauss and Naomi Quinn (1997: 92–3) argue that emotional
arousal during an experience results in strengthening of the cultural schemas
that make sense of the experience, and such an argument helps to explain the
durability in Japan of ideas about the value of nakama-type groups.
The composition represents the process of becoming nakama in very dis-
tinctive language, with a number of motifs recurring in a quasi-formulaic
manner. Particularly distinctive is the repeated notion that the shared experi-
ence of a combination of hardship and happiness formed ties (tsunagari) that
bound the group together and made them into a nakama. This idea of the
uniting power of the shared experience of pleasure and pain in situations of
common endeavour is found in other primary school texts, notably the songs
to be examined later in this chapter.
The boy’s understanding and representation of his experiences in becoming
Downloaded by [Universiti Pendidikan Sultan Idris] at 01:38 12 April 2013 64 Groups and individuals at primary school
Figure 2.2 Children making human pyramids at the Nakamachi sports day, 1996.
nakama cannot be independent of the language available to him – a language

which he was probably learning from his teachers as he was undergoing the
experiences, if indeed he was not already familiar with it. That experience and
its interpretation are inseparable has been emphasized by a number of writers,
perhaps most classically Becker (1991: 41–58), who explained how marijuana
users learned from others to interpret the drug’s physical effects as enjoyable,
thus changing their experience of it. Michelle Rosaldo argued that emotional
experience flows from action and language working together: ‘feelings are . . .
social practices organized by stories that we both enact and tell’ (1984: 143).12
This, however, requires that the fit between activities and the language of their
narrative is felt to be plausible; and the fit may result from tailoring of the
activities to fit the cultural narrative, as much as the other way round. That the
boy experienced what he did was not simply because he experienced it in
certain terms, I would surmise, but also because the activities that formed the
ground of the experience were organized in a way that made interpretation in
such terms reasonable. This working together of activity and the terms in
which it is interpreted is also evident in other accounts of educational experi-
ence in Japan, such as the company training programmes described by Rohlen
(1986) and Kondo (1990), and the preschool education described by Ben-Ari
(1997, especially Chapter 4). Such examples show how both embodied action
and social discourse are necessary to create felt experience.
Embodied experiences, of various levels of intensity, and frequent verbal
interpretation of such experiences are characteristic of Japanese education, in
preschool and primary school. The big events, such as the school trip or the
sports day, when experience becomes exceptionally intense and memorable,
can have their effects only because they build on daily activities and verbal
interpretations of a more mundane kind, in which a particular way of experi-
encing is established. In the following sections, I examine some of the acti-
vities through which Yoshioka-sensei and other teachers attempted to have
children learn particular ways of experiencing school life.
The class group and its activities at Nakamachi and Morikawa

Lewis (1989; 1995: 74–100), Tsuneyoshi (1994; 2001: 21–49) and Nancy Sato
(2004: 78–85, 183) have described the use of long-term small groups in
Japanese preschools and primary schools in some detail. Lewis (1989: 146)
explains how preschool teachers organize children into such groups for class-
room activities ranging from lunch and chores to cooperative activities such
as murals, collages, group dances, and other shared projects. Through these
means, teachers expect children to learn how to interact, share resources, and
communicate with others. Such small-group (han) organization is used by
first year primary teachers for both academic and non-academic activities
(Lewis, 1989: 149), an approach which continues through primary school,
so that children can learn ‘how to cooperate and to contribute to others’
(Tsuneyoshi, 1994: 119). By the time they reached the fifth and sixth years of
primary school, therefore, children at Nakamachi and Morikawa were very
accustomed to classroom life organized in this way, and to the expectations
and values integral to the approach.
Classes at Nakamachi and Morikawa were organized into two or three
separate sets of small groups. First were the seikatsu-han (daily life small
groups). Children in the same seikatsu-han sat near one another and would
often push their desks together for group study. They did cleaning duties
together,13 and there were also many days when lunch was eaten sitting in
seikatsu-han. The second set of groups was the kyūshoku-han, the groups
responsible for fetching lunch from the school kitchens and serving it in the
classroom. The third set were kakari katsudō groups,14 which were groups
responsible for carrying out extra activities which were not essential to the
smooth functioning of the classroom, but which, in the words of teachers,
‘made class life more enjoyable’. In 6–3 at Nakamachi, for example, there
were nine of these kakari katsudō groups, including a group to organize and
conduct class singing, a group to organize fun events, a group to look after
the flowers, a group to organize the recycling of cans and milk cartons, a
group to organize the class library, and a group to make, put up, and take
down posters and other classroom decor. In some classes, seikatsu-han
doubled as kakari groups, but most teachers seemed to prefer to have the two
groups separate, so that children had freedom to choose to join the kakari
activity they preferred. Besides these various groups with their different
responsibilities, there was also the post of daily monitor (nitchoku tōban). In
most classes, there were two monitors each day, one boy and one girl. Their
precise duties varied, but might include leading the class in morning greetings
and at the beginning and end of classes,15 cleaning the blackboard, and filling
in the class diary (nisshi) with a record of the day’s lessons, homework, and
other events, together with a personal reflection. The post rotated, each class
member holding the post in turn for one day.
In addition to these small group activities, the classes also did many activ-
ities as a unit. In particular, classes ran their own class meetings (gakkyūkai),
held roughly once a week, or more frequently or infrequently as felt necessary
by the teacher.16 In such meetings, class rules were decided, special events
planned, and the problems of daily class life discussed. Many classes had a
box into which members could put items they wanted raised. Children them-
selves acted as chair and secretary, and the class members would raise their
hands when they wanted to say something. In meetings I observed in several
different classes, the teacher intervened only occasionally, and usually to clar-
ify the discussion or urge a decision, rather than to make the decision herself.
In one fourth year meeting I watched at Morikawa during my pilot research,
there was a lively discussion after the girls complained about some boys’
playing an improvised form of baseball with a rolled-up glove inside the
classroom. The boys were quite defeated in discussion, and agreed to think
of quieter games to play. In a fifth year meeting at Morikawa, also during my
pilot research, there were complaints that class rules about not bringing
certain items such as electronic notebooks to school were being broken. After
discussion, the chair (not the teacher) reiterated that since the whole class had
decided on its rules, everyone should observe them.
Figure 2.3 Cleaning the school entrance at Morikawa, 1996.

Figure 2.4 Class meeting (gakkyūkai) in a fifth year class at Morikawa, 1994.
Class meetings could also be called by the teacher in order to discuss what
she saw as problems within the class. During an interview with Tachibana
junior high third years in July 1998, a former member of class 6–1 at
Nakamachi recalled how Sanada-sensei had once spent an entire day on an
extended class meeting, in order to thrash out problems of clique-making
among the girls in the class. Yoshioka-sensei also used class meetings for a
similar purpose. During interviews in July 1998, I specifically asked most
students (and all the former Nakamachi students that I interviewed) whether
they preferred this approach to class problems, or an approach whereby indi-
viduals were counselled by the teacher. Of the 17 students asked, nine pre-
ferred the whole-class discussion approach, six said both should be used,
depending on whether the problem involved the entire class or only indi-
viduals, one said both should be used together, and one preferred an indi-
vidual approach. It did not seem that students had unpleasant memories of
this type of meeting; indeed, when I asked another former 6–1 member
whether having to say what she thought in Sanada-sensei’s marathon class
meeting hadn’t been difficult, she specifically denied this, saying that she
didn’t like giving her opinion in lessons, but she didn’t mind in a class
meeting.
In class meetings, children thus learned to discuss matters of concern to all,
and to make decisions which should be binding on all. Most import-
antly, they learned that the good of the entire class should be the prime
criterion when making decisions. Thus the sense of the class as a unit was
strengthened.
Besides class meetings, other class events were held as and when appropri-
ate. Children who transferred to another school were invariably given a ritual
send-off with a class farewell party (wakarekai). Parties for fun (tanoshimikai)
and other events were also common. During my three months at Nakamachi,
the kakari group responsible for leading such events in 6–3 organized a kara-
oke concert and snowball fight, in both of which the whole class took part
(together with Yoshioka-sensei and myself). One class also organized a kara-
oke concert while I was at Morikawa, and another held a class basketball
tournament. Classes at Morikawa also frequently spent their morning or
lunchtime breaks in the school gym, doing jumprope (ōnawa) as an entire
class. This involved two children turning a long rope, while the rest of the
class lined up to jump in turn. The aim was usually to record as many succes-
sive jumps as possible. In 6–4, Teraoka-sensei made a wallchart, headed ‘6–4
Power’ (6–4 no chikara) on which the children could record how many jumps
were achieved in each performance. Events and recreation of this sort were
meant to bring the class together, and could also offer experience in working
with others to organize an event.
Even play could be organized to involve everyone in the class. Many classes
seemed to have a kakari group responsible for play or recreation. While chil-
dren usually played spontaneously during their morning or lunchtime breaks,
occasionally a kakari group member would get up as lunch ended and pro-
pose playing all together (zenin asobi). There would then be a brief discus-
sion, and perhaps a vote, on what everyone wanted to play. While this did not
happen often, that it happened at all showed a consciousness on the part of
the class that it was appropriate to do things all together sometimes in order
to strengthen class solidarity and have fun as an entire group.
Some teachers also sought to bring the class closer together by regularly
printing and distributing a collection of short extracts of class members’
writings. These ichimai bunshū comprised a sheet of paper (usually B4 size)
on which the teacher extracted writings on certain topics from class work or
class diaries,17 usually adding his own comments. The topics could originate
from lessons, a recent class or school event, or a problem that had arisen in
the class. Extracting from responses to a story or poem read by the class in
kokugo lessons was common. By this means teachers sought to make children
better aware of what their fellow class members were thinking and feeling,
and so increase companionship and mutual understanding within the class.
None of the sixth year teachers at Nakamachi or Morikawa were making
ichimai bunshū during my main fieldwork in 1995–95, but two teachers at
Morikawa were doing so during my pilot fieldwork.18
Classes also worked together for school events. At Nakamachi, such events
included a school concert (ongakkai), a sports day (undōkai), a ‘stamina run’
athletic meet ( jikyūsō-daikai), and several events to do with the sixth years’
graduation; the Send-off for the Sixth Years (rokunensei o okuru kai), the
graduation show (sotsugyō happyōkai), which was a revue staged by the sixth
years for their parents, and the graduation ceremony (sotsugyōshiki) itself
(discussed in Chapter 6). All except the graduation show (a Nakamachi spe-
ciality) seemed to be events common throughout the city’s primary schools.
Music and song in the making of the class group

Class singing was one important means used by Nakamachi sixth year
teachers, and by Yoshioka-sensei in particular, to strengthen the sense of

unity and common endeavour appropriate to nakama. Class singing was an
entirely separate activity from music lessons, which concentrated (at least in
theory) on teaching pupils musical skills and appreciation. In contrast, class
singing was focused on the effort and feeling that the children put into the
singing. Yoshioka-sensei told me that while teachers used songs in different
ways, for her, songs were a form of class management: ‘With songs one
creates a class’. When singing, all the children were equal (byōdo); songs were
‘something good they have in common’. They were also ‘important for creat-
ing the class atmosphere’. You could tell how the children were feeling from
the way they sang, Yoshioka-sensei said. In the fifth year, when the group was
fragmented (nakama ga butsu-butsu datta), there was no heart (kokoro) in
their singing, but now, they sang with feeling.
Songs were therefore important for Yoshioka-sensei because she believed
that they helped to create that feeling of nakama unity that she felt desirable.
Moreover, she believed that all children had equal access to songs, in the
sense that they were all performing the same role, and could all contribute
equally, since singing ability was not important outside music lessons. As
Cummings (1980) and Tsuneyoshi (1990: 143–8) have pointed out, Japanese
primary teachers in general tend to emphasize the equality of all children,
and Yoshioka-sensei certainly preferred to think of children as equal as far as
she could. In Chapter 1, I suggested that the discourse of interdependence
can be understood in various ways. In relation to the children she taught,
Yoshioka-sensei seemed to understand it in egalitarian terms: children were
both interdependent and, ideally, equal.
In 6–3, class singing was organized by two children (one girl and one boy)
who comprised one of the kakari groups. These children chose the songs
from cassettes supplied by Yoshioka-sensei. These carried a range of songs
whose lyrics and musical demands were considered suitable for upper pri-
mary pupils. Most songs were recent compositions specifically written for
school use, and published by large music publishers. Some were popular
songs (kayōkyoku) sung by popular singers for the commercial market, such
as Matsutōya Yumi’s song, Haru yo, koi! (Come, Spring!) Others came from
films or television series.
The class usually sang once a day, during either the morning meeting or the
going-home meeting.19 The pupils would stand at the back of the classroom,
dividing themselves into high (kōon) and low (teion) parts. After one of the
two pupils in charge had led them in chord practice, the class would sing to a
tape of the song, Yoshioka-sensei interjecting the occasional comment. At
the end, the pupil in charge gave a brief assessment. The children sang
strongly, melodiously, and (I thought) with feeling. I enjoyed the singing, and
felt that it seemed to succeed in creating an atmosphere of unified feeling with
which to start or end the day.
Several ethnographers have given examples of the particular power of song
to evoke emotional reaction (Rosaldo, 1980: 33; Abu-Lughod, 1986; Kondo,
1990: 93). Songs combine two highly formalized and memorable types of
artistry, music and poetry, which perhaps explains why they are often so
successful at creating what Appadurai (1990) calls ‘communities of senti-
ment’. This makes Yoshioka-sensei’s use of songs as a means of creating a
‘community of sentiment’ within the class seem a very reasonable strategy.
Singing can be seen as a way of learning key terms and ideas which is poten-
tially very powerful because of the special power of music and poetic expres-
sion to move the singer and listener. Singing is also a further example of a
way in which verbal discourse and embodied activity are integrally joined to
create experience.
Whatever the provenance of the songs, there was remarkable consistency in
the language and the messages of the lyrics. Certain words and metaphors
recurred repeatedly, and the general tone was cheerful and upbeat. Themes
of progress through perseverance and mutual support were frequent. A good
example was a song entitled Into the Wide World (Hiroi sekai e), which was
much practised, and sung by the entire sixth year at the autumn school concert.
Its lyrics ran as follows:
ぼくらのまえには　ドアがある Before us there are doors

いろんなドアが　いつもある Always there are various doors
ドアを　大きく　あけはなそう Let’s fling the doors wide
ひろい世界へ　出ていこう Let’s go out to the wide world
ドアのむこうの　輝きを So that what shines beyond the doors
じぶんのものに　するために May belong to each of us
ドアのむこうの　輝きを So that what shines beyond the doors
みんなのものにするために May belong to everyone
ぼくら　青い実 We green fruit
ぼくら　赤い火 We red fires
雨に打たれ Beaten by the rain
風に吹かれ Blown by the wind
手と手をつなぎ Link hand with hand
心をつなぎ Link hearts
歌を　歌を　うたいながら As we sing
ぼくらのまえには　ドアがある Before us there are doors
いろんなドアが　いつもある Always there are various doors
ドアを　大きく　あけはなそう Let’s open the doors wide
ひろい世界へ　出ていこう Let’s go out to the wide world
Before the concert, Sanada-sensei used these lyrics as the text in a 6–1 kokugo
(Japanese) lesson. As preparation, he told the children to write out the lyrics
and annotate them with their thoughts about the meaning. In the lesson itself,
he first asked two children to come to the blackboard and draw the doors as
they imagined them, asked the children what they thought was on the other
side of the doors, and wrote up some focal words and phrases to think about,
as follows:
1 Doors
2 Various doors
3 Let’s open
4 Shining
5 Green fruit
Red fires
He then asked the children for their interpretations of these words and
phrases. One boy suggested that the doors were ‘doors from which one sets
out on a journey’ (tabidachi no doa), adding, ‘you overcome hardships (tsurai
koto o norikoete) and open them’. This interpretation was taken up by other
children, and Sanada-sensei wrote on the blackboard, ‘endure hard things;
if we overcome them, we can open the door’. In response to his question
about the meaning of the ‘various doors’, the children suggested ‘suffering’
(kurushimi no doa), ‘sadness’, ‘trials’ (shiren no doa), ‘failures’ (shippai),
‘embarrassment’, and others. Sanada-sensei’s next question was how one
should respond to these things, to which the children offered answers such as
‘overcome failures’. ‘What doors do you have in front of you?’ asked Sanada-
sensei next. ‘A new [sports] record’, ‘a diet’, ‘study’, ‘homework’, ‘employ-
ment’, offered various children. The class then moved on to the second verse:
So that what shines beyond the doors

May belong to each of us
So that what shines beyond the doors
May belong to everyone
The children interpreted these lines as expressing the importance of helping

one another. ‘It ’s a matter of “just by yourself is no good” ’ ( jibun dake de
dame desu yo, to iu koto ne), agreed Sanada-sensei, writing on the blackboard,
‘take everyone with you, not just yourself ’ ( jibun dake de naku minna o tsurete
iku). Finally, he asked the class what the future closest to them was. ‘Gradu-
ation’, said the class. ‘That’s right’, agreed Sanada-sensei, ‘it’s life at junior
high; we can call graduation the door.’ He told them to write about this in
their reflections ( furikaeri) on the session,20 and brought the lesson to an end.
Clearly, singing and analysing lyrics like this is one way in which children
learn key terms and ideas within their culture. This learning process is com-
plex. In this case, the interpretation of the lyrics that emerged came from the
children themselves, yet with guidance from the teacher. It was the children
who interpreted the lyrics in terms of what might be called a combination of
interdependence and seishin discourses – mutual support and perseverance
through hardship. Yet the interpretations that emerged in class were not the
whole story. Sanada-sensei told me that the children’s annotations had con-
tained various interpretations of the lyrics, but that he had deliberately

picked up those that mentioned hardship (kurō), because he wanted to make
them think about this subject. Even so, unobtrusive teacher guidance does
not explain why children came up with such interpretations to begin with, not
why the rest of the class was so willing to accept and develop this line of
thought. It is likely that Sanada-sensei was amplifying understandings that
the children had already acquired, probably over many years. Their interpret-
ation of the doors as trials to be overcome surprised me at the time, since my
own first reaction was to interpret them as opportunities to be grasped or
potential to be realized – a fact which perhaps reflects the relative lack of
emphasis on perseverance through hardship in British socialization. In con-
trast, many writers have noted the pervasive belief in Japan that perseverance
is the master key to progress, and have drawn attention to the subtle and not-
so-subtle inculcation of this idea from an early age (Hendry, 1986; White,
1987; Holloway, 1988; Singleton, 1989; Kondo, 1990: 108–9, 235–41; Ben-Ari,
1997: 83–94). The pupils of 6–1 were therefore interpreting the lyrics in terms
they had already learned. The lesson was an occasion for the renewed affirm-
ation of the terms’ significance in a new context, so that their range was
extended.
Other songs also dwelt on the themes of mutual support and endeavour in
the context of a journey into a hopeful future. Let’s Search for Tomorrow
urged, ‘let’s set off on the journey all together’ (minna de tabidatō), ‘swelling
our wonderful hopes and dreams’ (kibō to yume). Other songs addressed an
unidentified person whom the speaker hopes to meet in the future; whether
this person was someone they already knew or not was unclear. In any case,
the emphasis was on connections with supportive others. The lyrics of It’s
You Who Walk the Path (Michi o aruku no wa kimi), for example, began thus:
道を歩くのは君 It’s you who walk the path

山にのぼるのも君　　　 It’s you who climb the mountain
そしていつの日かめぐりあえる希望 And one day – when will it be? –
I hope we’ll be able to meet
生きることはすばらしいことさ To live is wonderful
友だちがいるなら　力を合わせて If friends are with you
Putting our strength together
道を歩き　山にのぼれ Walk the path and climb the
mountain!
Later in the song, the lyrics urged:
かたをだきしめて With our arms round each other’s shoulders

なみだを流せ Let’s allow the tears to flow
ほほえみかえそう Let’s return smiles for smiles
Just as the lyrics of Into the Wide World stated that the singers not only linked
their hands but also their hearts, so It’s You Who Walk the Path, with its
emphasis on friendship, mutual support, and shared feelings, invited applica-

tion of its lyrics to the children themselves, reinforcing the idea that the class
should be a true nakama. Further, it seemed to suggest that there might be
numberless other potential friends and sources of support waiting to be met –
the as yet unknown and nameless ‘you’ who is ‘walking the path’ and ‘climb-
ing the mountain’ (of life?) and whom the singers hope to meet one day. In
this sense, the song expressed the common Japanese notion that the world is
full of ‘mutual support networks’ of living beings (Morioka, 1991: 90), and
helped to educate the children into this idea, in a similar way to the poems to
be examined in the next chapter.
Some pupils wrote about class singing in their compositions for the gradu-
ation album. One girl from a previous class taught by Yoshioka-sensei wrote
a composition entitled ‘Songs and the Class’ (uta to kurasu) for the 1994
graduation album, as follows:
Until now, I thought that ‘all you have to do with a song is sing it’.
But as we took singing seriously (shinken ni) in the fifth and sixth years, I
learned that what matters is putting your heart into singing what you
want to convey through that song (sono uta de tsutaetai koto o kokoro o
komete utau).
I think that we have all been singing not just because we all like songs, but
in order to widen the circle of the class and the circle of friends, to
combine everyone’s power together, and to rise and come together in a
joint project.
The first song [we sang in the local concert] was Into the Wide World. No
matter how big the door, [I/we] will cut it open.21
The second song was Valley of Butterflies. No matter what painful things
there might be, no matter what sad things there might be, like the butter-
flies that endure (taeru), [I/we] will become strong.
Filled with that confidence, I will surely never forget these companions
(nakamatachi). . . .
Together with those songs we’ve been singing. . . .
As mentioned previously, when reading compositions for the graduation

album, one should remember the implicit expectations guiding writers. Yet
it would also be unwise to see such compositions as doing no more than
paying lip-service to school ideals. This composition certainly gives the
impression that the girl was indeed moved by the songs the class sang,
and felt them to have had an effect both upon her and upon the class as a
whole.
Interdependence beyond the class group: mixed-age activities

As noted in Chapter 1, the last two decades have seen increasing concerns in
Japan that children spend less time than they used to in mixed-age neigh-
bourhood play, and that as a result, their ability to interact socially is becom-
ing poorer. More than one parent I interviewed commented on the decline of
such neighbourhood play, remarking that when they were at primary school
between 20 and 40 years before, they used to play outside with neighbour-
hood friends until dusk. Tobin, Wu and Davidson (1989: 59–60) record simi-
lar comments from the 1980s. One father I interviewed also talked of the
disappearance of the gaki daishō, the ‘kids’ gang leader’ of such mixed-age
groups of children, recalled by one of Tsuneyoshi’s interviewees (2001: 72).
Social scientific data from the 1950s collaborates such reminiscences; a study
of the Okayama village of Niike noted that ‘fifteen-year-olds play along with
the six-year-olds and ten-year-olds’ (Beardsley, et al., 1959: 311), while the
Six Cultures study of children in the Okinawan village of Taira showed that
‘both boys and girls are allowed at an early age to roam freely throughout the
community’ (and much more than in the other societies in the study) (Whit-
ing and Edwards, 1988: 53–4). Even in the 1980s, Hendry (1986: 59–60) noted
that ‘little gangs of children of both sexes may be seen roaming about in
many parts of Japan from quite an early age’; yet she also noted laments
about the decline of neighbourhood play. Any such decline probably has
multiple causes, including the spread of all sorts of organized lessons and
activities, from swimming, baseball and ballet to calligraphy, piano and Eng-
lish; the popularity of indoor activities such as television and computer
games; the increasing unfriendliness of the environment to children’s play,
as open spaces disappear and traffic intensifies; and a gradually increasing
concern for safety and cleanliness among parents.
Just as Japanese preschools have seen themselves as obliged to take over the
role of socializer of small children (Tobin, et al., 1989: 58–61), so I was told
by teachers that many primary schools have begun to organize mixed-age
activities within school, to compensate for the supposed lack of such activ-
ities in contemporary neighbourhoods. Evidence from teachers suggested
that these activities were a relatively recent innovation in local primary
schools. Two younger teachers who had grown up in the prefecture both said
that there had been no such activities in their own primary school days,
during the 1970s and early 1980s, one adding that he had grown up in a small
village where you had to form mixed-age groups in order to have enough
children to play games like baseball. The generic term for mixed-aged activ-
ities seemed to be tatewari katsudō (literally, activities for which children are
grouped by vertical divisions – instead of ‘horizontally’ by age, as are classes).
Teachers at the two schools explained that their purpose was to encourage
friendly interaction (kōryū) between children of different ages, and to enable
children to learn to behave appropriately towards older or younger children.
The activities seemed to be particularly for the benefit of the older children,
who were expected to fulfil the roles of ‘big brothers and sisters’, thinking and
taking care of the younger children, especially the first and second years.
Fifth and sixth years were expected to act as leaders (lı̄dārashiku) in planning
and organizing activities.
Tatewari katsudō activities took place every week at Nakamachi, less fre-
quently at Morikawa. At Nakamachi, the increase in frequency only dated
from the 1995–96 school year. According to Sanada-sensei, the increase had
resulted from the children’s participation in volunteer assistance to help the
victims of the disastrous earthquake that struck the Kobe region in January
1995. Their experiences had given them the desire to do more such volunteer-
type activities, and one of the ways of translating this into a school context
was by increasing the frequency of mixed-age activities, which involved car-
ing for younger children. Despite the difference in frequency, the content of
the activities was similar at both schools, and at both, they normally took
place during the half-hour mid-morning break. The children would spend
some sessions planning fun and games, which were then enjoyed in later
sessions – usually popular games such as tig (onigokko), dodgeball, or vari-
ations of fruit basket. Once a year, there was a longer session, lasting over an
hour, which allowed more ambitious activities, most commonly a ‘walk rally’
(uōku-rarı̄) during which younger group members would walk around a series
of checkpoints in or near the school, at each checkpoint carrying out a fun
activity prepared by the older children.
These mixed-age group activities seemed quite successful in achieving their
objectives. Many of the older children were thoughtful about planning and
leading activities that would be fun for all ages, and took care to look after
the smaller children. Nakamachi teachers were pleased at the way children
learned to plan and cooperate responsibly through the activities. There seems
little doubt that there are significant differences between neighbourhood play,
which generally seems to have taken place with little or no adult supervision,
and mixed-age activities in school under the watchful eye of teachers. It may
therefore be doubtful whether such school-based activities can really com-
pensate fully for whatever social skills may be lost through the decline of
neighbourhood play. However, such activities do demonstrate once again
how committed Japanese primary teachers are to developing children’s abil-
ities in healthy social interaction. They also show that teachers want children
to develop a sense of interdependence that extends beyond the class group. In
particular, they underscore that healthy social and personal development
is still considered in Japan to be integrally bound up with the fulfilment of
age-related roles. Not only can older children learn how to be responsible,
thoughtful carers and leaders through their interaction with younger chil-
dren, but they should fulfil those roles, being older. The strength of this view is
no great surprise, of course, given its historical and continuing importance
within Japanese families (Hendry, 1986: 50–1, 56, 58–59), educational institu-
tions like school clubs (Cave, 2004), and workplaces (Dore, 1973: 254).
Developing the self-disciplined individual at Nakamachi

and Morikawa
From the above analysis of school activities, the importance of what I have
called ‘interdependence’ discourse at Nakamachi and Morikawa is clear.
Teachers wanted children to see themselves not only as isolated individuals,
but as people who were bound to others in a particular group by ties of
interdependence and obligations of mutual support. They did their best to
ensure that these ideas were learned at a profound, experiential level, not just
superficially. However, ‘interdependence’ discourse was not the only major
discourse of selfhood at Nakamachi and Morikawa. At both schools, dis-
courses of individual self-discipline and autonomy were also important, and
were incorporated into school activity.
At both Nakamachi and Morikawa, there were a number of activities
which seemed designed to foster perseverance and willpower. Most notable
was the ‘marathon’, an activity common to both schools. Three times a week,
ten minutes were set aside at the start of the half-hour mid-morning break for
all the children to run around a track marked out on the undōjō (the sandy
ground that did duty as playing field and playground), while energetic music
was played over the school Tannoy. This was meant both to encourage a
positive attitude to exercise and physical fitness, and to help children acquire
the habit of pushing themselves to make an effort. In this it seemed similar to
the one-off ‘marathon’ for preschool children described by Ben-Ari (1997:
93–4). There was no set pace or set number of laps to be completed on any
one day, though children did have individual cards on which they could mark
their progress towards a final total (starting a fresh card if they finished the
first). It was accepted that children ran at different paces; the point was in the
effort made. No overt competition was involved, although one can imagine
that in practice, children might well compete informally with their friends.
However, teachers encouraged children to push themselves rather than to
compete with others. While the ‘marathon’ was an activity focused on indi-
viduals and their personal effort and self-discipline, it was neither a solitary
nor a voluntary activity. Rather, it was compulsory, and it was carried out
together with the entire school, thus fulfilling the secondary function of
strengthening school consciousness. Most children ran in a group with friends,
racing one another or just keeping one another company.
Writers such as Rohlen (1986) and Kondo (1990: 100–3) have written
of the use of long-distance runs or walks to train participants in company
training programmes in perseverance and endurance. As Kondo points out,
such runs test the individual will, although considerable psychological sup-
port and motivation are provided by the presence of running companions.
Kondo also acknowledges that such exercises can be effective in convincing
participants that they have the power to persevere and accomplish things;
indeed, both she and Rohlen confess that they themselves were personally
affected by their experiences, despite a simultaneous and determined ana-
lytical detachment from them.
The ‘marathon’ at Nakamachi and Morikawa seemed intended to teach

similar lessons, although in contrast to the experiences of Rohlen and Kondo,
there was little or no pain involved, only some puffing and panting. While the
role of individual effort was emphasized, children were not forced to forego
the support of others. Having the whole school run together was practically
convenient from the point of view of organization, but also sent the message
that it was quite acceptable and even normal for individual will to be sup-
ported by the comradeship of others.
Other practices also encouraged individual perseverance and self-discipline.
It was common for pupils in the upper years at both schools to have a
exercise book in which they could do work of their own choice as homework.
In Yoshioka-sensei’s class, 6–3, this book was called a jishu gakushū nōto
(voluntary study notebook); in class 6–1 at Morikawa, observed during my
pilot research, it was called a ganbari nōto (trying-your-best notebook). In
practice, there seemed to be an understanding that pupils were expected to do
at least some work in these books, and sometimes there were incentives to
spur them on; in 6–1 at Morikawa in 1994, for example, pupils who had
completed an entire book would receive a certificate, while the total number
of pages done by all the members in each seikatsu-han would also be totalled
and added to points gained for various other approved practices (such as not
forgetting to bring anything to school) to see which han gained the most
points in a week. Not all teachers who used such notebooks had devised such
incentive systems, however; in 6–3 at Nakamachi, for example, the number of
pages pupils completed was at their own discretion.
At Nakamachi, periodic days were also designated as ‘days for self-
discipline’ (jibun o kitaeru hi) for children in the lower years. On such days, the
younger children would decide on a personal goal (mokuhyō) for the day, a
goal which boiled down to ‘try your best at something’ (nanika o ganbaru), as
a friend’s young daughter, in the second year at the school, succinctly put it.
This practice was specific to Nakamachi; I was told that it was inspired by the
similar practice of a famous figure of the Tokugawa period (1603–1868) who
had lived locally.
Self-discipline and the values of the seishin tradition were communicated
not only through activities but also through texts. One example that I encoun-
tered several times in primary schools was that of one of the most famous of
modern Japanese poems, Miyazawa Kenji’s Ame nimo makezu (Neither Yield-
ing to Rain):
neither yielding to rain
nor yielding to wind
yielding neither to
snow nor to summer heat
with a stout body
like that
without greed
never getting angry
always smiling quiet-

ly
eating one and a half pints of brown rice
and bean paste and a bit of
vegetables a day
in everything
not taking oneself
into account
looking listening understanding well
and not forgetting
living in the shadow of pine trees in a field
in a small
hut thatched with miscanthus
if in the east there’s a
sick child
going and nursing
him
if in the west there’s a tired mother
going and carrying
for her
bundles of rice
if in the south
there’s someone
dying
going
and saying
you don’t have to be afraid
if in the north
there’s a quarrel
or a lawsuit
saying it’s not worth it
stop it
in a drought
shedding tears
in a cold summer
pacing back and forth lost
called
a good-for-nothing
by everyone
neither praised
nor thought a pain
someone
like that
is what I want
to be
(Miyazawa, 1989: 215–16)22
Usually referred to by his first name, perhaps an indication of the feeling for
him in Japan, Kenji is the author not only of poems but of children’s stories,
which are part of the canon of modern adult literature as well. A number of
his stories are included in kokugo (Japanese) textbooks, including Yukiwatari
(Crossing the Snow) and Yamanashi (Mountain Pear). His self-sacrificing life,
love for his sister, and early death are as famous as his works, and, as with
authors such as Keats, Wilde, or Wilfred Owen, knowledge of the life adds to
the power of the works. Significantly, Ame nimo makezu was one of two
poems given to the sixth years at Morikawa as the final exercise in their
calligraphy lessons, to be written out as beautifully as possible on specially
marbled paper and perhaps kept as a memento of primary school.23 The vice-
principal, who taught the sixth years calligraphy, clearly felt that it was a text
that deserved especially memorable treatment. The poem was also performed
as a choral recitation (rōdoku) by class 6–2 at Nakamachi in the graduation
show, in which each sixth year class did various dramatic and musical per-
formances for their assembled parents. According to class teacher Fujitani-
sensei, the poem was the class’s own choice, suggesting that it had made a
significant impression upon them.
Developing moral autonomy

Willpower and self-discipline were not the only aspects of the individual that
teachers wished to see develop, however. They also wanted their pupils to
think for themselves and to be able to act independently of others – in other
words, to develop moral autonomy. Teachers particularly expressed their
desire that children develop moral autonomy in terms of their fear of its
opposite – that children would just be swept along (nagasareru) by others.
This concern was frequently expressed by Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei
at Nakamachi, and I also heard it from other teachers. Murata-sensei, a
Nakamachi teacher in her early forties, told me that she was happy with
children who became absorbed in tackling activities they themselves wanted
to do (muchū ni natte torikumu). Such children ‘made a self ’ ( jibun o tsukuru)
for themselves. In contrast, she worried about children who ‘drifted along’
( fuwa-fuwa-fuwa to nagasareru ko), without showing much will of their own.
It was important when children got to the upper primary years and then
junior high school that they had a goal (mokuhyō), that they could ask ‘why?’,
that they stopped to think (tachidomaru). A similar point of view was
expressed by Morikawa sixth year class teacher Ariyama-sensei during my
pilot research. She stressed the importance to self-formation of having a goal
that one had decided on for oneself:
You have your original self (saisho no jibun), and then after a certain period
and certain experiences, you have your later self (ato no jibun). . . . There’s
a part of you which is changing, and I think it’s a question of that change
being the kind where you think, I’ll do this, and then giving your attention
to it, or where you think, I’d like to become like that, and then acting
accordingly – not change where you’re swept along or just influenced by
others (nagasarete kawatta toka, hito no eikyō bakka o ukete kawatta toka).
Developing moral autonomy was not seen as in conflict with an emphasis

on cooperation and solidarity within the class group. Rather, the two were
perceived as complementary. Such a perception was apparent in Yoshioka-
sensei’s account of the development of 6–3 during the 18 months the class
had been together before I started observations. According to her account,
the ten girls in the class had been forming cliques amongst themselves.
Teachers said that such forming of deliberately exclusive cliques was common
among girls in the upper primary years (and in junior high), and it caused
them great concern, since forming such cliques went against the inclusive
spirit of class unity that they wanted to foster. In the case of 6–3, the ten girls
split completely into two cliques. Yoshioka-sensei told me that she tackled the
problem in the second and third (autumn and winter) terms of the fifth year,
making the whole class discuss the problem, as it involved all of the girls in
the class. In the class discussion, children said clearly who and what had hurt
them. For the girls, Yoshioka-sensei said, it had been very painful. She
believed it was the first time they had realized that somebody had been hurt
by what they had said or done, and some had cried. She had had them think
about what had happened over the winter vacation – a good time, in her view,
because children spend time with their families, and are usually separated
from their friends for a while. Then at the start of the sixth year in April she
had formed new seikatsu-han, choosing the members herself, and putting two
girls together in each han, one from each of the two cliques. As a result, each
set of two girls had to talk together and be together continually, whether
doing class work, eating lunch, or planning for the two-day school trip to the
historical sites of Nara and Ise on which children again carried out their
activities in han. Through this, the girls discovered that they actually got on
well. They were finally and decisively pulled together, she thought, by the
experience of making human pyramids for the sports day. By the time that
I began observing the class in the second term of the sixth year, she believed
that problems among the girls had disappeared and they had become a genuine
nakama – but it had taken 18 months.
For Yoshioka-sensei, this whole process was part of developing the chil-
dren’s ability to think. She wanted them to think about what friends they
wanted, how they should choose friends, and what it meant to be friends,
rather than simply acting according to their feelings – their likes and dislikes.
Yet in working towards this aim of trying to develop individual moral auton-
omy, Yoshioka-sensei did not resort primarily to individual counselling of
pupils or appeals to their individual moral sense. Rather, she employed activ-
ities such as class meetings, small-group activities, and school events as a
crucial part of the process. When I asked her whether individual counselling
would not have been better, she answered that she didn’t think its impact
would have been deep enough. Her point, I believe, was that since these were
problems of human relationship, the most effective educative process was one
that confronted pupils with one another and with one another’s feelings.
Moreover, this had to be done within the context of the class as a whole
(hence the need for class meetings), because the class was not only a set of
individuals, but a group whose members shared a mutual responsibility for
one another. Developing individuals’ moral autonomy and developing con-
sciousness of mutual responsibility were complementary, since children who
could not think and act independently were unlikely to be able to form a
cohesive class. Rather, they were likely to drift with their feelings and be too
much influenced by others. Making cliques with some children, they would
exclude others.
In this context, it is important to note teachers’ common use of the
verbs matomaru and katamaru to contrast desirable and undesirable group
behaviour. Katamaru means to make a hard lump, and was often used by
teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa to refer to children’s forming of
cliques which excluded other class members – highly undesirable behaviour.
Yoshioka-sensei explained that she did not let close friends become members
of the same seikatsu-han, because it would result in their sticking closely
together (katamatte shimau), and they wouldn’t be able to grow (nobite
ikenai) through finding out what was good about other children. The children
too agreed with this approach, she said. Matomaru, on the other hand, means
to be coherent, collected, in order, or united. Unlike katamaru, it carries no
implication that a group is exclusive or hostile to others; indeed, nothing at all
is implied about the group’s attitude to outsiders. The term refers only to the
group’s state in itself, settled, orderly, and cohesive. It is this that teachers
want in their class. The two types of behaviour are incompatible, because a
class full of exclusive cliques is not cohesive and united.
Yoshioka-sensei herself made clear that she would not necessarily use a
whole-class discussion approach for every problem. With later problems
involving some of the boys who she felt spent time exclusively with one
another, without thinking about what being friends really meant, she told me
that she had talked to the boys individually. This was partly because the
problem only involved a few boys rather than all, and partly because the boys
had already heard the discussion about the girls. She and other teachers also
emphasized to me that they had no rigid rules for dealing with situations;
they dealt with problems on their own merits, taking into account the particu-
lar child or children, and the particular class, that were involved. Teachers
used various methods, including class discussions and individual talks after
school, as they judged appropriate to a particular problem.
Individuality and ‘deviant’ behaviour

Policies favouring individuality do not spell out what exactly ‘individuality’

means in relation to primary school children, nor do they specify its limits.
This presents teachers with a dilemma about what to do when children
behave in ways of which the school or the wider society disapprove. This
question came to a head during a staff meeting at Morikawa, when teachers
were confronted with the case of a fourth year girl who had had her ears
pierced by her mother, a beautician. In addition to this specific case, the
discussion dealt more broadly with other types of body adornment, such as
dyed hair, nail-varnish, and sticking seals on fingernails. A wide range of
views were expressed, in three broad categories: teachers who felt that such
behaviour should be accepted, teachers who did not, and teachers who felt
that the more important issue was to look more deeply at the child as a
developing person, understand the situation and feelings that lay behind the
actions, and try to deal with the child at that level.
The discussion showed that teachers were clearly aware of the significance
that discourses on individuality held for the case. The head of academic
administration (kyōmu shunin) reminded the meeting of the school’s Student
Guidance Committee’s (seito shidō iinkai) view that it was important to have
children think about what ‘furthering one’s individuality’ (kosei o nobasu)
really meant. They had to remember, she went on, that if they allowed a child
to do something like pierce their ears, there was a danger that the child would
be viewed askance by other children because she stuck out in the wrong way
(uite shimau). It wasn’t a case of making children stop such personal adorn-
ment, but rather of letting them judge for themselves through a discussion
process over time. Also, one had to deal not only with the child herself, but
also with the parents, and with children around her. There was the question
of why the child was doing it – as a way of relieving unfulfilled needs, perhaps
(yokkyū fuman o kaishō suru). In some cases, it might be appropriate to
discuss it in the class group.
The argument for accepting pierced ears was put with most force and
feeling by Takamatsu-sensei, a male teacher in his mid-thirties who was also
the representative of the school chapter of the teachers’ union, as well as the
school’s head of anti-discrimination (dōwa shunin). In two quite passionate
speeches that seemed to veil suppressed anger, he argued that personal
adornment such as pierced ears or nail-varnish weren’t bad; they were one
choice the child had. In that sense, they were like not attending school
( futōkō). ‘If you say that it’s bad when people are different from you, isn’t
that a human rights issue ( jinken mondai)? I’ve come to feel that the feeling
“that person is different from me” is at the bottom of discrimination, including
buraku discrimination.’24
Few teachers seemed to want to tell the child decisively to stop piercing her
ears, either because of the qualms they themselves held, or out of a desire to
avoid confrontation. Even one of the more outspoken, who frankly said that
in terms of common sense ( jōshiki) he thought it was out of line (okashii) for
primary school children to pierce their ears, said that it was necessary to
‘teach’ (oshieru) children this, rather than ‘forcing it on them’ (oshitsukeru).

Tachibanaki-sensei, an experienced woman teacher who exuded care and
competence, emphasized that it wasn’t a question of ‘this is no good’, but a
question of ‘why?’ In her view, children didn’t act in such ways unless some-
thing was amiss – because they were lonely and didn’t see much of their
parents, perhaps. It was left to the principal and vice-principal to come down
decisively in favour of saying no to personal adornment. Called on to give the
final word once the discussion had reached an end, the principal stated flatly
that children should be given guidance (shidō) so that they stopped the per-
sonal adornment. If teachers accepted pierced ears, he said, they would end
up accepting everything.
All in all, the debate seemed like a miniature version of wider debates about
individuality in Japanese society, and education in particular. It included
implicit criticism of Japanese education for its conformism, which some
blame for problems such as school non-attendance ( futōkō) and bullying
(Yoneyama, 1999; Yoneyama and Naito, 2003), and, like Takamatsu-sensei,
link to wider issues of discrimination, such as that against the burakumin
minority. Liberal points of view among teachers tend to favour ideas of
individuality as encouraging choice, diversity, and autonomy. The debate also
included more conservative points of view, which considered that primary
school children were too young to go in for personal adornment such as
piercing ears, dying hair, or varnishing nails, and which were probably also
fearful of the consequences for the school’s discipline and public reputation
if such personal adornment were allowed. The debate was not, however, a
simple one, as an older male teacher pointed out during an after-school
gathering at a local coffee shop a week later: where was the ‘individuality’ in
wanting to go along with the latest fashion in personal adornment? Most
teachers, moreover, either refrained from voicing a view either way, or seemed
to occupy a middle position; they might not be ready to embrace the freedom
of children to pierce their ears, but nor did they think the school should just
brusquely forbid them to do so. Rather, the most important thing was for the
teacher to pay attention to the child, understand what lay behind her actions,
and help the child herself to think about what she should do and why. In the
end, the principal’s intervention ensured that personal adornment was not
legitimated as an expression of individuality at the school. Yet exactly how
teachers were to ‘guide’ the child so that she stopped the ear-piercing
remained unclear. The Morikawa situation closely resembles a case reported
by Tsuneyoshi (2001: 111), when teachers at a Tokyo primary school were
divided about what to do about a child with dyed hair. Such incidents well
demonstrate the conflicts that face teachers as they strive to deal with demands
for the development of individuality and autonomy, at the same time as
socializing children who can integrate with the rest of society.
Conclusion
As discussed in Chapter 1, writers on Japanese schooling have generally

found an emphasis upon interdependence and group cohesion, although
Cummings (1980: 177–8, 192–7) has argued that Japanese primary schooling
successfully aims to develop the individual. At Nakamachi and Morikawa,
both emphases could be seen. As I have shown, teachers at the two schools
strongly emphasized interdependence. In some cases, such as that of Yoshioka-
sensei, this was expressed in terms of the class group as nakama. This concept
implied that members of the class group should support one another and
share a special feeling of class warmth, not on a voluntaristic basis, such as
individual likings for one another, but on the basis of being members of
the same class. According to this concept, the demands made by the nakama,
as group of primary membership, went beyond general ethical demands, such
as showing kindness to others. However, even teachers who did not seem
to articulate this concept explicitly, such as Sanada-sensei, nonetheless
emphasized interdependence and mutual support.
Moreover, the experience of school was organized in such a way as to make
this understanding of the class group plausible. This was done through tech-
niques such as the organization of the class into small groups, the use of big
school events as foci for class endeavours, class meetings, class newsletters,
and class singing. Both embodied activity and the verbal discourse in terms
of which this activity was understood were crucial in creating experience
which might exercise a lasting influence on children.
However, the discourse of interdependence was not the only major dis-
course of selfhood at the two schools. The individual was also emphasized,
both through the encouragement of perseverance and individual willpower,
and through emphasis on moral autonomy. These emphases were less prom-
inent within the type of non-academic activities described in this chapter, but
they were nonetheless present.
Educational reform appeared to have had little impact upon the organiza-
tion of non-academic activities at the two schools. It might be expected,
however, that the impact of reform would be felt more strongly in the
sphere of academic activities. These are therefore examined in the next two
chapters, concentrating on the subjects of kokugo (Japanese) and mathema-
tics. In addition, academic activities are a major part of school life, and there-
fore can be expected to have important implications for the development of
understandings of selfhood.
Notes
1 There were different levels of research lesson. Some were carried out on a year
(gakunen) level: that is, the individual teacher’s lesson would be preceded and
followed by meetings of the teachers of the classes in that year, to discuss the plans
for the lesson or the lesson itself. Others were carried out on a departmental
(gakubu) level, there being three departments, comprised of teachers of first and
second year, third and fourth year, and fifth and sixth year classes respectively. In
such cases, pre- and post-lesson meetings would involve all the teachers in a
department. In these two cases, the research lessons would be open to any teacher
within the school. The most elaborate type of research lesson was open to teachers
from outside the school; these lessons were usually part of a presentation (happyō)
of the results of research which the school had been directed to carry out over a
two-year period by the City or Prefectural Boards of Education, or even by the
Ministry of Education itself. In the last-named case, a hundred or more teachers,
educators, and administrators could be expected to come from all over the country
to see the lessons and hear the rest of the presentation. I had witnessed such
an event at Morikawa in 1994. Schools nominated to do such research are called
shitei-kō.
2 That is, a shitei-kō (see previous note).
3 Teachers and other school staff may be transferred between schools before the
beginning of the new school year in April. Details of transfers are decided by the
Personnel Department in the Prefectural Board of Education. Teachers can apply
for a transfer to another school, but their wish is not necessarily granted. In short,
transfer between schools is not under teachers’ own control.
4 A plethora of such journals are published in Japan. Targeted at school teachers,
they are usually monthlies, and contain a variety of articles and lesson plans,
mostly written by practising teachers, and therefore very practical. Besides general
journals with titles such as Kyōiku gijutsu (Education Techniques), there are also
journals focused on specific year-groups, or on particular subjects, such as Jissen
kokugo kenkyū (Practical Research in Japanese) or Atarashii sansū kenkyū (Elem-
entary Mathematics Teaching Today).
5 Privately organized research groups, where a small group of individuals met regu-
larly to discuss a common interest, must be distinguished from the city-wide or
prefecture-wide research groups of which almost all teachers were members, but in
which few teachers were actively involved. In Sakura, membership of a privately
organized research group was likely to show an unusually high level of commit-
ment to professional self-development.
6 After being President of Tohoku and Kyoto Imperial Universities, Sawayanagi
founded and became principal of Seijō Primary School, a private school in Tokyo,
where he became a leader of the progressive education movement. See Nakano
(1968), Mizuuchi (1989), and Hirahara and Terasaki (1998: 126).
7 According to a television programme on the subject, Kinyō fōramu: terebi dorama
ga egaku kyōshi to kodomotachi (Friday Forum: Depictions of Teachers and Chil-
dren in Television Dramas), broadcast by the public broadcasting channel NHK-
Sōgō on 18 October 1996.
8 Kinpachi is the teacher’s given name (his surname is Sakamoto). In my own
experience in Japanese schools, it is unusual, but by no means extraordinary, for
teachers to be known informally by their given names. This usually happens
when two teachers have the same surname, or when the teacher in question has a
rather unusual given name. In Kinpachi-sensei’s case, it is also a symbol of the
warm feelings between the teacher and his class.
9 The standard form of the noun is atatakasa, but Yoshioka-sensei emphasized to
me that she meant attakasa, the more informal variant. Unfortunately, she was
unable to explain what exactly the difference was. Possibly the informality of
attakasa suggests closer (and thus ‘warmer’) relations between class members.
10 Although I have supplied the subject ‘I’ as most appropriate in English transla-
tion, neither this sentence nor the two following (where I have supplied the sub-
ject ‘we’) contain a grammatical subject in the original Japanese. As I suggested
in Chapter 1, the fact that subjects are often unnecessary in Japanese means
that (as here) no clear distinction is made between ‘I’ and ‘we’. I would suggest
that this helps to make consciousness of such distinctions between self and
others weaker than it would be in a language where subjects are always clearly
distinguished.
11 In human pyramids (kumi taisō), children work in teams of two, three, or more,
two children lifting a third off the ground while she strikes a pose, for example.
The importance of reliable mutual support is thus learned through physical
experience.
12 The importance of enactment is also strongly emphasized by Clifford Geertz’s
famous essay on the Balinese cockfight. Geertz argues that participation in cock-
fights is, for the Balinese, ‘a kind of sentimental education’ (1993: 449).
13 Children at Japanese schools spend about 20 minutes every day in school cleaning.
14 Kakari simply means ‘person/people responsible’. Katsudō means ‘activities’.
15 Japanese pupils stand and bow to the teacher at the beginning and end of the
lesson, at the beginning with a formulaic expression of humble request, and at the
end with an expression of thanks.
16 Similar class meetings at primary schools in other parts of Japan have been
described by Tsuneyoshi (1990: 132–7) and Lewis (1995: 111–13).
17 Most teachers I observed had all their class members write a diary (nikki) every
day. The main purpose of this practice is to allow better communication between
teacher and pupils, since, with up to 40 children in a class, teachers usually have
less time than they would like to talk with children individually, and it is particu-
larly easy for quieter children to be overlooked. Teachers hope that through the
diary they will be able to detect when a child is unhappy or having some problems.
Teachers often have children write diaries for ten minutes or so during the after-
noon going-home meeting (kaeri no kai). The topic is usually free, but occasionally
teachers may ask children to write about a particular subject.
18 Besides ichimai bunshū, which are mainly made up of extracts from pupils’ own
writings, some teachers make gakkyū tsūshin, which are class newsletters mainly
written by the teacher and directed primarily at parents of class members, to keep
them up to date about recent and forthcoming class events. See Nagata (1996).
19 The morning and going-home meetings were held at the start and end of each day
respectively, and lasted for fifteen minutes each. Such meetings are standard prac-
tice in Japanese primary school (Lewis, 1995: 104–5; Tsuneyoshi, 2001: 21, 31–2).
20 Both Sanada-sensei and Yoshioka-sensei sometimes had their pupils write reflec-
tions on the lesson immediately afterwards. Pupils assessed how well they had
understood and how satisfied they were with their own performance during the
lesson. The teacher would read the reflections and sometimes respond with a
written comment.
21 As with the previous graduation album composition, the sentences where I have
inserted the subject [I/we] have no grammatical subject in the original Japanese. In
this case, it does not seem possible to make clear decision about which first person
subject is most appropriate.
22 In the collection of Miyazawa’s poems translated by Hiroaki Sato, from which this
translation is taken, the poem bears the title November 3rd. The translation will
soon be re-published in a forthcoming collection (Miyazawa, 2007).
23 The other poem was Takamura Kōtarō’s Dōtei (Journey), which I also encountered
in schools several times.
24 Buraku discrimination refers to Japanese people known as burakumin, who have
faced long-standing discrimination within Japan as supposed carriers of ritual
pollution, partly based on their professions (leather-working, therefore involving
contact with dead animals), and partly as a result of stigmatization by the Tokugawa
Shogunate as an outcaste group (Neary, 1989).
3 Stories of the self
This chapter examines texts and activities in which children at Nakamachi

and Morikawa engaged during their study of kokugo (Japanese language and
literature).1 Kokugo is a key subject when considering discourses about self
and practices of personal formation in Japan’s primary schools, both because
of the curriculum time it commands, and because of the significance of its
content. Language and literacy are central to the Japanese primary curric-
ulum, as in most countries, and kokugo takes up more hours than any other
subject. Between 1992 and 2002 the curriculum in effect set 210 hours for
sixth year kokugo – 20 per cent of the 1,015 hours allocated for the entire
sixth year curriculum (Monbushō, 1989: 158).2 Moreover, ideas about self
and personal identity were often central to sixth year kokugo texts. In the
texts used at Nakamachi and Morikawa, the predominating discourses were
ones that represented individuals and their identities as intrinsically linked to
the larger worlds – social and natural – of which they were a part.
As important as texts were the activities in which children engaged during
kokugo lessons. Such activities revealed the kinds of personal development
at which teachers were aiming for their pupils. More than that, they were
practices through participation in which children acquired an embodied
understanding of what was expected of them as persons in the school
context. Through the class activities, the children could learn that both indi-
vidual work and work that helped others were valued, and they had a chance
to discover through experience what kinds of activities they themselves
enjoyed. In the kokugo lessons, Yoshioka-sensei and her colleagues at
Nakamachi attempted to balance individuality and self-direction on the one
hand with mutual help and interconnected learning on the other. They tried
to give children opportunities to think for themselves and direct their own
studies, while still ensuring that individual activities eventually connected
with and strengthened the learning of the entire class. In all, therefore, kokugo
lessons at Nakamachi gave children the message that they were interdepend-
ent beings, yet also emphazised the importance of self-directed, individual
activity. Texts and activities in kokugo were thus imbued with a range of
discourses of self, from interdependence and self-discipline to autonomy and
individuality.
Stories of the self 89
The practices of the kokugo classroom at Nakamachi can also be under-
stood as a form of dialogic inquiry, as explained by Wells (1999). Such inquiry
focuses on increasing knowledge or improving understanding through a dia-
logue between participants in what Wells calls a ‘community of inquiry’ (1999:
121–4). Wells has argued that dialogic inquiry requires open-ended tasks
and a classroom ethos that encourages the sharing of and engagement with
different perspectives (1999: 126). I shall argue that the kokugo classroom
at Nakamachi could be at least partially characterized as a community of
inquiry in which children were able to share and engage with each others’
perspectives. This was in no small part thanks to the role played by the
teacher in creating a classroom situation conducive to such inquiry.
Kokugo: the explicit and the hidden curriculum

According to Japan’s primary curriculum, kokugo is intended to develop
children’s minds, attitudes and emotions. Among the many attributes that the
sixth year curriculum aims to cultivate are thinking ability, sympathy for
others, and love and understanding of Japanese culture and traditions (Mon-
bushō 1989: 5–23). Alongside this explicit curriculum, kokugo, like other
subjects, has a ‘hidden curriculum’ – implicit messages that are conveyed by
curriculum content and the organization of study, but of which not only
pupils but also teachers may be partly or even entirely unconscious (Meighan
and Siraj-Blatchford, 2003: 65–76).
Textbooks are one important agent in the creation and mediation of the
hidden curriculum, particularly in a country such as Japan where textbooks
carry considerable authority (Rohlen, 1983: 243, 247). The hidden curriculum
embedded in Japan’s primary kokugo textbooks has been partly elucidated
by Elaine Gerbert (1993) through a sensitive comparison with readers in the
United States. Gerbert argues convincingly that leading Japanese primary
kokugo textbooks of the 1980s and early 1990s portrayed children as con-
templative, feeling, not especially active beings, who resembled one another
and were largely free from the struggles with strong desires that engaged
their American counterparts. In contrast, children in American readers were
‘depicted as highly goal-oriented individuals’ who actively assumed responsi-
bilities, intervened in the world around them, and ‘gain[ed] mastery over
themselves by facing new challenges’ (Gerbert, 1993: 158). Japanese textbooks
encouraged identification with the feelings of their characters, while American
readers adjured readers to step back and analyse character and action in their
stories. Gerbert concludes that the kokugo textbooks foster a view of self as
passive, contemplative, empathetic, sensitive to nature, and similar to others.
However, she also argues that the textbooks introduced in 1992 make limited
moves towards depicting protagonists who are less passive, and more self-
confident and creative, and points out that this is in line with the educational
reform programme and the 1989 curriculum.
Gerbert’s analysis shows how much can be learned through careful
examination of textbooks. Yet though textbooks are powerful disseminators
of discourse, and set the framework for study in the Japanese primary class-
room, they are nonetheless only one part of the entire teaching and learning
process. Teachers in the schools observed used the textbooks with some free-
dom, modifying their proposed activities according to their perceptions of
the children’s needs. Moreover, children learn selfhood not only through the
discourses they encounter in texts, but also through the classroom practices
they experience. Therefore, this chapter first examines the content of sixth
year kokugo textbooks, and then goes on to look at teaching and learning
practices in sixth year classrooms.
Self and personal identity in the sixth year kokugo textbooks

The sixth year kokugo textbooks used at Nakamachi and Morikawa con-
tained several pieces of poetry or fiction that dealt with the subject of self and
personal identity either directly or obliquely.3 Among these were three poems,
the very last texts in the sixth year textbook, which the children studied just
before graduation. The theme that united the poems was ‘life’ (inochi) – exist-
ence or being, in its most fundamental and comprehensive sense. As Morioka
has explained in his important article on this subject, the Japanese word
inochi refers to ‘the state of being alive’ as well as ‘the mysterious power or
energy that keeps creatures and humans alive’, and it can also refer to ‘eternal
life’ (Morioka, 1991: 87–8). Morioka’s surveys and interviews among con-
temporary Japanese show how pervasive within Japan is a conception of
‘life’ as flowing through the entire natural world, and maintained in each
individual thanks to the unending mutual support received from the rest of
nature (1991: 90). He points out that these understandings ultimately draw on
Buddhist and Neo-Confucian thought (1991: 87, 99, 109). Such cosmological
conceptions are an important constituent part of the discourse of the self as
interdependent.
In its notes on this unit of the textbook, the teachers’ manual described the
differing emphases of the three poems as follows:
In To Live, we gaze upon the ‘life’ (inochi) that is living now; in Yuzuriha,
we talk about the ‘life’ that parents are handing over, while Ezo Pines
relates the harsh conditions within which new ‘life’ is born.
(Mitsumura Tosho Shuppan Kabushiki Kaisha, 1992: 254)
First came Tanikawa Shuntarō’s poem, To Live (Ikiru). This powerfully

rhythmic poem represented what it meant ‘to live’ by a series of vivid
sense-images:4
生きているということ To be living
いま生きているということ To be living now
それはのどがかわくということ Is for the throat to be dry
木もれ陽がまぶしいということ To be dazzled by sunlight through
trees
ふっと或るメロデｲを思い出すこと To suddenly remember some melody
くしゃみすること To sneeze
あなたと手をつなぐこと To hold your hand
***
泣けるということ To be able to weep

笑えるということ To be able to laugh
怒れるということ To be able to be angry
自由ということ To be free
***
鳥ははばたくということ Is for birds to take flight
海はとどろくということ For the sea to roar
かたつむりははうということ For snails to glide
人は愛するということ For people to love
あなたの手のぬくみ The living warmth of your hand
いのちということ Life
(Kurihara, 1994a: 94–7)
In this extraordinary poem, living is presented as feelings and sensuous

experiences that are shared by all natural things. To live is to be able to weep,
laugh, and be angry – to feel, more than to think (thinking is not mentioned).
Humans are presented as part of nature, and just as all other natural things
spontaneously act in characteristic ways (birds flap their wings, snails crawl,
and so on), so too do humans, whose most significant actions are presented as
loving, trusting relationships with other humans, symbolized by the simple
yet profoundly meaningful act of joining hands. In this poem the individual
is hardly visible, dispersed in a general human consciousness whose com-
monality with the rest of nature is stressed. The main features that distinguish
humans in the poem are not cognitive features such as language or thought,
but instead love and relationship, expressed in elemental gestures common to
humans from the youngest infant on.5 There is not a single individual human
actor specified in the whole poem, and of the 12 grammatical subjects in the
poem’s 39 lines, only three are human at all.6 The poem culminates with the
summation, inochi to iu koto (the thing called life). This is entirely in tune with
a view of life as encompassing the entirety of nature, connoting the ‘energy or
power that keeps us alive’, and existing ‘by virtue of the surrounding mutual
support networks of inochi [i.e. living] beings’, the view that Morioka has
shown to be pervasive in Japan (Morioka, 1991: 90).
In the second and third poems that the children read, humans continued
to be seen as participants in the natural world’s cycle of life, and discourses of
mutual obligation and interdependence again predominated. The penultimate
poem, Kawai Suimei’s Yuzuriha, was about a species of evergreen bush whose
old leaves drop once the new leaves emerge (hence the Japanese name, yuzu-
riha, which translates as ‘leaf that gives up its place’).7 The poet8 addresses the
children, telling them that just as the old leaves of the yuzuriha, no matter
how large or thick, must ‘yield their lives to the new leaves’ (atarashii ha ni
inochi o yuzutte), so everything in this world will be handed over to them,
regardless of their desires in the matter:
今、お前たちは気が付かないけれど You don’t realize it now

ひとりでにいのちは延びる。 But life (inochi) goes on of its own
accord.
鳥のようにうたい、 As you are singing like birds and
花のように笑っている間に laughing like flowers
気が付いてきます。 You will come to realize.
(Kurihara, 1994a: 100–1)
As with the previous poem, the emphasis is on the children’s being part of the
natural, unstoppable cycle of life, which they cannot control but must simply
accept. They belong to the natural world as much as the yuzuriha, an idea that
is reinforced by the similes that describe them as ‘singing like birds and laugh-
ing like flowers’. The poem is also about the process whereby one generation
(parents) hands over the world to the next (children). In one class at Morikawa
where I watched this poem being taught, the teacher tried to focus attention
on how much the children owed to their parents. The lesson fell rather flat,
however, with students showing few signs of engagement. This might have
been because there was too little time to dwell on the poem, or else because
the teacher was too directive and did not focus on the children’s own inter-
pretations of the poem. In another class, the teacher eschewed such didacti-
cism and concentrated on eliciting the ideas of the children, confining her
own comments largely to a few observations at the end of the lesson. This
teacher gave the children time to write out their thoughts, and was more
successful in engaging them in thinking about the poem and its meaning.
Finally, the children read Kanzawa Toshiko’s poem, Ezo Pines (Ezomatsu).9
The poem explains how pine seeds are able to take root and grow, despite the
heavy rains and harsh winds of northern Japan, because they often alight upon
the rotting, moss-covered trunks of old pines that have fallen in strong winds.
The seeds can then thrive thanks to the shelter and nutrients that their fore-
bears’ rotting trunks provide. The poem foresees the time when these new trees
will themselves grow old and fall, as part of an endless cycle of death and birth:
夜の森。えぞまつたちは、星をあおいで立っている。
小さな種だったとき落ちた所に、立っている。
百年 ——— 二百年 ———三百年、立ち続けている。
そうして、この木たちもまた、ある日たおれる。
その上に種が落ち、新しい命が育ってゆくだろう。
年取ったものから次のものへ、命は受けつがれてゆくのだ。
この世のある限り。
Night in the forest. The Ezo pines stand gazing up at the stars.
They stand, where they fell as small seeds.
A hundred – two hundred – three hundred years, they continue to stand.
And then one day, these trees too will topple.
Upon them seeds will fall, and new life (inochi) grow up.
From those that have grown old to their successors, life is passed on.
While the world remains.
(Kurihara, 1994a: 107)
Again in this poem, humans are seen as essentially part of nature, and their
similarities with other living things are emphasized. The emphasis is on the
cycle of life, life that continues unendingly in a constant stream, even while
individuals appear and vanish. The seeds are dependent for survival and
growth on what has been provided by those that have gone before. As noted
in chapter 1, Ruth Benedict argued that the Japanese see themselves as
‘debtors to the ages’ (1974 [1946]: 98), a notion that is powerfully expressed
by this poem, with its implicit parallel between the natural and human
worlds. This parallel was pointed out by several children at Morikawa, who
compared the old falling trees to parents (oya), and connected this theme of
the parent-child link with the similar theme of Yuzuriha. While it is clear that
interdependence is the dominant way of thinking about self in all three of these
poems, it is also possible to see echoes of the discourse of seishin independ-
ence in Ezo Pines. Several Morikawa children saw this poem as being partly
about growing up as a battle through hardship (kurō shite sodatsu), in which
the seeds that survive have to overcome trials that ultimately help them grow
(seichō suru tame no shiren). This was not without foundation in the text, which
stated that weak saplings died and only strong ones survived, but it could not
be called an obvious interpretation. That the children could make this inter-
pretation suggested that they had already thoroughly absorbed discourses
about the inevitable need to overcome hardship in order to achieve personal
growth.
Identity, dedication and maturity in textbook fiction

Interdependence and the need for effort were also major themes in two stories
that appeared in the sixth year kokugo textbook. The first of these was Ishiusu
no uta (The Song of the Mortar), by the well-known female author Tsuboi
Sakae. The story is set during the hard times at the end of the Asia-Pacific
War in Japan, and the main character is a girl named Chieko. At the begin-
ning of the story, Chieko hates the dull, soporific sound the mortar makes
during grinding, and it is only very unwillingly that she helps her
grandmother in this task. However, by the end of the story she has willingly
taken her grandmother’s place, helped by her young cousin Mizue, whose
parents have been killed by the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. The story ends
like this:
‘Study, study, endure what’s hard,’ (benkyō sē, benkyō sē, tsurai koto
demo gaman shite) the mortar began to sing. On the brows of Chieko and
Mizue, sweat gathered moistly.
(Kurihara, 1994b: 68)
The message of the story is that life requires dedication and effort, and a
willingness to buckle down to quotidian yet essential tasks. By showing this
willingness, the two girls demonstrate that they have achieved maturity. The
story also associates this maturity with a willingness to take over roles and
responsibilities from the older generation (as in the poem Yuzuriha). It is
praiseworthy to show selfless dedication to the group of which one is a mem-
ber. This, the story implies, is where true heroism is to be found, and also true
satisfaction, for we are told at the outset that Chieko had once hated the song
of the mortar, but had come to love it.
In terms of the ways of thinking about selfhood discussed in the opening
chapter, the model of mature selfhood in this story is clearly derived from the
discourses of interdependence and seishin self-discipline. We should also bear
in mind Rohlen’s suggestion (Rohlen, 1986: 332) that in Japan, conformity
to roles and responsibilities is often viewed as a sign of maturity and inner
strength. Thus, Chieko’s change of attitude might be seen not as unthinking
submission to the demands of a social role, but as determined self-direction
resulting from new understanding, thus reconciling the self-discipline dis-
course of selfhood with the discourse of selfhood as autonomy (shutaisei).
Yoshioka-sensei herself strongly believed in such a combination of auton-
omous self-direction and self-discipline. She once told me that she wanted
the children to realize that ‘within things that are hard, there’s something that
sparkles’ (kibishisa no naka ni kira-kira shiteiru mono ga aru), meaning that
doing things whole-heartedly led to a sense of reward, and also to personal
growth. This philosophy was connected to her desire for the children to be
self-directed and say what they really wanted, even if that meant reacting
strongly to others. She preferred this to drifting through life without what she
called a sense of crisis (kikikan). Children in modern Japan were to be pitied
for their lack of such a sense of crisis, she thought, because as a result, few
felt impelled to make decisions about what they had to do.
The second textbook story to deal with the theme of selfhood was by the
songwriter Aku Yū, and was entitled Garasu no kobin (The Little Glass
Bottle). In this first-person story, selfhood and personal identity were more
complex and problematic matters than in the texts discussed so far. The
narrator explains that he has an empty glass bottle which he has kept ‘like a
part of my body’ since he was a sixth year at primary school (the same age as
the children reading the text). The bottle is nothing special to look at, and he
has often thought of discarding it, but has never quite been able to do so.
Occasionally he has even deliberately left it somewhere and then retrieved it.
The empty bottle used to belong to the narrator’s father, and at that time
was full of earth from Kōshien stadium, where his father had competed in the
National High School Baseball Championships – the acme of sporting glory
for Japanese youth.10 His father had been extremely proud of having played at
Kōshien and had talked about it often – too often for his son, who felt slight
resistance (hanpatsu) at those times. The father seemed almost to feel that the
earth had magical powers, even though his adult life had not been tremen-
dously successful. Finally, one day the son had an explosion of resentment
after a severe scolding by his father, and threw the earth away into the garden
– only to be overcome with horror at the thought of his father’s reaction. In
the event, however, his father didn’t get angry, but seemed almost cheerful.
Giving his son the empty bottle, he said to him, ‘You’re to fill this with some-
thing in place of my earth from Kōshien.’ The now-adult narrator ends by
saying that the bottle is still empty, and he hasn’t decided what he should put
in it.
The story had clearly been included in the textbook because it was perceived
to be appropriate for sixth year primary children. Yoshioka-sensei told me
that it was meant as material for children who were just starting to feel a sense
of separation from and resistance (hanpatsu) towards their parents. It is also
fascinating for its exploration of selfhood and personal identity. It expresses
the sense that a person’s self is unique and that he must create it himself, and
yet also the sense that one’s life is irrevocably linked with that of one’s parents,
and that one has an obligation to them to use one’s life as well as possible. All
this is suggested by the symbolism of the glass bottle. The receptacle itself
comes from the narrator’s father, with an injunction to fill it with something.
The boy is technically free to fill the bottle with anything he likes, or even to
ignore his father’s words, yet it is clear that he cannot escape a sense of obliga-
tion to fill the bottle with something that his father would see as evidence of a
life well-lived. Like The Song of the Mortar, and the songs discussed in the pre-
vious chapter, this story strongly suggests that life should be lived with dedi-
cation; dedication is what the Kōshien earth symbolizes, and the son clearly
feels the obligation to fill the bottle with a symbol of his own dedication, as
the story’s final sentence shows:
What I with pride am going to fill it with – moon rock or Antarctic

lichen, or else drops of my sweat (watashi no ase no shizuku) – I can’t yet
decide.
(Kurihara, 1994a: 69)
One girl at Nakamachi described this mission as a trial (shiren), the same
word as was used by children at Morikawa to describe the obstacles faced by
the growing saplings of Ezo Pines. This once again shows how children’s
familiarity with the discourse of seishin self-reliance led them to readily
interpret texts in its terms.
By accepting his father’s mission, the son is also implicitly accepting his
attitude to life. Though the story expresses ambivalence about the binding up
of identity with filial obligation, it seems clear that the narrator has accepted
this obligation, albeit precariously. It is probably no exaggeration to say that
the story encapsulates the conflicting feelings of many Japanese, torn between
desire for individual freedom and autonomy on the one hand, and acceptance
of obligations to others, and especially to parents, on the other. By accepting

the bottle and by continuing to keep it despite his impulses to throw it away,
the narrator embraces a view of selfhood that accepts that ties to others,
especially parents, can never be completely broken. Even as an adult, one can-
not pretend to complete independence. Even so, the transmission of identity
from the older generation to the younger is much more problematic in this
story than in The Song of the Mortar. The ambivalence of the younger gener-
ation towards the older, and its desire to be independent and autonomous, are
more clearly present. Even in the narrator’s present, there remains conflict,
and the possibility that the bottle might be discarded.
Self-direction and learning from others in the

classroom community
From the analysis above, it is clear that texts in the sixth year kokugo text-
books tended to emphasize interdependence and self-discipline over other
discourses of personal identity, despite the acute problematization of identity
in one story. Children were clearly familiar with discourses of growth through
self-discipline, and readily interpreted texts in these terms. However, child-
ren’s selfhood develops not only through exposure to textual discourses, but
also through the activities in which they participate. Kokugo at Nakamachi
and Morikawa was not just a question of the unmediated absorption of texts,
but involved an entire organized experience of learning. Some teachers’ peda-
gogical practices in kokugo placed much more stress on autonomy and indi-
viduality than did the textbooks, complicating the issue of how selfhood was
being shaped during these lessons. The way Yoshioka-sensei’s pupils studied
The Little Glass Bottle provides a good example.
The practices Yoshioka-sensei used while teaching this unit were a variation
on a well-established pattern for teaching fictional texts in primary kokugo.
Such standard patterns can be observed in kokugo classrooms, were described
in interviews by teachers, and are also evident in teachers’ action research
publications.11 The class studies a text together, and teachers normally strive
to ensure that as part of this process, children have opportunities both to
engage with the text individually and also learn from one another’s insights.
Study of The Little Glass Bottle began with a first reading of the entire story
together. The children then individually wrote short accounts of their initial
thoughts and feelings (kansōbun); what parts of the story impressed them,
what puzzled them, and what they would like to explore more deeply. This
was a standard practice, used by teachers to learn the concerns of the children
and focus their whole-class teaching accordingly.12
After the first kansōbun, children usually study the text individually, using
an approach prescribed by the teacher.13 Having followed standard practice
so far, however, Yoshioka-sensei next acted more innovatively. Rather than
instructing children on the method they should use for their individual study,
she allowed the children to spend a lesson planning how they themselves
wanted to study the text. She showed them their earlier work in kokugo to give
them ideas, allowed them 20 minutes to make plans individually, and then
had a whole-class session where she asked several children what they planned
to do and how. The next four kokugo lessons (which were spread over about a
week) were then devoted to individual work (hitori-gakushū). A few children
chose to look at the story’s language, but most decided to explore changes in
the protagonists’ feelings ( jinbutsu no kimochi no henka) during the story. The
most common method used for this was to draw a table with several columns,
in the first of which was written one paragraph of the text, in the second, an
analysis of the feelings shown by the son in that paragraph, and in the third, a
similar analysis of the father’s feelings. Some children included other columns;
one boy made a column headed ‘queries’ ( gimon), in which he wrote what
puzzled him in the text. Another method used was to pose a series of ques-
tions about the story and then try to answer them. Some children also illus-
trated their work with depictions of scenes from the story. During this stage
of the work, Yoshioka-sensei intervened hardly at all; she walked around and
looked at the children’s work with a few expressions of interest, but without
making more than a very rare suggestion. On the other hand, once or twice
she did tell the children to get up, walk around, and look at one another’s
work, partly just to see and appreciate what others were doing, and partly to
get ideas from others. In fact, the children were in the habit of doing this in
any case, as this kind of interchange (kōryū) was generally encouraged by
Yoshioka-sensei. It was not acceptable, however, for children to get up simply
to go and chat with friends, nor did they do so.
Immediately after one of these lessons, Yoshioka-sensei and I went to attend
a Research Presentation Meeting (kenkyū happyōkai) at another public pri-
mary school in Sakura. Large numbers of teachers wandered from classroom
to classroom, watching the various research lessons (kenkyū jugyō) that were
taking place. Yoshioka-sensei and I spent some time watching a fifth year
kokugo class about the story, Daizō-jı̄san to gan (Old Man Daizō and the
Geese). It looked a lively and successful lesson, employing typical practices;
the teacher asked questions about the way the characters’ feelings developed
during the story, the children enthusiastically raised their hands to give ideas,
and the teacher then wrote their comments on a large sheet of paper stuck to
the blackboard. Yoshioka-sensei agreed that it was typical; ‘it was the usual
pattern’, she said to a colleague later. But her approval of it was qualified. ‘I’ve
done that kind of lesson myself,’ she explained as we returned to Nakamachi.
Downloaded by [Universiti Pendidikan Sultan Idris] at 01:38 12 April 2013 98 Stories of the self
Figure 3.1 Painting a picture to illustrate a story from the kokugo textbook in 6–3 at
Nakamachi, 1996.
‘In fact, children feel at ease (anshin suru) with that kind of lesson. They know
what to do, they are happy to raise their hands and speak. Maybe that kind of
kokugo lesson is more fun. But I don’t think that is the ultimate purpose.
What I want to do is to have the children develop the power of choosing their
own way of studying, judging for themselves what they want to do and how.
That’s what I’m trying to do in the present unit, with The Little Glass Bottle.
But it’s difficult! There are quite a lot of children who prefer to be told what
to do, and don’t enjoy having to decide for themselves, or who just decide to
do what their friend is doing. In a sense my class is unfortunate in having
started school before the current [1989] curriculum came in and the way of
teaching changed. The new emphasis on having children choose, nurturing
their ability to do things themselves, came in then; before that, it was just a
question of pouring knowledge in (oshiekomi).’
A few days later, 6–3’s first whole-class lesson on The Little Glass Bottle
took place. Yoshioka-sensei had the children move their desks closer to the
front and centre of the classroom, so that everyone was physically very close
to one another, with almost no space between the desks. (She told me later
that the purpose of this was to bring the experience of whole-class discussion
closer to that of ordinary conversation, thus encouraging children to speak
out and share their thoughts.) She started the discussion herself by posing
some simple but fundamental questions about the first section of the story.
Compare how ordinary people see the bottle, and how the narrator sees it.
What points are the same? What points are different? From this, the lesson
developed into a discussion of the meaning of the bottle for the narrator. While
Yoshioka-sensei gave no opinion of her own, she exercised some control over
the discussion by choosing those who were to speak and by asking questions
to develop the discussion at various points; for example, ‘If the bottle is so
important to the narrator, why has he often tried to throw it away and then
gone back to get it?’ However, the discussion also developed in response to
ideas introduced by children, including the idea, mentioned above, that there
was a trial (shiren) connected with the bottle. Finally, Yoshioka-sensei asked
the class what they wanted to make the centre of attention for the next lesson,
when they would look at the second part of the story. Six children made (very
similar) suggestions, focusing on the differences between how the father and
son saw the earth in the bottle. After a brief discussion, one boy dictated the
heading for the next lesson: ‘Differences and similarities between the son’s
and father’s perceptions of the earth’. Yoshioka-sensei wrote this on a large
sheet of paper.
The next lesson therefore concentrated on the father’s and son’s different
views of the earth in the bottle. As in the previous lesson, the children raised
their hands and gave their ideas. Yoshioka-sensei wrote their ideas up on the
sheet of paper on the blackboard, and then after twenty minutes she asked
two key questions. What is the son resisting? (Nani ni hanpatsu shiteiru?) Why
is he resisting? This spurred the children to further thought and discussion
which occupied the rest of the lesson. Two further lessons along similar lines
concluded the class’s study of the text.
Figure 3.2 Whole-class session on The Little Glass Bottle in 6–3 at Nakamachi, 1995.
How did Yoshioka-sensei’s approach differ from that of the research lesson
at the other school? Both were based on a pattern whereby children spent sev-
eral lessons working individually, followed by one or more lessons of teacher-
moderated class discussion. The difference lay in Yoshioka-sensei’s desire to
give the children more autonomy than usual, first in deciding how to study
the text as individuals, and then in determining the focus of discussion in the
whole-class lessons.14 She exercised little overt control over class discussion,
responding to the children’s ideas with expressions of interest or requests
for clarification, but almost never disagreeing and rarely even asking a ques-
tion.15 Rather, she exercised a broad control by more subtle means – by some-
times calling on children from whom she anticipated particularly perceptive
remarks, and by herself asking a very searching question perhaps once in the
lesson, a question which would direct the discussion towards an issue she
regarded as fundamental to understanding the text.
Yoshioka-sensei saw whole-class in-depth discussion as very important, not
only for the cognitive development of individuals, but also for the social and
emotional development of the class as a group. In terms of cognitive develop-
ment, she believed that listening to others’ opinions was very useful for chil-
dren whose understanding of the text up to that point had been insufficient
(yometeinai ko). Like other teachers I encountered, she considered that chil-
dren often found it easier to understand the explanations of their peers than
those of the teacher. Thus, intensive whole-class discussion of a text allowed
slower children to learn from the insights of the more able; they were not left
to do their best on their own. Yoshioka-sensei was representative of other
primary teachers I met in making it a primary goal to have all her pupils
achieve acceptable and roughly equal academic progress, and in seeing such
whole-class discussion lessons as an essential tool to this end.
Besides being a key instrument of cognitive development, these kokugo dis-
cussions were also vital for Yoshioka-sensei’s approach to class management
(gakkyū keiei). She explained that kokugo helped the teacher to ‘form the class
group’ because it enabled the development of the children’s mental and emo-
tional selves (kokoro o sodateru) as they expressed their thoughts and feelings
( jibun no omoi o shaberu). Her ultimate aim, she said, was a class that could
talk to one another about what they thought and felt (katariaeru kurasu). Since
kokugo was so concerned with deepening understanding of thoughts and
feelings, she saw it not just as an academic subject, but as a locus for emo-
tional growth. It was one means of creating a class whose members were sensi-
tive, open, and trusting of one another. Whole-class discussion was essential
for this end.
In its focus on increasing understanding through constructive discussion,
and its emphasis on the need to create a classroom community, Yoshioka-
sensei’s class displayed features of the kind of group that Wells has described
as a ‘community of inquiry’ (Wells, 1999: 121–4). Kokugo lessons were not
didactic or teacher-dominated. Rather, the teacher took on the role of a
facilitator, who structured the lessons in the way she felt would best promote
inquiry, and then responded to the children’s initiatives when necessary, in
order to guide discussion into deeper and more productive directions (Wells,
1999: 300, 308). One structuring move was the practice of having children
write an initial kansōbun, which allowed them to initiate dialogue about the
story. Another structuring move was the ‘practice of recording ideas that
emerged in whole-class discussion on large sheets of chart paper’, which, as
Wells writes of the same technique in a Canadian primary classroom, ‘helped
the children to focus on what was happening’ and ‘provided a collective record
of [the class’s] emerging understanding’ (1999: 309). Yoshioka-sensei’s inter-

ventions were also facilitative rather than didactic. She made relatively few
interventions in the whole-class discussions, mostly confining herself to the
role of moderator and recorder, and allowing the children to speak at enough
length to explain and justify their views, in a way similar to that advocated by
Mercer (1995: 28) and Wells (1999: 156–7). On the relatively rare occasions
when she did pose a question, it was an open-ended and challenging one to
which there was no clear answer – a question designed to stimulate the chil-
dren to a deeper level of thought and engagement. In this way, the teacher’s
interventions worked to focus the children’s activity without dominating or
directing them, thus ‘scaffolding’ the children’s progress to a higher level of
understanding (Wood, 1998: 99–100; Wells, 1999: 127, 222) – what Mercer
describes as ‘doing the job [teachers] are expected to do, of guiding the con-
struction of knowledge’ (Mercer, 1995: 114). In Vygotskian terms, Yoshioka-
sensei was helping the children move forward within the ‘zone of proximal
development’, defined as what they would be capable of alone, and what they
can become capable of with appropriate guidance (Wells, 1999: 313).
As Wells has noted, however, the creation of a ‘community of inquiry’
involves more than merely the implementation of a set of teaching techniques,
or even the adoption of an open, inquiring stance towards experience and
ideas. It requires the kind of interpersonal relations that can only flourish in
an ethos where children are encouraged ‘to engage with and share the per-
spectives of others in order to understand them’ (Wells, 1999: 126). Wells
argues that ‘interaction in the [zone of proximal development] necessarily
involves all facets of the personality’, and in this sense, the zone of proximal
development is ‘a site of identity formation’ (1999: 327). Children are learning
to become collaborative inquirers, at least to some extent, or they are learning
to become something different. We can therefore see that Yoshioka-sensei’s
emphasis on the class as nakama and her approach to kokugo teaching were
intimately interlinked. The creation of the classroom community helped to
create the sense of safety within which children would be willing to speak out;
and as they did so, sharing their ideas and feelings, the sense of trust and
mutual understanding was further deepened, in a virtuous circle. Academic
lessons were thus not a separate issue to that of the class as a community, but,
as Sanada-sensei also told me, an integral means for the creation of that
community.
Other teachers at Nakamachi were also trying to increase children’s
autonomy in kokugo, with varying success. One fifth year teacher, Fukushima-
sensei, gave a research lesson about the story Old Man Daizō and the Geese,
explaining at a research meeting with fifth and sixth year teachers before the
lesson that she wanted to get away from ‘the old kokugo’ (mukashi no kokugo).
According to Fukushima-sensei, this involved children studying themes
decided by the teacher, whereas in ‘new kokugo’, the children’s studies were
determined by their own interests.16 Accordingly, she allowed the children in
her class to choose their own themes for study, with those who had chosen the
same subject sitting in small groups which alternated between individual

work and group discussion. After finishing the unit, however, Fukushima-
sensei admitted to regaining some respect for ‘the old kokugo’. She felt that
the children’s self-chosen study themes had been of a disappointingly low
level, and reflected that though the older approach might not be so good
for encouraging independent study, it was effective for deepening children’s
understanding. Fukushima-sensei’s experience indicates the difficulties that
teachers may encounter in their attempts to implement educational reform
and increase learner autonomy. Conflicts may arise between goals (such as
autonomy and increased understanding) that are not only educational ideals
but also aims written into the curriculum. Such conflicts can only be resolved
through ongoing development of the practices of inquiry within schools. It
is also possible that instead of a resolution, one aim will be abandoned or
de-emphasized.
Both Yoshioka-sensei and Fukushima-sensei modified their teaching prac-
tices in order to increase the children’s autonomy. In both cases, the catalyst
for their innovations was the imperative to encourage independent learning,
in line with the 1989 curricular reforms and the ongoing educational reform
programme. The results were varied, and seemed to satisfy Yoshioka-sensei
more than Fukushima-sensei. Yet the increased emphasis on the children’s
individual learning autonomy did not radically change established practices
of teaching and learning in kokugo, partly because these already incorporated
considerable scope for individual interpretation of texts. Pedagogical practice
continued to involve the whole class studying the same text or texts17 together,
with individually-oriented lessons being followed by whole-class lessons in
which the texts were discussed by all. In short, Nakamachi teachers were not
abandoning the discourse of interdependence, but modifying their practices to
allow more emphasis upon autonomy and individual difference. Their prac-
tices continued to be based on the view that interdependence in learning and
life was fundamental for the children’s intellectual and social development.
Developing expression in the kokugo textbooks

Besides reading-based units, the sixth year kokugo textbooks contained units
intended to develop pupils’ powers of oral or written expression (hyōgen).
Many expression assignments were clearly intended to connect with school
activities, and to encourage the formation of attitudes and feelings perceived
as desirable, a feature of Japanese primary education to which Lewis (1995:
173) has drawn attention. For one assignment, pupils were told to write about
something they were doing to make school life more fun or more friendly for
everyone (minna ga nakayoku gakkō seikatsu o okureru). The example pro-
vided in the textbook was ‘Spending Time with the First Years’ (ichinensei to
no kōryū) and was easily linked to the mixed-age activities that went on at
primary schools like Nakamachi and Morikawa. Another example of the
attempt to shape feelings was provided by the final composition unit in the
textbook, entitled ‘Let’s Make a Scroll of Memories’ (omoide o ‘makimono’

ni). This suggested that pupils work in small groups to make scrolls that
would remind them of their memories of the past year at school. The text-
book example singled out certain events, such as sports day and the school
trip, as particularly worth remembering. It was notable that in this attempt to
shape what Connerton (1989) calls social memory, events that the textbook
identified as worth recalling were limited to those organized by the school
itself. The exercise thus privileged the recollection and commemoration of
shared memories, not private or idiosyncratic ones. No time or season was to
be remembered for purely private events, unconnected with the school; in the
textbook example, even the school holidays were to be remembered for vac-
ation homework! The exercise thus implied that the self was not a purely
private matter, but was formed together with others through memories of
shared moments.18
Besides units focused on group activities or shared memories, the sixth year
textbook also contained six units for individual expression activities. Almost
all of these assignments were for non-fiction compositions, with the exception
of one, for which the children were asked to write poems. The first com-
position exercise in the textbook, for example, instructed pupils to make a
daily record of ‘things in your daily life that stayed in your heart (kokoro ni
nokotta koto) or made you think’ (Kurihara, 1994b: 18). The contemplative,
impressionistic nature of this task bears out Gerbert’s analysis that kokugo
textbooks’ implicit ideal is of a contemplative rather than an analytical child
(Gerbert, 1993: 160–7). It should also be noted that the type of composition
called for is one that could be categorized as belonging to either of two long-
established Japanese literary genres, those of the nikki (diary) or zuihitsu
(miscellany), whose origin goes back to the Heian Period (794–1185).
I was surprised how few units encouraged children to write imaginative
fiction or poetry. This formed a strong contrast to my own memories of
education in British state primary schools in the 1970s. Developing this form
of imagination and the writing skills that go along with imaginative poetry or
fiction are clearly not priorities for decision-makers in the Japanese educa-
tion system. This is not necessarily a matter for criticism, for ethnographers
have clearly demonstrated that pedagogical preferences for any form of lit-
eracy (including imaginative writing) are inevitably imbued with ideological
assumptions about the kinds of writing, and the kinds of attitude to reality,
that are desirable. Moreover, these assumptions often conflict with those that
children bring to school from their families and local communities; even
approaches to writing that are intended to be liberal and liberating can fail
in their objectives because their implicit or explicit attitudes to reality are
unrecognized or rejected by children (Heath, 1983; Finders, 1997). Yet it might
nonetheless be suggested that an educational reform programme that aimed
at encouraging individuality might want to explore the possibilities that
imaginative writing may provide to this end. As Wells suggests, ‘extended
written texts are particularly suited to activities involving individual reflec-
tion’ that takes place when people are alone (Wells, 1999: 142ff.). If taught
sensitively, imaginative writing may offer at least some children the opportun-
ity to develop ways of thinking, imagining and expressing that are individual
or idiosyncratic, less constrained or at least operating under different con-
straints from those normally imposed on their acts of thinking and expression.
Debate and presentation at Nakamachi

Not all expression units in the sixth year textbooks emphasized empathy,
shared feelings, and sensitivity. One of the new features introduced in the sixth
year textbooks used from 1992 to 1996 was a unit entitled, ‘Let’s Stage a Debate
(tōronkai)’. This section was unusual in its focus on making persuasive argu-
ments. While debating has a long extra-curricular history in Japanese schools,
debating clubs in the elite Higher Schools having been formed around the
turn of the century (Roden, 1980),19 there has generally been very little
emphasis on debate or argument in the Japanese curriculum and classroom.
The introduction of the unit into the textbook was therefore in tune with the
educational reform programme’s emphasis on thinking for oneself.
The debate was the first of two expression units that Yoshioka-sensei’s
class tackled during my observations at Nakamachi. The textbook proposed
a highly formal debate structure between two groups of three, allowing each
of the six speakers three minutes to speak. Yoshioka-sensei revised this by
allowing a free debate section after the first four speeches. During this free
exchange of arguments, the children used notes they had prepared before-
hand, but even so, it demanded improvisation and gave more opportunity for
individuals to display their debating skills. This was the liveliest part of the
debate, and elicited from some children considerable argumentative powers
and ingenuity. The subject ‘Which is a better place to go to enjoy yourself, the
mountains or the sea?’ resulted in a debate whose development was summar-
ized in my notes as follows:
Mountains team (M): The sea is dirty, whereas the air in the mountains is
clean and good for the health.
Sea team (S): You can eat good things at the sea; in the mountains, you
might be injured.
M: You might drown at sea.
S: You won’t drown at sea if you follow the rules.
M: Babies might drown.
S: You don’t let babies swim in the sea; on the other hand, young children
go walking in the mountains. People rarely die at sea if they wear a
rubber ring.
M: There is less litter in the mountains, because they are notices against it.
S: There are notices at the sea too, and there are people and machines to
pick up any litter.
You can eat lots of good things at the sea.
M: In the mountains, you can camp, so you can have various experiences,
you don’t have to stay at a ryokan [a Japanese-style inn].
S: You can camp and cook for yourself around the beach too, so you can
enjoy yourself in two ways [staying in an inn, or camping].
M: That’s true of the mountains too.
In the mountains, you can eat matsudake [a gourmet mushroom].
S: You can’t get matsudake so easily; it’s not always available, and it’s
expensive.
M: The scenery in the mountains is fine, there’s so much green; it’s a feast
for the eyes and good for the health.
S: People are destroying nature in the mountains.
M: It’s better to cut down the trees than it is to make the sea dirty, because
trees are made into paper.
S: But then there’s more carbon dioxide, and it takes time for new trees to
grow.
M: One shouldn’t cut down trees, true, but it is useful to do so. Also, paper
is recycled, so tree-cutting is decreasing.
Yoshioka-sensei (interjecting): The debate seems to be going in the direction
of pollution; can we get back to enjoying ourselves?
M: In the mountains, the scenery enters into your heart, and you can
relax. It stinks of fish at the sea; in the mountains, it’s a nice smell, not
a harsh one.
Each side could ask for a time-out to hold a brief discussion about strategy.
After this free debate session, a concluding speaker on each side made a
speech. The rest of the class then voted on the winner, and Yoshioka-sensei
asked some of the listeners to give an assessment of the two teams’ efforts.
The debates encouraged analytical thinking, individual oral skills, and
independent research to find supporting evidence for arguments. At the same
time, they also encouraged teamwork and careful listening to others’ argu-
ments. As she directed the activity, Yoshioka-sensei maintained a balance
between independence and individuality on the one hand, and cooperation
and mutual responsibility on the other. Children did not work individually
but in han (the small groups they sat, worked, and did chores in), cooperating
to make an effective presentation. Moreover, Yoshioka-sensei emphasized the
role of the children listening, trying to ensure that the debates involved the
entire class, not just the two groups debating at the time. Listeners were to take
careful notes, and at the end of a debate Yoshioka-sensei asked some of them
for an assessment of the presentations. She emphasized that this was useful for
the debaters, as usual stressing that everyone in the class had a responsibility
to be helping everyone else. As she presented it, listening and commenting was
not a passive, uninvolved role, but an active and important one.
I talked to another Nakamachi teacher about how he had taught the debate
unit, and also to a teacher at the adjacent primary school, Ishida. In both
cases, the teachers had modified the textbook plan, with the Ishida teacher
combining kokugo with social studies (shakai) to stage debates about histor-
ical issues. I found this willingness to modify the textbook to be characteristic
of Japanese primary teachers. Meanwhile, one sixth year teacher at Morikawa
told me that since she couldn’t remember the unit, she suspected she may
have skipped or rushed through it (tobidashita) because of lack of time. The
variety of ways of treating the textbook suggests that schooling in Japan is not
as standardized as has sometimes been thought. Different teachers can vary
dramatically in the amount of time they spend on a unit, depending on their
personal interests and their perceptions of their needs of their particular class.
The second expression unit that I observed at Nakamachi was entitled
‘Research Presentations’ (kenkyū happyōkai), and involved children’s re-
searching a self-chosen topic and then writing a report about it. Again 6–3’s
lessons departed significantly from the textbook, which recommended that
children work in groups, suggested the use of questionnaire surveys, and
proposed uncontroversial research topics, such as ‘How people spend break-
times’, ‘Slogans around the school’, ‘Play in the past, play today’; ‘Places
of historical and cultural interest (bunka isan) around the school’, and
‘Our school’s history’. Such topics were certainly consistent with some of the
attitudes that were aims of the kokugo curriculum, especially ‘love and under-
standing of Japanese culture and traditions’ (Monbushō, 1989: 23). Under-
lying both curricular aims and textbook topics seemed to be an implicit view
that children should find out about an officially approved version of culture
and history, and there was no mention of encouraging a critical, questioning
stance. In fact, the research report given as an example by the textbook was a
model of conformity, the imaginary writers criticising their classmates for not
using breaks to prepare for the next lesson, and urging them to ‘use break
times effectively’ (yasumi jikan o yūkō ni katsuyō suru).
Yoshioka-sensei had children read out the textbook for reference (sankō),
but she also modified the unit to allow the children more individual freedom
and initiative. Children were to work individually, rather than in groups, and
Yoshioka-sensei encouraged them to think of topics that interested them, not
just the textbook examples. She also encouraged them to think more broadly
than just questionnaire surveys. She told them that graphs and tables were
good because they were easy to understand, but when asked by one girl about
pictures, she agreed that they were okay too, saying, ‘I leave that kind of thing
up to you’ ( jiyū ni shimasu).
After doing the research and writing the report, each child made a presen-
tation to the class, using tables, graphs, and pictures as appropriate. Most
reports were in fact based upon questionnaire surveys, on topics ranging from
favourite television programmes or brands of pot noodle to what people ate
for breakfast, where they would like to travel, what kind of pet they would
like, or what they would like to be reincarnated as. However, some of the most
interesting presentations were not based on questionnaires. One boy, a fishing
enthusiast, explained the relation between pollution and the decline of the
black bass, using pictures and tables to show how pollution affected insects
and micro-organisms at different levels of lakes and rivers, and thus eventu-
ally affected the fish too. One girl investigated what kinds of goods were
recycled, and which were not, and another made a presentation about hot
spring resorts (onsen) and why people went to them.
As with the debate unit, more room for individual initiative and freedom
was balanced by emphasis on the class group. Children did not simply do
their research, write their reports, and hand them in to the teacher; they made
a presentation to the whole class. Yoshioka-sensei again emphasized the role
of the listeners; the children had to make brief notes on the presentations and
assess them for clarity, interest, persuasiveness, and thoroughness of research.
The presentation of individual work to the whole class made it clear that the
work was not of concern to that individual alone. (The extensive use of ques-
tionnaires among the class also encouraged class interaction and probably led
to children learning more about one another, although I doubt this was
intended by Yoshioka-sensei.) Thus the encouragement of individual initiative
was once again reconciled with an emphasis on the whole class.
Conclusion
During kokugo lessons at Nakamachi, children encountered various dis-
courses of selfhood, together with learning practices that were important
for personal formation. The texts that they read mostly presented models of
selfhood and identity as interdependent – either with other human beings,
or even, beyond this, with all of life (inochi) and nature. However, a minority
of texts problematized these models, or else drew children’s attention to their
self-consciousness of themselves as individuals. Children certainly cannot be
assumed to have completely and unproblematically accepted the models pre-
sented in these texts. Nevertheless, the texts contributed to the ideas about
self that children were absorbing, and they also indicated what kinds of
discourses about these issues the educational authorities, in the form of text-
book writers, found of primary importance.
In comparison with texts such as stories and poems, expression assignments
provided more scope for individuality and independence, giving some encour-
agement for doing research and developing articulacy in arguments. Even
so, some assignments also placed heavy emphasis on developing a socially-
oriented and even socially shared consciousness, and others focused on
becoming an empathetically sensitive, impressionistic writer, rather than an
analytical, detached one. There was no attempt to develop children’s ability
as writers of imaginative fiction. All in all, therefore, the sixth year kokugo
textbook only made limited attempts to encourage the development of
independence, autonomy, and individuality.
In the organization of learning by the teachers studied at Nakamachi and
Morikawa, on the other hand, there was more of a balance between inter-
dependence and individuality. The standard approach to fictional texts divided
time between individual and whole-class work, so that individual insights
could be developed independently, then shared in order to deepen the under-

standing of all. Some teachers took this further by increasing children’s
autonomy to decide what and how to study. When teaching the debate and
research presentation units, Yoshioka-sensei modified them to allow not only
greater autonomy for the children but also greater interaction between them.
There was no doubt that the learning practices observed gave more
emphasis to autonomy and individuality than did the texts that children
encountered. This indicates the danger of relying too heavily upon the analysis
of school texts for understanding the relationship between education and the
development of selfhood. It also suggests that insofar as the development of
individuality and autonomy has made progress in Japanese primary schools,
this is to a significant extent due to the initiatives taken by classroom teachers
– though we should also recognize that textbooks have also made limited
moves in the same direction, as in the introduction of the debate unit. Such a
shift in emphasis is more likely to be successful when its initiation comes not
only from teachers, but also the educational authorities.
The evidence of practices at Nakamachi and Morikawa also shows how
Japanese teachers are creative initiators of educational change, although it
needs to be recognized that teachers’ power to initiate change is not limitless,
but remains constrained by institutions such as textbooks, as well as by the
degree to which the school and the broader educational climates are friendly
to innovation. It is certainly true that the mid-1990s was a period when inno-
vation was encouraged, and that Nakamachi in particular was an innovation-
friendly school. Yet there is plenty of evidence in the work of earlier researchers
on Japan’s long and impressive record of pedagogical action research (Inagaki
and Yoshimura, 1993; Inagaki, Yoshimura and Horie, 1994; Sato and Asa-
numa, 2000: 115–17; Fernandez and Yoshida, 2004) to indicate that teacher-
led innovation is by no means merely a recent phenomenon.
This analysis of the teaching of kokugo also indicates ways in which learning
in Japanese primary schools can be understood as taking place in a ‘com-
munity of inquiry’, to use terms derived from neo-Vygotskian and practice
theories of learning. This is achieved through teaching and learning practices
that focus on open-ended tasks, cast the teacher in the role of constructive
facilitator, and encourage children to share and engage with one another’s
perspectives. Also crucial to its success is a classroom ethos within which
children feel safe to share and engage in this way – the kind of ethos that
Japanese primary teachers in general aspire to create. It may well be that such
forms of learning are more prominent in Japanese primary education than
in other countries, such as England, if the research of British scholars such
as Edwards and Mercer (1987) and Galton and Williamson (1992) gives a
representative picture. Given the widespread international interest in such
approaches among educators today, this suggests that what goes on in the
kokugo lessons of Japan’s primary schools may be important not only because
it gives us insight into the development of selfhood in Japan, but because it
may contribute to the inquiry that is continually going on worldwide in search
of effective and humane education.
Notes
1 Kokugo literally means ‘language of the country/nation’, and is sometimes
translated as ‘National Language’ (Gerbert, 1993).
2 The curriculum figure is a standard that teachers are expected to approximate
rather than meet exactly. For example, fifth year teachers at Nakamachi actually
spent between 208 and 227 hours on kokugo lessons in 1994, and Morikawa fifth
year teachers taught between 196 and 217 hours, even though the fifth year curric-
ulum stipulated 210 hours. Since 2002, both the number of kokugo lessons and
the total curriculum hours for the sixth year have been reduced, to 175 and 945
respectively (Monbushō, 1998b), and kokugo now takes up 18 per cent of the sixth
year curriculum.
3 The Sakura City Board of Education had decided that primary schools in the city
should use the kokugo textbooks published by Mitsumura Tosho during the three
years from 1993 to 1996. Mitsumura textbooks were also being used by Sakura
primary schools when I did a follow-up study in 2004. According to Gerbert
(1993: 154), the kokugo textbooks published by Mitsumura are the most popular
in Japan.
4 Three of the poem’s five stanzas are quoted here in full, including the first and last.
5 In another stanza, the poet says that to live is ‘miniskirts’, ‘planetariums’, ‘Johan
Strauss’, ‘Picasso’, ‘the Alps’, ‘to encounter all beautiful things, and to resist hid-
den evil with care’. Human culture and moral action is present in this stanza, but
there are no defined human actors; Johan Strauss and Picasso are not being seen
as individual actors but are synecdoches for the cultural objects they produced.
6 The generalized subject ‘people’ in ‘For people to love’, the soldier in the line
‘For a soldier to be wounded at this moment somewhere’, and presumably the
‘newborn’s cry’ (ubugoe) in the line, ‘For a newborn’s cry to rise at this moment
somewhere’.
7 There appears to be no common English name. The plant’s Latin name is
Daphniphyllum macrolobum.
8 Yokota (2002: 79) suggests that it is the yuzuriha bush itself that is addressing the
children. This is another possible interpretation, though one that was explicitly
rejected by the teacher in one kokugo lesson at Morikawa, who suggested that the
author is addressing the children, trying to convey the feelings of their parents.
9 The English name of this tree is Jezo Spruce (Latin, Picea jezoensis), but since
matsu refers to both pine and spruce trees, and ‘pine’ summons up a more impres-
sive image for me than ‘spruce’, I have translated ezomatsu as ‘Ezo Pine’. Ezo was
the pre-Meiji name of the island now known as Hokkaido; Yezo or Jezo was a
variant spelling in the Meiji period.
10 Moeran (1989: 59–64) sees these Championships as emblematic of the seishin
discourse of self-discipline and dedication. Members of losing teams are permit-
ted to take away a little earth from the baseball ground as a memento.
11 There is a voluminous literature in Japanese on pedagogical practices in kokugo (as
for other subjects), much of it written by teachers. Examples can be found in Ishii
(1995) and Ishii, Ushiyama, and Maejima (1996), in monthly educational journals
for teachers, such as Kokugo Kyōiku (Kokugo Education) and Jissen Kokugo
Kenkyū (Kokugo Lesson Study), and in the publications of pedagogical associations
run by and for teachers, such as the Tōkai Kokugo Kyōiku o Manabu Kai (Tōkai
Region Association for the Study of Kokugo Education), whose 1996 conference I
attended.
12 See note 15 below.
13 In fifth year and sixth year lessons I watched at Morikawa in 1994, the teachers
directed all children to do individual kakikomi – meaning to read the text carefully
and annotate it with their thoughts and questions. After one or two lessons during
which children worked individually on a section of the story, there were some
whole-class lessons for sharing thoughts and feelings about the text. This approach
did allow children to develop individual readings of the text, and in one class, the
teacher allowed the children to choose which characters in the text they chose to
focus on. However, the children did not get to choose the approach itself.
14 Though Yoshioka-sensei allowed children the freedom to choose their own study
topic, not every topic could become the subject of focus in whole-class discussion
lessons. Discussion tended to focus on issues pursued by the majority, with minor-
ity interests receiving little whole-class attention, since limited time made it hard to
discuss more than one or two issues in depth during a lesson.
15 Tsuchida and Lewis (1996: 207) and Benjamin (1997: 44–8) have recorded similar
teaching approaches by Japanese primary teachers.
16 Fukushima-sensei’s research lesson was followed by a school research meeting
attended by a prefectural expert on kokugo teaching, formerly in charge of kokugo
research at the Prefectural Education Centre. This teacher commented that hith-
erto, the normal style of kokugo teaching had been to pick up four or five themes
(kadai) for whole-class discussion from the initial kansōbun. However, he saw this
approach as problematic in that it tended to result in themes that were given to the
children (ataerareta kadai) and not close to their hearts.
17 Fukushima-sensei had her class read and study not only Old Man Daizō and
the Geese, but also two other stories by the same author which were not in the
textbook.
18 In one class at Morikawa, children did a related exercise in art and craft (zukō) and
skipped the kokugo unit – another example of primary teachers’ flexibility.
19 According to Roden, however, the institution of a debating club at the First
Higher school in the 1890s caused controversy among the students, as debate was
seen as ‘dangerous to the collective ethos’ (Roden, 1980: 115).
4 Mathematical relationships
This chapter examines how teachers at Nakamachi tackled the teaching of

mathematics (sansū), a subject that takes up more hours in the Japanese pri-
mary curriculum than any subject other than Japanese (kokugo). In particular,
the chapter looks at how this fitted into the teachers’ attempts to teach in a
way that was in tune with the educational reform agenda – developing stu-
dents’ ability to identify and solve problems by themselves – while also satisfy-
ing the long-standing objective of enabling as many children as possible to
understand the maths they were learning. Nakamachi teachers gave children
significant control over the direction and content of maths lessons, and many
of the problems that the classes explored were created by the children them-
selves. Individuals had the chance to put forward ideas and explanations, but
within the context of a class group whose members could learn from one
another. Autonomy and self-direction were thus developed without sacrificing
opportunities for mutual learning. The analysis also considers the lessons
observed in relation to theoretical debates about how learning takes place,
with particular attention to mathematical practices and school settings.
Over the last twenty years there has been considerable interest in how
mathematics is studied in Japan, stimulated by the good performance of
Japanese students in successive international tests (Husen, 1967; Garden and
Robitaille, 1989; Mullis et al., 1997; OECD, 2004a; 2004b) and the wide-
spread belief that performance in mathematics is connected to economic
growth. As a result, this area of Japanese education has been studied quite
extensively. A valuable overview is provided by Schümer (1999), who com-
ments that according to many mathematics educators, maths teaching in
Japanese primary schools ‘often seems to accord with instructional and
methodological ideas long propagated in Germany or in the US, but rarely
realized’ (1999: 401). She continues:
Thus, Western observers notice, and note, how lively and clear Japanese
instruction is, and how often the students are given the opportunity to
become active, i.e. to undertake practical operations, to develop their
own ideas, to articulate them, and to introduce them into discussion.
(Schümer, 1999: 401)
Schümer goes on to note other apparently widespread features of the Japanese
primary maths classroom that are attractive to many maths educators, such
as the centrality of vividly presented problems, the thorough discussion of
various methods for solving problems, and the focus on mathematical under-
standing rather than simply obtaining a correct solution (1999: 402–3).
Particularly important studies of Japanese primary mathematics practices
have been done by Stevenson and Stigler (Stigler and Perry, 1990; Stevenson
and Stigler, 1992; Stigler, et al., 1996), Lewis (1995), and Whitburn (1999a;
1999b; 2000), with valuable smaller-scale studies by Hendry (1997; 2000), and
it is important to note that the research by Stevenson and Stigler, as well as
some of that by Lewis, was carried out during the 1980s – in other words,
before the stress on ‘individuality’ and ‘diversity’ introduced by the Rinky-
ōshin. It seems clear that emphasis on problem-solving, explanation, and
discussion in primary maths education goes back a good deal further than the
last 15 years or so, though unfortunately we do not yet have any historical
studies of Japanese maths education, at least in English.
Despite the range of illuminating studies that have been made of maths
teaching in Japanese primary schools, research has not taken serious note
of the fact that Japanese maths textbooks are divided into textbook units
(tangen), nor has it been shown how teachers tackle the teaching of an entire
unit. Attention to the textbook unit is important, since the series of lessons
that makes up a unit on a particular subject is designed to be taught as a
unified whole, progressing through introduction and development stages to a
conclusion. This chapter shows how Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei
taught one entire textbook unit from start to finish, allowing greater insight
into their teaching processes that could be gained from a single lesson.
Looking at how two experienced teachers taught the same material also
illuminates the extent to which different teachers exercise autonomy in using
varying approaches, while exchanging ideas with each other.
The teaching and learning of mathematics: questioning theory

and practice
The teaching and learning of mathematics is an area that has attracted con-
siderable interest during the last 20 years. In the second edition of a leading
textbook on children’s cognitive development, Wood (1998: xiii) notes that he
rewrote the chapter on mathematics at much increased length on account of
his ‘sense of excitement about the advances that have been made in this area’
in recent years. A series of writers have challenged the effectiveness of wide-
spread practices in the teaching of mathematics in English-speaking coun-
tries, as well as questioning some of the cognitive theories that undergird such
practices. Others are less critical of theories of mathematical learning than of
classroom practice, pointing out that the oft-criticized approaches to teach-
ing and learning maths used in the schools of the English-speaking world
are frequently very different from those recommended by leading theorists.
Mathematical relationships 113
Still other writers argue that while many primary teachers in a country like
Britain may sincerely perceive that their practices help children to investigate
and discover for themselves, as recommended by the theories of Piaget in
particular, these perceptions may well be badly mistaken.
One key issue that recurs in much of the literature on teaching and learn-
ing, not only in maths but also in other subjects such as science, is the distinc-
tion between what Edwards and Mercer (1987: 92–127) call ‘principled’ and
‘procedural’ knowledge. In their words, ‘Principled knowledge is . . . essen-
tially explanatory, oriented towards an understanding of how procedures and

processes work, of why certain conclusions are necessary and valid (1987: 97,
italics in original). ‘Procedural knowledge’, on the other hand, simply entails
knowing how to carry out procedures, and may or may not be accompanied
by ‘principled knowledge’ about the rationale for the procedures and how
and why they work as they do. Edwards and Mercer point out that procedural
knowledge is valuable, even essential, in any number of situations, but argue
that without understanding of the principles behind procedures, a person will
have difficulties making judgements about when procedures are applicable or
inapplicable, when they need to be modified, and how that might best be done
(1987: 98). A similar distinction runs through Boaler’s (1997) study of maths
teaching at two British secondary schools, Amber Hill and Phoenix Park.
Boaler argues that children at Amber Hill were taught ‘procedural’ know-
ledge and rules, but never encouraged to think about their methods or how to
relate them to different situations; without any principled understanding of
the rules, they were unable to interpret unfamiliar mathematical situations
and think intelligently about what rules could be applied to them. Their
knowledge was ‘inert’, and not truly conceptual. In contrast, maths teaching
at Phoenix Park encouraged students to think about mathematical principles,
relationships, strategies and methods, while placing relatively little stress on
knowledge of procedures. As a result, the Phoenix Park students developed
greater abilities to think flexibly and creatively about mathematical problems
and how to use mathematics (1997: 58–81, 90–5, 99–103).
The distinction between ‘principled’ and ‘procedural’ knowledge is closely
related to questions of knowledge transfer – the extent to which it is possible
for learned knowledge to be transferred to different situations, and what
kinds of learning facilitate such knowledge transfer. Jean Lave’s major work
Cognition in Practice (1988) mounts a thoroughgoing attack on transfer the-
ories, and in particular the view that making knowledge more abstract,
explicit, and conscious increases its transferability. As Lave points out, this
view has dominated twentieth-century schooling (indeed, it is a major reason
for the existence of schools as institutions), yet there is considerable evidence
against it. She argues that it is in fact misleading to think of the activity of
arithmetic as ‘relatively uniform in different settings’ (1988: 46), since her
studies of Californians’ everyday mathematical practices suggested that these
were informal, ‘homemade’ procedures, developed in specific situations to
meet specific demands, and involving invention and the transformation of
problems. They did not involve the ‘explicit intentional application of correct
knowledge’ (1988: 39), as transfer theory would lead one to expect. Con-
sequently, Lave argues against the idea that learning performance can be
improved by more teaching of conscious, verbally explicit strategies, arguing
instead for learning through direct experience, ‘the more basic condition
for learning’ (1988: 183). She also argues that it is important that those who
are learning to use maths should experience themselves as subjects who are
in control of their activities, rather than as ‘objects, with no control over
problems or choice about problem-solving processes’ (1988: 70).

Barbara Jaworski (1994) sets out constructivist arguments that children will
best learn by constructing their own understandings through mathematical
projects and questions that they themselves choose and control, but notes that
though such views are widespread, even dominant, among theoreticians of
mathematical learning, their translation into classroom practice seems much
less common, at least in Britain and the United States (1994: 8). Jaworski also
notes that implementing maths education that stresses understanding and
self-direction can be very difficult, since children often resist tasks with the
‘high levels of risk and ambiguity’ that go along with ‘higher-level cognitive
demands’; yet some studies of classrooms using ‘small-group interactions
and whole-class discussions’ have shown success (1994: 9–10). This suggests
the importance of a supportive classroom ethos that reduces children’s sense
of risk and fear of failure. Jaworski draws attention to what she and others
have called the ‘teacher’s dilemma’, the fact that (‘progressive’) teachers want
children to learn for themselves, yet also have to try to ensure that they finally
learn what the curriculum lays down. This creates a ‘didactic tension’ (1994:
180) in which teachers are torn between ‘enquiry’ or ‘discovery’ models of
education, which enable children to learn for themselves, and ‘transmission’
models, which explicitly teach children what they are supposed to learn.
As Jaworski notes, ‘finding appropriate places to be in this continuum consti-
tutes a major issue’ for many teachers (1994: 32), as she goes on to show
through accounts of three teachers in English secondary schools, each of
whom was successful in getting students to think and explore maths problems
for themselves, yet felt themselves too didactic at times.
The writings of authors such as Edwards and Mercer, Lave, Jaworski and
Boaler have important implications for research on Japanese primary maths
teaching. Their findings suggest that ‘principled knowledge’ is more likely to
be acquired when children are given significant control over their own learn-
ing, and take up opportunities to create their own problems to explore.
Jaworski emphasizes the importance of interaction and discussion in the
classroom community in promoting the development of individuals’ under-
standing, and Boaler describes how one of the Phoenix Park teachers ‘created
an arena for discussion and negotiation’ (Boaler, 1997: 45). Sociocultural
perspectives, outlined in Chapter 1, support the value of interaction and
discussion between learners. Research on Japanese maths education to date
would suggest that teachers do promote thinking and classroom discussion,
but it is less clear to what extent children can exercise control over their own
learning. At Nakamachi, however, the sixth year teachers were explicitly
attempting to develop children’s ability to learn for themselves. Through an
examination of their teaching, we can see how they attempted to do this, and
whether promoting self-directed learning led to a smaller role for interaction,
discussion, and learning from one another in the class group.
Studying proportion at Nakamachi

Soon after I began observations at Nakamachi, I learned that Sanada-sensei

was planning a research lesson as part of a mathematics unit on proportion
(hirei). I therefore decided to observe lessons on this unit in both classes 6–3
and 6–1, as far as the timetables allowed. Yoshioka-sensei discussed the
teaching of the unit with Sanada-sensei, whom she considered a greater
expert than herself on maths teaching (it was his personal research area, and
he subscribed to a journal on primary maths teaching). The two teachers
ended up teaching the unit with a broadly similar approach, but many differ-
ences in the detail of content and organization – not surprising considering
that they were both experienced and confident practitioners. Space does
not allow that both sets of lessons be described at similar length, so I
give a detailed account of lessons in 6–3, followed by a briefer account of
Sanada-sensei’s teaching of the unit in 6–1.1
Studying proportion in 6–3
Lesson 1 (Tuesday 14 November 1995, 10.55–11.45 a.m: 50 minutes)

In this introductory lesson, Yoshioka-sensei invited the class to make obser-
vations about the movement of water between two tanks, pointed out a gen-
eralizing principle, and told the children first to think of ideas as individuals
and then to share and explain them. Most of the lesson was whole-class
discussion, with a short period of individual work.
Before the lesson started, Yoshioka-sensei had set up two water tanks at the
front of the classroom; the higher one was full of water coloured with red dye,
while the lower one was empty. She set an agenda for the lesson (and the unit)
by writing ‘changes’ and ‘doesn’t change’ (kawaru/kawaranai) on the front
blackboard, telling the children that this was today’s theme. She then used a
tube to allow the red water to flow from the higher to the lower tank, while
the children watched, some standing on chairs or tables in order to see
better. She did this twice, asking the children if they had found things that
changed and didn’t change, and then telling them to write down what they
had found.
Once the demonstration had finished and the children were sitting at their
desks again, Yoshioka-sensei asked them what had changed. Lots of children
raised their hands to offer suggestions, which Yoshioka-sensei wrote on the
blackboard: ‘weight’; ‘the quantity of water in the top tank went down’;
‘the water in the bottom tank increased’; ‘the volume of water increased’; ‘the
volume in the top tank went down’; ‘the area of the sides’; ‘the depth’; ‘the
time’. In response to her next question, ‘what didn’t change?’ children came
up with fewer ideas, including ‘the area of the base’ and ‘the total volume of
water’.
Yoshioka-sensei then told the children she would give them a hint by ask-
ing if they had noticed anything about how things had increased ( fuekata).
The children responded with ideas such as, ‘the water at the bottom increased
to the extent that the water at the top decreased’ and ‘the amount of water
displaced in one minute doesn’t change’. Yoshioka-sensei then connected
these particular observations at a more generalizing level of analysis, by
writing on the blackboard:
When 䊊䊊 changes, . . . 䊊䊊 changes
doesn’t change
The children copied this into their books, and one said, ‘so, you can do
anything’. ‘Right,’ agreed Yoshioka-sensei, and asked the children for similar
statements. They came up with several, including:
‘When the volume below changes, the volume above changes too.’
‘As time changes, the volume changes.’
‘When the depth of the water below changes, the depth of the water
above changes.’
‘Even when the depth changes, the area of the base doesn’t change.’
‘When the depth changes, the volume changes.’
Yoshioka-sensei then wrote on the blackboard, ‘change together with each

other’ (tomonatte kawaru), and said to the children, ‘let’s think of things that
change together with each other – in silence! Don’t look at your neighbour’s
work.’ After a few minutes’ work – which was not in fact conducted very
quietly, and prompted a comment from the teacher, ‘when playing time
increases, studying time decreases’ – Yoshioka-sensei told the children they
could consult others, and then asked for ideas. After one boy suggested,
‘When pocket money increases, savings increase,’ another came up with,
‘When speed changes, time changes.’ Yoshioka-sensei wrote this on the
blackboard, and asked, ‘What exactly does that mean? Who can explain?’ A
boy and two girls offered explanations, and Yoshioka-sensei illustrated these
by diagrams on the blackboard (Figure 4.1).
Figure 4.1 Illustrating things that change together.
She paraphrased the last girl’s explanation as ‘when speed changes,

distance changes’, before moving on and allowing two more children to offer
ideas:
‘When the time you sleep changes, the time you wake up changes too.’
‘When the area of the base changes, the volume also changes.’
Yoshioka-sensei then told the children that they would continue with the
topic in the next lesson, and asked them to hand in their exercise books.
Lesson 2 (Wednesday 15 November 1995, 11.30–12.15 a.m.: 45 minutes)

The second lesson of the unit began with children writing down their indi-
vidual ideas about things that changed together, and then sharing these with
the class, which then discussed how to group the ideas into categories. Chil-
dren’s own ideas and categories were used as the basis for the activities. One-
third of the lesson was individual work, and two-thirds were whole-class
work.
After asking the children to tell her what the class had done in the first
lesson, Yoshioka-sensei began the second lesson by telling them that today
they were going to see how many things they could find that changed
together with one another. She gave out large pieces of scrap paper and thick
marker pens, and the children wrote their ideas and then fixed them to the
blackboard with magnets. There was plenty of talking, with a few children
writing several ideas and a few none. Once all the ideas had been put on
the blackboard, Yoshioka-sensei said to the class, ‘Now, we’ll divide these
into family groups (nakama).2 How can we divide them up?’ The children
suggested the categories ‘increasing’, ‘decreasing’, and ‘not mathematical’
(sansū-teki de nai mono), and after Yoshioka-sensei had checked that they felt
confident about the meaning of ‘not mathematical’, a noisy debate ensued
about which category to assign each idea to. Ideas that were deemed ‘not
mathematical’ included:
‘As time passes, one’s weight increases.’
and
‘As the seasons change, the temperature changes too.’
Three ideas about which there was a particularly big debate and no clear
consensus were assigned by Yoshioka-sensei to a special category of ‘extras’
(bangaihen), including:
‘As the amount of rain increases, the weight of one’s clothes increases.’
With all the ideas categorized, Yoshioka-sensei told the children that she
wanted next to investigate those in the ‘increasing’ category, to see if the way
they changed (kawarikata) was the same.
Lesson 3 (Thursday 16 November 2003, 9.00–9.53 a.m.: 53 minutes)

In the third lesson, the class first discussed how to investigate the categoriza-
tion of one of the statements about change they had made, and phrased
the statement as a maths problem. The children then used tables or graphs
to investigate the problem individually, and shared some of the results with
the whole class. After the class had discussed and categorized one further
problem, the children divided into small groups, each of which chose two
problems to investigate. Most of the lesson was whole-class work, with five
minutes of individual work and five minutes of small-group work.
Yoshioka-sensei began by reminding the children that they had categorized
their ideas the previous day, and telling them that today she wanted to look at
the way things increased ( fuete iku kawarikata). She then fixed to the black-
board two of the ideas from the ‘extras’ category, telling the children that, like
them, she had been uncertain (nayanda) about how to categorize these prob-
lems. She started with a statement about a videotape produced by a boy
named Teramoto-kun:
‘As a videotape plays, time increases.’
She said to the class that she’d like to investigate this, and how did they
think they should do it? Teramoto-kun and a girl called Mizutani-san then
suggested a wording for a written problem:
‘There is a videotape 10 metres long, rewound to the start on the left.

One minute after “play” has been pressed, it has advanced one metre
to the right. If it is examined at the end of each minute elapsed, how far
will the right side have increased?’
Yoshioka-sensei then asked the class, ‘How shall we investigate this?’ Some
children said, ‘a table’, others ‘a bar graph’. Yoshioka-sensei told them they
could use either. She herself started drawing a table on the blackboard and
asked the children, ‘What kind of table shall we make?’ Teramoto-kun sug-
gested that she draw a table with two rows, one each for the left and right sides
of the videotape, but then Yoshioka-sensei asked another girl, Koide-san,
what she thought, and Koide-san suggested that there should be another row
for the number of minutes elapsed, to which Yoshioka-sensei said, ‘Yes, I
think so too.’ She went on to ask how the other two rows should be labelled,
and after Teramoto-kun had suggested ‘length’ or ‘metres’, Yoshioka-sensei
accepted another boy’s suggestion of ‘right’ and ‘left’. Mizutani-san, mean-
while, called out that she was going to use a line graph.
After the children had spent about five minutes working on their tables or
graphs, Yoshioka-sensei chose two boys from several volunteers to describe
their tables. She filled in tables drawn on the blackboard according to their
directions, drew a line graph like that of Mizutani-san, and finally held up
another boy’s bar graph and pointed out to the class how it showed the same
information in a different way – thus drawing the children’s attention to
different ways of investigating the same problem.
There remained a second problem in the ‘extras’ category, this one thought
up by a girl named Murata-san:
‘When one year passes, one’s age increases by one.’
Yoshioka-sensei asked Murata-san to express this as a problem, and, helped

by contributions from Mizutani-san and a boy, Sakaguchi-kun, Murata-san
came up with this wording:
‘Masako-san and her younger sister are two years apart in age. Masako-
san is now 12 years old. As each year passes, how will the two girls’ ages
change?’
The children agreed that this problem should be put in the ‘increasing’
category.
Finally, Yoshioka-sensei told the children that each han should choose two
problems to investigate, emphasizing that they must write out the problems in
a way similar to the two that the class had looked at in that day’s lesson. She
checked that the groups had not all chosen the same problems to investigate,
and then ended the lesson.3
Lesson 4 (Friday 17 November 1995)

In this lesson, the children worked in han.4 Each group had prepared two
problems, and in the first part of the lesson they wrote these out on large
pieces of paper and discussed which they wanted to investigate first. Yoshioka-
sensei then collected the problems and fixed them to the blackboard, rewrit-
ing one problem which she found awkward. She then asked the children how
they intended to tackle the problems, and all the groups opted to use tables.
This was therefore set as the task for the next lesson.
Lesson 5 (Monday 20 November 1995, 8.56–9.59 a.m.: 63 minutes)

In this lesson, the children first worked in small groups to express their
group’s chosen problem in a table, which a representative from each group
then explained to the class. The teacher singled out group seven’s table, and
the children then made observations and offered ideas about this table in
a whole-class session. One of their ideas was taken up for expansion and
further investigation by the teacher. Just over a quarter of the lesson was
small-group work, with the rest whole-class work.
At the start of lesson 5, the problems the children had made were fixed to
the blackboard. Yoshioka-sensei explained that today the class was only
going to look at problems of the type in which two things were increasing
together, and they would use tables, leaving graphs until later. She wrote on
the blackboard,
‘When 䊊䊊 increases 䊊䊊 increases too’
and said, ‘I wonder if the way things increase will be the same in each group’s
problem? That’s what we’ll need to find out. Okay, first of all try doing it
on your own, and if you get stuck, ask someone in your group. I’ll give you
15 minutes.’
The children in the same han pushed their desks together and started work-
ing, each person copying out their group’s problem and then making a table
to express it. As they conferred, Yoshioka-sensei walked around looking at
their work and helping where necessary. She changed the values in one
group’s problem to make it easier for them. Once the children had finished
making tables individually, each of the eight groups drew a table on a large
piece of paper. They then fixed the problems and tables to the blackboard.
For three of the eight problems, a child from that group stood to explain the
table, while Yoshioka-sensei herself explained one table, and no explanation
was thought necessary for the remaining four problems.
Yoshioka-sensei then asked the children what they noticed about the way
the values in the tables increased,5 in particular directing them to look at the
table made by group seven (Table 4.1), and saying that there should be two
things to notice. Group seven’s problem went as follows:
‘There is a pool whose capacity is 30 litres. Three litres of water enters the
pool in one minute. How will it change in one minute?’
Yoshioka-sensei also told the children they could look at the textbook for
help if they wished, and said that the values in the upper row of a table could
be called x, and those in the lower row, y. (This was the first time the textbook
had been mentioned since the unit began.) ‘Please start by saying things that
are simple and obvious.’ About six children raised their hands, and Yoshioka-
sensei then asked, ‘Who doesn’t feel confident about their ideas?’ More chil-
dren then raised their hands, and from these Yoshioka-sensei chose one boy
to say what he had noticed about group seven’s table. Several other children
then added their ideas:
‘When x increases by 1, y increases by 3.’
‘If you multiply x by 3, you get y.’
‘If you divide y by 3, you get x.’
‘x and y increase in proportion.’
‘x × 3 = y, y ÷ 3 = x.’
This last statement was offered by a boy named Fukao-kun, who was among
the better and more confident pupils at maths, and Yoshioka-sensei asked
him and then another able pupil, Mizutani-san, to explain to the class what
this equation meant. She next asked the class, ‘Who understands?’ and most
(though not all) raised their hands. Yoshioka-sensei then expanded on the
pupil insight that ‘x and y increase in proportion’, writing on the blackboard:
‘When x increases 3 (4) times, y also increases 3 (4) times.’
She told the class that in the next lesson, she wanted each group to look at the
problem it had made, and see if this statement applied to that problem.
Finally, the teacher handed out to the children a piece of paper on which
Table 4.1 Group seven’s table
Time (minutes) 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Volume of water (litres) 0 3 6 9 12 15 18 21 24 27 30
they could record their reflections (furikaeri)6 about each lesson, including
what they had understood in the lesson and what they had learned from
others. On it they also evaluated their level of satisfaction (manzokudo) with a
number from 1 (low) to 5 (high). ‘If you didn’t understand something, write
that honestly,’ she told them. Most children evaluated the lesson with a 4.
Lesson 6 (Tuesday 21 November 1995: 56 minutes)

At the start of lesson 6, members of the class tried to explain the relationship
between increases and decreases in x and y, with limited success. The children
then worked in groups, examining whether their findings about group seven’s
table could be applied to their own group’s table, after which the teacher
brought them together for a whole-class discussion about group two’s table.
This discussion focused on the differences and similarities between group
seven’s and group two’s tables, after which the teacher moved the discussion
to the tables of group three and then group eight, which were different from
those of other groups. Finally, the class decided to use graphs to continue the
investigation of the similarities and differences of the problems. There were
45 minutes of whole-class work and ten minutes of small-group work.
At the start of the lesson, the eight groups’ problems and tables were fixed
to the blackboard, and the four points the children had come up with about
group seven’s table were also written on the blackboard:
‘1. When x increases by 1, y increases by 3.’
‘2. If you multiply x by 3, you get y. x × 3 = y.’
‘3. If you divide y by 3, you get x. y ÷ 3 = x.’
‘4. When x increases 3 (4) times, y also increases 3 (4) times.’
Yoshioka-sensei began by briefly reviewing the previous lesson, with particu-

lar attention to explaining once again the four points about group seven’s
table. Noting that the children had pointed out not only that multiplying x by
3 gave y, but also the reverse, that dividing y by 3 gave x, she wondered if they
couldn’t similarly reverse the insight that when x increased three or four
times, y also did so. Several children raised their hands, and a boy called
Funada-kun suggested that when x decreased to one-third or one-quarter of
its value, y also did so. Yoshioka-sensei added this point to the four already
written on the blackboard:
‘When x decreases to ¹⁄³ (¼), y also decreases to ¹⁄³ (¼).’
However, when she asked Funada-kun to explain with some concrete

examples of what he meant, as she thought some of the class were unsure
about what he was saying, he was unable to do so. Teramoto-kun came to the
blackboard and, using a pointer to indicate concrete examples on group
seven’s table, explained that if one multiplied x by ¹⁄³ or ¼, then y would also
be multiplied by the same amount. Another child suggested that it would be
better to express this as dividing by 3 or 4. Yoshioka-sensei herself tried
explaining the point by reference to group seven’s table, pointing out that
division was the opposite procedure to multiplication, but some of the class
still seemed to find it hard to grasp, with children saying ‘difficult!’ She then
erased the point from the blackboard, saying, ‘Okay, let’s leave it at these four
points we already have. People who understand that there’s one more
“phantom” point here, please investigate that in your group.’ She went on to
suggest that the pattern of changes seen in group seven’s table could be
labelled pattern A, and that today the children could examine whether their
group’s problem showed the same pattern of changes as this. ‘If you find
different things, go ahead and do so, that’s fine.’
The children then took their problems and tables down from the black-
board and spent just over ten minutes working in their groups. Yoshioka-
sensei gave out large sheets of paper on which each group could write
what they had noticed. Not all the children worked equally hard during
this group work; in some cases, most of the work in a group appeared to
be done by one or two members, with the others relatively inactive. At the
end of the time, Yoshioka-sensei decided to start class discussion about the
table made by group two (Table 4.2), which she stuck to the blackboard along
with the sheet on which group two’s members had written what they had
noticed:
‘What we noticed:
• When x increases by 1, y also increases by 1.
• If you multiply x by 1, you get y.
• If you divide y by 1, you get x.
• When x increases 3 (4) times, y increases 3 (4) times.
• When x decreases by 1, y also decreases by 1.
• When x decreases to ¹⁄³ (¼), y also decreases to ¹⁄³ (¼).’
Table 4.2 Group two’s table
Time (minutes) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16
Volume of water (litres) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16
Yoshioka-sensei asked one of the boys in group two, Yamada-kun, to come
to the front and talk the class through these points. After the first point,
‘When x increases by 1, y also increases by 1’, she asked, ‘Is it right to think
that that’s the same as the first point about group seven’s table (“when x
increases by 1, y increases by 3”)?’ Many children called out, ‘Yes!’ and raised
their hands when Yoshioka-sensei asked who understood the meaning of her
question. However, then she went on, ‘But in group seven’s case, when x
increases by 1, y increases by 3, and in group two’s case, when x increases by
1, y increases by 1.’ The children were temporarily reduced to puzzled silence,

one saying, ‘They’re not the same’, and Yoshioka-sensei also saying, ‘They’re
not the same, are they?’ ‘I don’t understand how this problem gets to be like it
is,’ said one child. ‘We’re trying to investigate how things change,’ Yoshioka-
sensei reminded the class. ‘3 and 1 are different. Are we saying that the first
point about group seven’s table [“when x increases by 1, y increases by 3”]
doesn’t apply here? Is that what we’re saying? Really, is that true? Well,
Koide-san, what do you think? Does it apply?’ Koide-san insisted it did, but
couldn’t adequately explain why. Nor could Teramoto-kun when he tried.
Murata-san, the next to try, emphasized that the two tables were the same
because each was increasing ‘per go’ (zutsu). ‘Can you elaborate that a bit?’
asked Yoshioka-sensei. ‘What does this “per go” thing mean?’ She took
group five’s problem and table and fixed them to the blackboard, pointing
out that in this problem, y increased by 50 for every 1 that x increased. ‘It’s
totally different! Are you saying that this and this and this (pointing to the
three tables on the blackboard) are the same?’ ‘Right!’ replied a number of
children. ‘The numbers are totally different! What’s the same?’ Yoshioka-
sensei persisted. Teramoto-kun pointed out that the tables were increasing
‘in the same way’, and another boy, Okinaka-kun, said that ‘the top row
and the bottom row move together’. After three more boys had tried to
explain, Yoshioka-sensei said again, ‘You admit that these numbers are dif-
ferent.’ ‘Yes,’ said many children. ‘So who thinks they understand that the
meaning is the same?’ A number of children raised their hands, but by no
means all. ‘Maybe we need to go on a bit before we can understand,’ said
Yoshioka-sensei. ‘Let’s go on to point two.’ Yamada-kun read the second
point:
‘If you multiply x by 1, you get y.’
‘Well, this one’s different from the other groups’ tables, too!’ Yoshioka-sensei
said. Many children called out in protest, insisting that they were the same.
Yamada-kun continued reading the points. At the fourth point,
‘When x increases 3 (4) times, y also increases 3 (4) times.’
Yoshioka-sensei said, ‘Ah, this one’s the same for all the tables. At last!’ And
when Yamada-kun reached the sixth point,
‘When x decreases to ¹⁄³ (¼), y also decreases to ¹⁄³ (¼),’
it was also agreed to be true of both group two’s and group seven’s tables.
Yoshioka-sensei then asked all the groups to stick their problems, tables,
and points they had noticed to the blackboard. She drew the children’s
attention to group three’s work, which had produced results quite different
from those of the other groups. Group three’s problem concerned two
brothers, originally aged 13 and 11, whose ages would change as they got
older (Table 4.3).

Group three had noted that the points found by group seven did not
apply at all to their table. Rather, when the age of the older brother was
taken to be x and that of the younger brother y, they found the following
points:
1. When you subtract 2 from x, you get y. x − 2 = y.
2. When you add 2 to y, you get x. y + 2 = x.
3. Division and multiplication do not work, but addition and subtrac-

tion do.
Yoshioka-sensei pointed out that group three’s problem did have one point in
common with that of group two – in both cases, it was true that ‘when x
increases by 1, y also increases by 1’. Otherwise, she confirmed what group
three had noted, comparing their table with the four points written on the
blackboard. She noted, for example, that in this case, it was not true that
‘when x increases 3 (4) times, y also increases 3 (4) times’. Whereas the other
problems they had looked at had been similar (niteiru), this one was quite
different.
Next Yoshioka-sensei took group eight’s problem and table (Table 4.4),
which read as follows:
‘A car runs at a speed of 50 km per hour. If it increases its speed by 5 km,

how will the distance it advances in an hour change?’
Table 4.3 Group three’s table
Age of older brother 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

Age of younger brother 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22
Table 4.4 Group eight’s table
Speed (kph) 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95
Distance (km) 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95
It is clear that this problem is really a non-problem, since the distance is
actually included in the definition of the speed, but Yoshioka-sensei did not
point this out. One boy in group eight stood up and explained that some of
the rules found in other groups applied to this problem, but others did not.
‘This one has some features that are close to other problems, but some differ-
ent features too,’ Yoshioka-sensei commented. She allowed the last two
groups to bring up their problems, pointing out that their results were very
similar to those of group seven, and then had the class consider all the
problems as a whole. Were they the same, similar, different? As before,

many children insisted that most of the problems were ‘the same’ (issho), but
Yoshioka-sensei insisted in turn that she still didn’t know what they meant by
‘the same’. She suggested that in any case, group three’s problem was quite
different to the others, while group eight’s was close to the majority though a
little different. ‘How shall we investigate next?’ she went on. ‘With graphs,’
many children called out. ‘So, if the shape of the graph is the same, the
problems are similar?’ Yoshioka-sensei suggested. ‘You have all been saying
that the problems are the same – so shall we accept that they are the same if
they have the same kind of shape?’ ‘Right!’ several children called out. ‘Okay,
next lesson we’ll do graphs,’ Yoshioka-sensei agreed, and brought the lesson
to an end.
Lesson 7 (Friday 24 November 1995, 11.45–12.43 a.m.: 58 minutes)

At the start of lesson 7, the teacher asked several children to explain to the
class once more the rules they had worked out about group seven’s table. The
children then discussed among themselves why the problems chosen by
groups three and eight were different from other groups’ problems, after
which the differences were explained and discussed in a whole-class session.
The four rules that the class had come up with about group seven’s table
were written up on the blackboard at the start of the lesson:
‘1. When x increases by 1, y increases by 3.’
‘2. When you multiply x by 3, you get y. x × 3 = y.’
‘3. When you divide y by 3, you get x. y ÷ 3 = x.’
‘4. When x increases 3 (4) times, y also increases 3 (4) times.’
After reading the children’s reflections on the previous lesson, Yoshioka-

sensei had decided to delay going on to work with graphs. She told the
class, ‘When I looked at your reflections, lots of people were really uncertain
about things (nayandeiru). We’ll go over things once more, using group
seven’s table.’ She read out the problem and then said, ‘Everyone understands
this table, right? Who thinks they understand it?’ Almost all of the children
raised their hands. Yoshioka-sensei then invited four volunteers to explain
each of the four rules on the blackboard. In some cases, the children’s
explanations included reference to group seven’s table. Before and after each
pupil explanation, Yoshioka-sensei asked the class to raise their hands if they
understood the rule in question, and in each case, the number of hands
increased substantially after the class had listened to the explanation. She
also pointed out that the table not only increased in a regular way, as
described by rule four, but it also decreased in a similar way – both values
would decrease by the same amount, be it one half, one quarter, or one tenth.
The children still seemed quite uncertain about this point, so Yoshioka-sensei
asked first Murata-san and then Koide-san to explain, with reference to
group two’s table.
Yoshioka-sensei then asked the children why the problems made by
groups one, two, four, five and seven (which she labelled with red chalk)
went together, while those made by groups three and eight (labelled with
yellow chalk) were different. The children spent some time discussing this
amongst themselves, with those who thought they understood trying to
explain to those who did not. Many got up and went to the front of the
classroom to look at the problems. One girl sitting at the front of the class-
room called out an explanation to another at the back. Finally Yoshioka-
sensei had the class sit down again and asked who could explain. From the
many volunteers, she chose a boy called Sato-kun whose maths was usually
weak, and then wrote what he said on a separate blackboard on wheels,
Figure 4.2 Children explaining to the class in 6–3’s maths lesson at Nakamachi, 24
November 1995.
which she had brought into the classroom because the main blackboard no
longer had space left on it. Sato-kun explained that in the case of the prob-
lems made by the majority of groups, y would result if you multiplied x by
something. ‘Why did you say “something” (nanika)?’ Yoshioka-sensei asked.
Sato-kun explained that the exact number was different in various problems.
In the case of the problems made by groups three and eight, however, he
went on, even if you multiplied x by something, y would not result. ‘Won-
derful,’ Yoshioka-sensei said. She recapitulated, and then asked who had
understood. This time almost all the children raised their hands. The teacher
then asked if they could say anything else about the differences. Various
children volunteered answers, pointing out that in the ‘red problems’, y
would increase by the same multiple as x, whereas this was not true of the
‘yellow problems’, and that the ‘red problems’ could be explained by multi-
plication and division, whereas the ‘yellow problems’ were explained by add-
ition and subtraction. Yoshioka-sensei wrote this on the blackboard and
told the children to write down in their lesson reflections what they had
understood.
Lesson 8 (Saturday 25 November 1995, 10.54–11.49 a.m.: 55 minutes)

Lesson 8 started with children working individually (though in consultation
with one another) on up to four new problems given by the teacher. After this,
there was a whole-class session in which children explained how they did
Figure 4.3 Sato-kun at the blackboard in 6–3’s maths lesson at Nakamachi, 24

November 1995.
each problem and what they understood. About one-third of the lesson was
individual work, and about two-thirds was whole-class work.
Yoshioka-sensei had prepared four handouts, each with a different problem
on it:
‘1. A rectangle with a height of 8 cm has a length of x cm and an area of

y cm2.’
‘2. When you buy x apples costing 100 yen each, the price is y yen.’
‘3. When you share 5 dl of juice between your older sister and your
younger brother, your sister’s share is x dl and your brother’s is y dl.’
‘4. The radius of a circle is x cm and the circumference is y cm.’
She told the children to choose two problems and investigate whether the five
rules they had discovered about group seven’s problem applied, and whether
the problems they chose belonged to the ‘red group’ or the ‘yellow group’. If
they had enough time, they could do three problems, and it was all right to do
just one, but important to do it thoroughly right to the end. She then fixed the
four new problems to the blackboard and had the students read them aloud
before letting them choose the two they wanted to do. Most chose problems 1
and 2, with few choosing 3 and 4. Some – especially Mizutani-san and
Fukao-kun – completed problems very quickly and seemed to enjoy doing so.
When they went to collect their fourth problem after spending about four
minutes apiece on the first three, Yoshioka-sensei commented to the class that
the aim was not to do lots of problems, but to do the problems carefully.
Pupils freely consulted one another as they worked.
After twenty minutes, Yoshioka-sensei stopped the children for a whole-
class session. Each problem was projected on to a screen, and Yoshioka-
sensei asked for volunteers to come to the front and explain how they did it
and what they understood (wakatta koto). They also gave the appropriate
equations to express the mathematical relationships involved. It was agreed
that all of the problems could be explained by multiplication and division
and thus belonged to the ‘red’ group, with the exception of No. 3, which
used addition and subtraction. Teramoto-kun pointed out that No. 3
resembled the videotape problem they had examined in the third lesson, with
x increasing as y decreased.
The two girls who explained No. 4 had used decimals in their answers, and
Yoshioka-sensei pointed out that it was okay to use decimals in other prob-
lems when appropriate, though there could be practical considerations –
apples were not usually sold in halves, for example. She then had the children
write their lesson reflections.
Lesson 9 (Monday 27 November 1995, 8.59–9.28 a.m.: 29 minutes)
Lesson 9 began with a whole-class session during which the teacher checked
that the children remembered how to draw graphs. After a session of indi-
vidual work, during which children drew graphs to investigate their group
problems, there was a short whole-class session to share what could be under-
stood from the graphs. One-quarter of the lesson was individual work, and
three-quarters was whole-class work.
Yoshioka-sensei told the class that today they would do graphs, investigat-
ing their group problems further. She asked what kind of graphs there were,
and what kind the children thought would be best for investigating how
things changed. Several children suggested that line graphs would be best,
and Yoshioka-sensei agreed. ‘Let’s check you remember how to make one,’
she went on, drawing the x and y axes for the swimming pool problem on the
blackboard and then asking the children what numbers they would put in
along the axes. When Funada-kun suggested numbering both axes 1, 2, 3, 4
and so on, Yoshioka-sensei pointed out that since the numbers had to go up
to 30, there would be insufficient room. Mizutani-san then suggested number-
ing the axis 3, 6, 9 and so on, which the teacher accepted, though pointing out
that it was unusual to count in threes.
The children then worked on graphs individually for about seven or eight
minutes, after which Yoshioka-sensei stopped them and asked them to tell the
class something they could see from looking at the graph. ‘Something really
simple and obvious is fine.’ A boy named Iwata-kun volunteered that his
graph went up in a diagonal straight line starting from 0. Yoshioka-sensei
asked if everyone else had found the same, and other children agreed they
had. The teacher then concluded the lesson, saying that they would continue
finding points next time.
Lesson 10 (Wednesday 29 November 1995: 47 minutes)

Lesson 10 started with group work, during which the children drew their
graphs on large pieces of paper. After this, the whole class discussed the
graphs’ features, including the differences between group three’s graph and
the others. The teacher then had children explain how further information
could be read from a graph. About 35 minutes were taken up by whole-class
work, and about ten minutes by small-group work.
At the start of the lesson, the large pieces of paper on which each
group had written its problem, table and points noticed had been fixed to the
blackboard, covering most of it. On the portable blackboard, Yoshioka-
sensei had drawn the axes of a line graph, and she began the lesson by
asking the three members of group seven to come and draw their graph
on this blackboard. While they were doing this, the other groups were
each drawing their own graphs on large pieces of drawing paper. Many
children went to look at other groups’ work, and there was a lot of pupil
movement and talk. Yoshioka-sensei also walked around looking at the
children’s work.
Group seven only took about five minutes to draw their graph on the
portable blackboard, and after just under 15 minutes, the other groups fixed
their graphs to the main blackboard. Yoshioka-sensei then asked group seven
to explain their graph (Figure 4.4), and Fukao-kun stood up and did so,
including (when asked by the teacher) exactly how the group drew its graph.
Yoshioka-sensei picked up his comment that they stopped at a value of
x = 10 (because the capacity of the pool placed a limit on the amount of

water it could take), and pointed out that in the case of some other groups,
the line could and really should continue without ending. She then suggested
that they summarize the features of the graphs the class had drawn. ‘Going
up to the right,’ said one child, and Yoshioka-sensei wrote this on the port-
able blackboard. ‘The points are where x and y meet,’ said another child.
Yoshioka-sensei elaborated this point further for the class, and said, ‘There
are about four more points I’d like you to say.’ Fukao-kun volunteered, ‘The
graph goes up to the right in a diagonal straight line centred on 0.’ ‘Going up
in a straight line is important,’ agreed Yoshioka-sensei, ‘The line doesn’t
wander up and down, does it?’ Teramoto-kun again pointed out that in the
case of some problems, the line of the graph had to stop because of, for
example, the limit of the capacity of a pool, but in other cases, the line should
really continue if there were enough paper. Yoshioka-sensei asked what other
differences there were between the graphs different groups had made. ‘The
direction the line goes is different,’ said one child, with Mizutani-san then
rephrasing this as ‘the angle is different’. Another child pointed out that the
values on the y axis varied from graph to graph, but those on the x axis were
the same in all cases. Summing this up, Yoshioka-sensei agreed that the direc-
tion of the line and the values on the y axis varied, but what didn’t vary were
the facts that the line went up to the right and that it went in a straight line.
She placed special emphasis on the last point; as there was no change in the
way the graph increased, there was no reason for it to curve up or down.
At this point, group four, which had been late finishing its graph, handed
it to the teacher, who asked the class what was different about this graph
(Figure 4.5).
Figure 4.4 Group seven’s graph.

Downloaded by [Universiti Pendidikan Sultan Idris] at 01:38 12 April 2013 132 Mathematical relationships
Figure 4.5 Group four’s graph.
Okinaka-kun pointed out that the line did not start at 0 (it started at x = 1,
y = 3). Mizutani-san further pointed out that there was no 0 on the group’s
table either. The children voiced some dissatisfaction with the graph’s not
starting from 0, and Yoshioka-sensei asked them whether they thought this
graph was all right, pointing out that in all the other graphs, the line passed
through 0. ‘Do you think it needs to go through 0 or not?’ Opinions were
given both ways. Fukuda-kun, whose group had drawn the graph, suggested
that while their graph might need to go through 0, there might be graphs
where the line didn’t need to go through 0. ‘I wonder what kind of graphs
might not need it,’ Yoshioka-sensei said. ‘So, you forgot to have it start from
0, did you? What do you say, Murata-san?’ Murata-san, one of Fukuda-kun’s
fellow group members, said that the group had decided they did need to
start the line from 0, since a little water would enter the receptacle in the
problem even in the first minute. ‘Who understands what she’s saying? She
expressed that well, didn’t she?’ said Yoshioka-sensei. ‘Who can say the
same thing?’ Another girl raised her hand and expressed the same point in a
slightly different way. Yoshioka-sensei agreed that the water was not going to
suddenly start building up from a level of 3 cm once the tap was turned on.
She pointed out that though they had only plotted points at one-minute
intervals, in reality one could think of there being other points at smaller
intervals along the line. ‘So after all, we want the line to go through 0,’ she
concluded.
Next Yoshioka-sensei showed the class the graph drawn by group three
(Figure 4.6), the group whose problem, about two brothers with different
ages, had not yielded equations of multiplication and division, but of addition
and subtraction.
‘Look for the difference,’ she told the class, holding up the graph together
with that made by another group, and giving the students some time to look
at the two. ‘Who understands the difference?’ she asked, and a number of
children enthusiastically raised their hands and called out that they did.
‘Differences are important, you know, even really simple things,’ Yoshioka-
sensei emphasized, continuing to show the two graphs to the class. Once
Figure 4.6 Group three’s graph.
quite a lot of students had raised their hands, she chose Funada-kun to
answer, and he pointed out that group three’s graph about the two brothers
‘started from 2’. ‘Eh? It starts from 0,’ Yoshioka-sensei said. ‘From 0 and 2,’
Funada-kun corrected himself. Yoshioka-sensei asked Yamada-kun to try to
say the same point, but he was unable to improve on Funada-kun’s wording,
which Yoshioka-sensei obviously felt was not completely adequate. She
pointed out that one really had to look at the point before the younger
brother was born, to which Mizutani-san’s response was, ‘minus 2’. ‘Great,’
said Yoshioka-sensei, ‘That you’ll study at junior high school. If we knew
about the world of minuses, then it would become minus 1, minus 2. We don’t
touch on the world of minuses in primary school.’ She pointed out that
looking at both group three’s table and their graph showed that their problem
belonged in a different group to the problems the other groups had made, and
that in the next lesson she’d have them learn the name for the way things
changed in these problems.
Yoshioka-sensei then returned to the graph, saying that just as one could
make a graph from a table, so one should be able to do the reverse and look
for a table or for numbers from a graph. ‘For example,’ she said, ‘if you had
no table, and you wanted to know how much y was when x was 3, how would
you look for it? In other words, in terms of group seven’s problem, if you
wanted to know how much water had entered the pool after 3 minutes?’ A few
children raised their hands, and Yoshioka-sensei asked Shimura-kun to come
to the front and explain. However, he could not actually use the graph to get
his answer, so Yoshioka-sensei asked another volunteer, Fujisaki-kun, to try
instead. Fujisaki-kun showed how the correct answer (9) could be derived
from the graph by drawing a vertical line from the x axis to the line of the
graph (marked in red) and then a horizontal line across from the line of the
graph to the y axis. Protests from some other children that ‘that red line isn’t
in the graph originally, so how can you use it?’ alerted Yoshioka-sensei to
the fact that a number of children – including some of the more able ones
– mistakenly thought that the word ‘graph’ (gurafu) referred to graph
paper, rather than to the mathematical graph itself, and there was a minor
uproar when the children discovered their mistake. To check that they now
understood properly, Yoshioka-sensei asked what the value of y would be
when x was 4.5, a number not in the table that group seven had made. Point-
ing at the table that group seven had made, she showed the class how one
could estimate the answer from the table, since it showed that when x was 4, y
was 12, and when x was 5, y was 15. Only a few children raised their hands
offering to find the answer from the graph, however, and Yoshioka-sensei
chose Murata-san, who came to the front and used the graph on the black-
board to show how one could trace a line up from 4.5 on the x axis to the
graph line, and then from that line across to the y axis. Yoshioka-sensei then
drew lines in with chalk, and some students called out the answer (13.5). Soon
after this Yoshioka-sensei ended the lesson.
Lesson 11 (Thursday 30 November 1995, 9.05–9.55 a.m.: 50 minutes)

At the start of lesson 11, the children worked individually, summarizing the
nature of a proportional relationship in their exercise books. There was then
a whole-class session, during which children volunteered statements from
what they had written. Finally, the children worked individually on a new
problem given them by the teacher. In all, 28 minutes were taken up in whole-
class work, and 22 minutes in individual work.
Yoshioka-sensei started by briefly reviewing what had been learned the
previous day, and then told the children that today she was finally going to
tell them the name for the problems in the ‘red’ group. The relation between x
and y in those problems was called a proportional relation (hirei no kankei),
she explained, and they were said to be proportional (hirei shiteiru). The
‘yellow’ problems were said to be non-proportional (hirei shiteinai). She wrote
these terms on the blackboard and asked the children to summarize in their
exercise books what kind of relation a proportional relation was, saying that
there was a big hint on the blackboard – and then erasing that hint, the rules
about group seven’s problem, which had been left there for the previous ten
days. She also told the class to write down what they did not understand as
well as what they did.
After about six minutes, Yoshioka-sensei told the children to stop writing.
This time, she rolled two dice to decide who would be called on to say what
they had found (each pupil had a number in the register). She did this nine
times, and all the children called on were able to add something, with one
exception. She then asked if there were any other volunteers, and several
more children raised their hands to add points.
‘When you connect x and y, you find the position of the point on the
graph.’
‘When you go up from the position of x axis to the graph line and then go
across to the y axis, you find the value of y.’
‘The rules don’t change, the only things that change are certain numbers.’
‘x/y is always the same.’
Yoshioka-sensei reminded the children that they had learned this before when
studying ratio (hi). She then gave the class a further problem:
‘A hose costs 150 yen for 1 metre. Express the relationship of the length
of the hose and its cost with an equation and a graph.’
She suggested that they would need to write the equation first, and then make
a table before drawing the graph. The class spent the last ten minutes working
on this problem, while Yoshioka-sensei walked around looking at their work
and helping them where necessary. Few seemed to be having problems. Later,
Yoshioka-sensei assigned two pages of the textbook as homework.
Lesson 12 (Friday 1 December 1995)

Lesson 12 began with a whole-class session reviewing homework problems,
and continued with a further whole-class session, thinking about how to
tackle a new problem given by the teacher.
In the first few minutes of the lesson, the class went through the homework
set two days before. In several cases, Yoshioka-sensei asked the child who
gave the answer to explain the reason for the answer as well. Most children
managed to get most or all answers correct.
Yoshioka-sensei then told the children that they would do some problems
that would show when proportion could be useful. She wrote a problem and
two illustrative diagrams on the blackboard:
‘There are two iron sheets of the same thickness but different shapes. One
is rectangular, with sides of 6 cm and 10 cm, and weighs 120 grams. The
other is an irregular shape and weighs 300 grams.’
‘We want to find the area of the second sheet,’ said Yoshioka-sensei. ‘How
can we do that? Here’s a hint – the thickness is the same, and the two iron
sheets are of the same type.’ The children started thinking, with some discus-
sion. Yoshioka-sensei told them that Okinaka-kun had said something useful
– that one could put the smaller sheet inside the bigger sheet. ‘I understand!’
said Mizutani-san and a few others. As Iwata-kun and Mizutani-san bounced
up and down with excitement, Yoshioka-sensei asked what ways the class had
thought of for tackling the problem. Iwata-kun pointed out that 300 g × 2 =
600 g, and 120 g × 5 = 600 g; from this, one could work out the area of the
second sheet. Koide-san pointed out that the first sheet’s ratio of weight to
area was 120 : 60, or 2 : 1, and since the two sheets had the same ratio of
weight to area, one could use that information to work out the area of the
second sheet. Teramoto-kun expressed the same idea in the form of an
equation: x/300 = 1/2. Another boy, Shimura-kun, pointed out that the areas
of the two sheets should be in the same proportion as their weights: 300 ÷ 120
= 2.5. ‘Ah, so there are various ways of doing the problem,’ commented
Yoshioka-sensei, suggesting that Shimura-kun’s way might be the easiest to
understand. She then brought the lesson to an end.
Lesson 13 (4 December 1995, 9.00–10.15 a.m.: 75 minutes)

Lesson 13 began with a long whole-class session, with further discussion of

the problem tackled in the previous lesson, along with a similar problem
made by the teacher, and then a third problem, also given by the teacher.
Children then worked individually on a problem from the textbook, assigned
by the teacher. Its working was briefly reviewed in a whole-class session at the
end of the lesson. Nine minutes in total were spent on individual work, and
the rest on whole-class work.
Yoshioka-sensei began by returning to the problem of the two iron sheets.
After going over the problem, she said that some pupils might not realize that
the problem had to do with proportion (hirei), and raised the question of
what ratio and proportion were. Koide-san suggested that the reason the
problem had to do with ratio and proportion was that one could compare
the two iron sheets.
Yoshioka-sensei then asked what the children would think if one of the
sheets was made of paper and the other made of iron. Could they still work
out the area in the same way as in the problem they had looked at? Several
children said they thought it would be difficult to compare the two, but they
did not seem very sure. Yoshioka-sensei then went over the problem again
and explained that one could only solve the problem if the two sheets were
made of the same materials. To demonstrate, she took a sheet of paper and
tore about a quarter out of it. She then labelled the smaller piece ‘2 grams
(100 cm2)’ and the larger piece, ‘10 grams’, and asked the children how much
the area of the larger piece would be. ‘Who knows?’ About two-thirds of the
children raised their hands. Yoshioka-sensei asked Yamada-kun for the
answer, which he gave correctly as 500 cm2, and also asked him to explain his
answer, which he did. Yoshioka-sensei then asked Mizutani-san how she did
this problem, and she answered that she compared how many times bigger the
larger piece of paper was than the smaller one. ‘Who understands that?’
asked Yoshioka-sensei, and almost all the children raised their hands. ‘Are
there any other ways of getting the answer?’ asked the teacher, and two other
boys offered alternative methods. Yoshioka-sensei wrote the three different
ways of solving the problem on the blackboard:
1. 10 ÷ 2 = 5
100 × 5 = 500
2. Multiples of 2
2g ×2 100 cm2
×3
×4
×5 × 5 times
10 500
3. 2 : 10 = 1 : 5 → 1/5 10 : 2 = 5 : 1 → 5/1 = 5
100 : x 100 100 × 5 = 500
She then reiterated that if the materials – the conditions – were the same, it
would possible to compare, and asked, ‘Who found proportion in this prob-
lem?’ Five children raised their hands. Yoshioka-sensei then asked the chil-
dren to think of characteristics of proportion that they could find in the
problem. She then asked what the area of the paper would be if its weight was
1 gram. Eight children raised their hands. Yoshioka-sensei then removed the
piece of paper labelled 10 grams, leaving the one labelled 2 grams – at which
most though not all children raised their hands. The boy whom Yoshioka-
sensei chose to answer said, ‘50 cm2,’ and she then asked, ‘Okay, where did
you find proportion?’ choosing another boy from the volunteers to answer.
He explained that if x increases twice or three times, then y also increases
twice or three times, and in this case, if you multiply 1 gram by 10, you get
10 grams, while if you multiply 50 grams by 10, you get 500 grams. ‘Right,’
said Yoshioka-sensei. ‘So with this, you could make a table, a graph, and an
equation. This time, I’d just like you to produce an equation.’ After a little
while, she wrote on the blackboard:
y=䊊×x
However, a little while later she commented that since a lot of people seemed
to be having trouble with the equation, they would try making a table. She
drew one on the blackboard and then asked Fukao-kun to fill in the figures
(Table 4.5).
‘It will be good if we can write the equation,’ she commented. ‘How many
have done one?’ About ten children raised their hands, which rather dismayed
Yoshioka-sensei, who remarked, ‘Where has all that study of proportion
gone?’ However, when she walked around the class she discovered that in fact
Table 4.5 Table for paper sheet problem
xg 1 2 3 4
y cm2 50 100 150 200
most children had written the correct equation (y = 50 × x), though only
about ten had had enough confidence in its correctness to admit to it.
Reiterating again that one could only do this comparison if the conditions
were the same – for example, if one had two pieces of the same kind of paper
– Yoshioka-sensei then gave the children another problem, which she said was
usually in the textbook (though not that year). Writing the problem on the
blackboard, she explained that there is a big tree whose height you want to
know. How do you work it out? Teramoto-kun suggested, ‘The shadow.’
Yoshioka-sensei then drew the tree on the blackboard and explained that if at
12 noon you were to measure the shadow of a rod whose height you knew,
and then measured the shadow of the tree, you would be able to work out the
height of the tree. She then had Funada-kun explain the reason to the class,
and when she asked at the end of the explanation how many people under-
stand it, almost all the children raised their hands. No doubt prompted by the
diagrams of the tree and the rod on the blackboard, Yoshioka-sensei pointed
out to the children that making a reduced drawing (shukuzu) was the same
idea as ratio and proportion.
Next Yoshioka-sensei returned to the problem of the two iron sheets, which
was still written up on the main blackboard, and said, ‘Okay, let’s get the
answer to this problem.’ She asked the four children who had suggested
different methods of solving the problem in the previous lesson to each work
out the problem using their own method. First was Shimura-kun:
300 ÷ 120 = 2.5
60 × 2.5 = 150 Answer: 150 cm2
Next was Koide-san:
300 : x = 2 : 1
300 ÷ 2 = 150 Answer: 150 cm2
Next came Iwata-kun, whose method was comparatively complicated and

difficult to express in the form of equations. Nonetheless, Yoshioka-sensei
persevered with it, writing out the whole working on the blackboard in
accordance with what Iwata-kun said. However, at the end she commented,
‘Better not use that one.’ Finally came Teramoto-kun’s method, which was
also comparatively complicated.7 Iwata-kun remarked that it was basically
the same as that used by Shimura-kun. Yoshioka-sensei told the children that
one could use any of these methods – all of them gave the answer to the
problem. (She later told me that many children had written in their post-
lesson reflections that they found Shimura-kun’s method the easiest to under-
stand, yet it was not the one used in the textbook.) She then told them to turn
to page 36 of the textbook, copy Question 3 into their exercise books and do
the problem. The children handed in their book to the teacher once they
had finished the problem, and then wrote their reflection sheets. After a few
minutes, when many children had already handed in their exercise books,
Yoshioka-sensei wrote two ways of tackling the problem on the blackboard:
980 ÷ 140 = 7 1 g how much?
7 × 700 = 4,900
700 ÷ 140 = 5
¥980 × 5 = 4,900
She asked who had used each method; most children had used the second
method, with one or two using the first, and Teramoto-kun yet another
method. This was the end of the lesson and the unit.
Studying proportion in 6–1

Space does not allow such a detailed account of the way that Sanada-sensei
tackled the unit on proportion in class 6–1. I will give a summary and then
make a comparison what was done in 6–3.
Sanada-sensei began the unit before Yoshioka-sensei, and his first lesson
also demonstrated the flow of water between two tanks and elicited ideas
from the children about what was changing. In addition, he made two electric
toys run around the classroom while holding a stopwatch, afterwards eliciting
ideas from the children about the relationship of electricity bills or batteries
with distance. He also had them think of and write down other ideas about
things that changed together. In the second lesson, he had the children exam-
ine a series of problems and divide them into two types suggested by the
children themselves – namely, problems in which two values both increased or
decreased, and problems in which one value increased while the other
decreased. (This was a contrast with 6–3, where Yoshioka-sensei ensured
that all the children worked on problems in which both values increased.)
Children were unsure about which category one particular problem belonged
to, and when Sanada-sensei asked them what they thought they should do in
order to investigate the issue, they decided to use tables. The third lesson
started with the class working individually on tables. They had studied tables
previously, but many still had difficulty and made mistakes. Sanada-sensei
told me he deliberately refrained from giving them instructions about how to
make the tables beforehand, in order to make them think. Instead, he fol-
lowed the individual work with a whole-class session in which problems that
had emerged were discussed and various solutions were suggested by himself
and the children.
In the fourth and fifth lessons, the children made graphs. Sanada-sensei
gave them two problems to investigate, but again did not give them prelimin-
ary guidance about making graphs. He told me later that this was out of a
belief in the value of discovery learning (hakken gakushū), which he saw

as basic to learning maths; if he had taught the children what to do at the
start or corrected what they did immediately, then their sense of fulfillment
(manzokukan) and their level of understanding would have been low, and it
would simply have amounted to a repeat of what they had done in the fourth
year – which many of them had in fact forgotten. As the children had not
made graphs for a long time, many of them made mistakes, and again
Sanada-sensei followed the individual work session with a whole-class session
in which the children were able to discuss the different graphs they had made
and why some were better than others. After that he reviewed how to make
graphs with the whole class himself.
At the end of the fifth lesson, Sanada-sensei had the children choose three
problems that they anticipated would show different relationships between
the values, with the purpose of investigating their patterns of change further
using tables and graphs. He also gave them the choice of working on these
Figure 4.7 Children in 6–1 at Nakamachi looking at graphs made by different small
groups.
problems in groups or individually, and the children preferred individual
work. This took up the sixth lesson. In the seventh, eighth and ninth lessons,
there were whole-class sessions in which the children reported the rules they
had found and discussed the results, with Sanada-sensei introducing and
defining the term ‘proportion’ in lesson eight, and discussion of whether the
problems displayed proportion or not in lesson nine.
At the end of lesson nine, Sanada-sensei told the class that while all the
problems they had been investigating over four lessons displayed proportion,
there were differences between them too. In lessons ten and eleven, therefore,
the class used the graphs and tables they had made to try to work out these
differences. These lessons were divided between group work and whole-class
work. The children worked out for themselves that one can use decimals in
some problems but only integers in others, while Sanada-sensei had to draw
to their attention that in some problems, such as those involving containers
of limited capacity, there was a necessary limit to the values involved that
needed to be shown in a graph, whereas other problems had no necessary
limit.
In lesson thirteen, Sanada-sensei introduced the problem of the two metal
sheets that 6–3 had also examined. The class then spent the best part of four
lessons investigating this problem in groups, using tables or graphs, and then,
as a whole class, discussing various ways of tackling it. In total, 16 lessons
over almost a month were devoted to the unit.
Comparison of teaching in 6–1 and 6–3

There were many differences in the details of the ways that Yoshioka-sensei
and Sanada-sensei organized their teaching of the unit on proportion. In 6–1,
the children investigated problems in which one of two values increased
and the other decreased, as well as problems in which both values increased.
In 6–3, however, only the latter type of problem was investigated; on the other
hand, the class examined one problem that did not display proportion, which
did not happen in 6–1. In 6–3, during the first part of the unit the children
investigated only problems they had thought up themselves, whereas in 6–1,
some problems came from the children and some from the teacher. Class 6–3
spent more time at the beginning of the unit making problems and discussing
the differences between them using various methods, before moving on to a
more systematic comparison in which the entire class used first tables and
then graphs. Class 6–1, on the other hand, spent little time at the start of the
unit making problems; instead, during the first few lessons more time was
spent on working out how to do investigations using tables and graphs, and
only after that did the children choose three problems to investigate. In 6–3,
the eight groups each investigated a different problem, and the whole class
then looked at all eight problems (even though some received more attention
than others). In 6–1, on the other hand, the number of problems investigated
was fewer. My own feeling was that Sanada-sensei took a stronger role in
controlling the organization of the lessons than did Yoshioka-sensei. In 6–3,
the teaching and learning process seemed more fluid and unpredictable, less
determined in advance and more open to change, than in 6–1. One reason for
this may have been Sanada-sensei’s awareness that lesson seven of the unit
would be a research lesson attended by other teachers in the school. This
required him to prepare a plan of the unit and an explanation of his approach
in it. However, the differences between the two approaches were probably
also influenced by the particular personalities of the two teachers, as well as
what they felt was appropriate for the particular group of children they were
teaching at the time.
At the same time, there were also important commonalities of approach
between the two classes. In both cases, it was fundamental that the entire class
should be studying the same topic at one time, and that there should be
enough commonality among the problems examined to allow whole-class
sessions in which meaningful discussion and exchange of ideas could take
place. Both teachers began by presenting the children with an observable
physical change (the water flowing between the tanks) and eliciting ideas
about it from them. Both organized the lessons so that there was an alterna-
tion between individual work or group work and whole-class work, helping to
ensure that individuals thought about problems themselves before sharing
ideas and learning from others in the whole-class context. Neither gave
children detailed instructions about what to do at the outset of their investi-
gations. Both stressed thinking about how to tackle problems, welcomed
various approaches to the same problem, and placed great importance on
having students themselves explain their ideas and reasoning. Both gave the
children some choice about the problems they investigated.
This combination of similarity and difference supports the idea that there
are some similarities of approach in the teaching of maths that are shared
by many Japanese teachers – a set of basic ideas and practices with which
teachers usually operate, while varying their particular approach to suit
their individual situations at a certain time. Research on Japanese primary
maths teaching to date has mainly focused on approaches common to
many teachers (Stevenson and Stigler, 1992: 174–99; Lewis, 1995: 149–77;
Whitburn, 2000), but given the lively culture of pedagogical action research
in Japan (Sato and Asanuma, 2000; Fernandez and Yoshida, 2004), it is
hardly surprising to find variation and innovation within a broadly shared
paradigm.
Mathematics lessons at Nakamachi as sociocultural learning

Sixth year maths lessons at Nakamachi can be described as what I have called
sociocultural learning – learning that takes place in and through a ‘com-
munity of inquiry’ in which the teacher facilitates learners’ engagement with
one another’s perspectives (Wells, 1999: 126, 300, 308). The teacher’s role was
that of a ‘manager of learning’, maintaining control of the overall learning
agenda, yet giving children a significant role in deciding the problems to be
investigated and the means of investigation. While teachers such as Yoshioka-
sensei and Sanada-sensei were able to draw on their experience to mitigate the
‘teacher’s dilemma’, the demands of the dilemma also forced them into some
compromises. The lessons encouraged learner autonomy, and also responded
to the children’s individuality to some extent. However, the emphasis on
learning from one another during whole-class sessions did seem to limit the
degree to which children could pursue their own interests in creating and
exploring problems.
Learner autonomy and the teacher’s role

As we have seen, Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei were trying to teach the
unit on proportion with a view to developing the children’s motivation and
ability to study independently. They gave the children a significant role in
determining what problems would be tackled, and the direction the study
would take. In 6–3, the children spent most of the unit investigating problems
they had thought of and formulated themselves; it was not until the eighth
lesson that the teacher gave them any other problems to tackle. In 6–1, the
children initially chose three problems to investigate from a larger number,
some drawn from their own ideas, and some provided by the teacher. In both
classes, the children were able to decide what means they wanted to use to
investigate the problems (e.g. tables or graphs). This approach demanded
openness and a flexible responsiveness from the teachers, since it was impos-
sible to predict exactly what problems the children would make or choose.
The resulting problems did not necessarily fall into neat categories, but this
could be turned to advantage – the teachers used it as an opportunity to have
the children think about why problems should be assigned to one category
rather than another. In 6–1, children had difficulty actually using some of the
investigative techniques they had chosen, such as tables or graphs, usually
because they had forgotten how, but Sanada-sensei refrained from teaching
them what to do himself, and instead dealt with the problem by a whole-class
discussion, during which the children themselves put forward their ideas
about what to do.
However, both teachers maintained overall control over the learning pro-
cess, using the kind of techniques detailed by Edwards and Mercer (1987:
138–59) and Mercer (1995: 21–41). They set the agenda for the unit as a
whole, and at the start of each lesson, as well as on occasion during lessons.
They also retained control through their ability to make certain basic choices,
including who would make the next major spoken contribution, and which
contributions by children would be picked up for elaboration and discussion
(cf. Edwards and Mercer, 1987: 131). The Nakamachi teachers were very
skilful at eliciting and developing contributions that would pinpoint prob-
lems or develop understanding. Other techniques used for controlling the
classroom discourse included reformulation of what children had said, and
recapitulation of part of the lesson (cf. Mercer, 1995: 32–3). Jaworski (1994:
90–185) describes part of the teacher’s job as ‘management of learning’,
which can include setting the agenda and laying down ground rules about the
way classroom activities proceed. She quotes fellow maths educationalist
Paul Cobb as saying that even using a constructivist approach, therefore, ‘The
teacher is still an authority in the classroom. The teacher still teaches.’ (1994:
181) The term ‘management of learning’ applies very well to the role assumed
by Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei during this unit.
Although the Nakamachi teachers managed learning in their classes, it was

notable that they avoided the kind of fine-grained control described both by
Edwards and Mercer (1987) at the British primary school they studied, and
by Boaler at Amber Hill secondary school. Edwards and Mercer (1987: 142)
described the pervasive use of a technique they called ‘cued elicitation’ which
they defined as ‘types of discourse in which the teacher asks questions while
simultaneously providing heavy clues to the information required’. They
criticized this technique for involving children in a guessing game in which
they try to work out what the teacher wants them to say, rather than trying to
actually achieve understanding. At Boaler’s Amber Hill, meanwhile, teachers
would lead the students through mathematical problems by asking them a
series of ‘closed questions with short factual answers that [did] not require
any interpretation or reasoning’ (Boaler, 1997: 21), questions which broke
down the problems into isolated fragments. Both techniques involved very
close management of discourse by the teacher, and seemed actually to hinder
children’s development of understanding and reasoning. In contrast, the
Nakamachi teachers encouraged children to speak at length when giving their
ideas and explanations. Their approach resembled more closely the British
secondary maths classrooms studied by Jaworski (1994: 171), whose features
included ‘inviting enquiry, raising questions, encouraging conjectures and
requiring justification’.
A further strategy used by Yoshioka-sensei in particular was the adoption
of a non-expert role (cf. Mercer, 1995: 57). Rather than assuming the role of
an expert who knew all the answers beforehand, she tended to adopt the
position of someone who might be more expert than the children, but who
still had room to learn more and could thus be engaged with them in a joint
exploratory study. One of the best examples of this came during the categor-
ization of problems during the second and third lessons of the proportional
change unit. In the second lesson, two problems were placed in the category
of ‘extras’ (bangaihen) and deferred for later discussion, and at the beginning
of lesson three, Yoshioka-sensei told the children that she herself had won-
dered about how to categorize these problems. More generally, she adopted a
style of speech that dissociated her from an expert role. When asking ques-
tions, for example, her intonation often suggested that she herself was not
completely certain about the answer – a rhetorical strategy akin to that used
by British primary teacher Irene Shantry, who changed the form of her ques-
tions from ‘How would . . .?’ to ‘I wonder how . . .?’ to diminish the sense that
she as teacher already knew the answer, and found that adopting ‘the role of
“non-expert” ’ created ‘relationships of trust and cooperation’ and encour-
aged children to speak and take the initiative (Brierley et al., 1992). It was
also rare for Yoshioka-sensei to answer her own questions to the children.
Frequently, she would wait for a child to come up with a convincing answer to
a question she posed and then ask the class whether they understood this or
found it convincing, thus dissociating herself from the role of arbiter. In some
cases, her refusal to supply an answer and her unwillingness to accept answers
that she found inadequate could stimulate long discussions. This was notably
so in lesson six, when she refused either to accept the children’s explanations
about why two equations with different figures were ‘the same’, or to provide
an answer herself. The discussion continued for several minutes and was
finally left unresolved until a later lesson. During the discussion, Yoshioka-
sensei used a number of techniques labelled as ‘innovative’ within a British
context by Mercer (1995: 32), including the use of declarative statements to
invite rejoinder or disagreement, ‘inviting elaboration’, and ‘admitting per-
plexity’. There were marked similarities with a discussion between teacher
and pupils recorded by Jaworski (1994: 98–100), which also centred on think-
ing through the relationship between different mathematical objects, working
out what was meant by ‘the same’. As Jaworski (1994: 100) notes, such a
discussion involves ‘a high degree of mathematical challenge’ and ‘consider-
able risk’ (of being wrong) for the pupils involved. For it to have a successful
result, the ethos of the classroom must be supportive, with good relationships
between the teacher and the pupils, as well as between the pupils themselves.
There must be ‘an effective balance between challenge and sensitivity’ (1994:
101). This point is importantly related to the issue of building a class group,
to which we shall return.
Learning from one another: individuality and the community

of inquiry
As in the kokugo lessons discussed in the last chapter, enabling children to
learn from one another was a key feature of the maths lessons in 6–1 and 6–3.
This was the reason why so much lesson time was spent in either whole-class
work or small-group work, with whole-class work usually taking up two-
thirds or more of the lesson. Even when children did individual work, they
were normally allowed to consult one another. Whole-class work did not
centre on exposition by the teacher or series of short, closed questions; it
usually centred on open questions posed to the whole class, so that all the
children could listen to their classmates’ reasoned answers, as well as their
queries and puzzlement. Meanwhile, the periods of individual or group work
that often preceded whole-class work allowed children the chance to think
about problems for themselves before sharing ideas with the rest of the class.
Having the children write reflections about what they had understood or not
understood at the end of each lesson also allowed the teachers to know better
about the mathematical progress of individuals and take this into account as
they planned the next lesson.
The predominant use of whole-class work did place limits on the freedom
of individual children to pursue their own interests. In this way, the maths
teaching at Nakamachi differed from the investigative teaching described by
Jaworski (1994) and Boaler (1997). Boaler records that children at progressive
Phoenix Park had a great deal of freedom to develop and explore problems
individually or in small groups, with the result that ‘as time went by and more
lessons were spent on the theme, the students began to diverge more and
more, both in the amount of work they did and the topics they worked on
(Boaler, 1997: 45). Jaworski too records that in the investigatively-oriented
maths classrooms she studied, ‘there was a sense of freedom to explore situ-
ations and students followed diverse directions according to their own abil-
ities and interests’, though she also notes that ‘organization of the classrooms
flexibly in groups enabled sharing and cooperation’ and that ‘students usually
moved freely about the room and spoke freely to each other’ (Jaworski, 1994:
177). In the classes at Nakamachi there were more constraints on the pupils,
many of which arose from the concern that they should be able to share
insights, learn from one another, and make progress together. While the
teachers did allow a significant degree of choice and self-direction, this
remained within the bounds of the concept of the whole class as the basic
community of learners.
On the other hand, the Nakamachi teachers were very willing to accept a
diversity of ways to solve a given problem. There were several occasions in
Yoshioka-sensei’s lessons when two, three, or four children suggested differ-
ent ways of solving a problem, and on each occasion, her response was to
point out this diversity to the children, and tell them to use whichever way
suited them best – although she would sometimes suggest one way as most
efficient. Yoshioka-sensei and other teachers saw this as one way of respond-
ing to children’s individuality, since different individuals would find different
approaches helpful.
Principled knowledge and mathematics as experience

As the description of the lessons in the proportional change unit makes clear,
Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei were far from teaching conscious, explicit
strategies for learning abstract knowledge, in the manner criticized by Lave
(1988). They did not use the type of ‘exposition and practice’ approach (also
known as ‘direct instruction’) that Jaworski (1994: 8) describes as the most
common way of teaching maths at secondary schools in Britain and the
United States, at least up to the mid-1980s, that Boaler (1997: 46) refers to as
‘standard’ in British schools, and that Stigler and Hiebert (1999: 27) present
as normal in the United States. Instead, their approach was far closer to
allowing children to experience and investigate inherently mathematical situ-
ations, and what they primarily wanted their pupils to learn was a principled
understanding of mathematical relationships, rather than procedures that
could be followed in order to solve certain types of problems. This was why so
much time was spent investigating so few problems. In 6–3’s fifth to seventh
lessons, for example, the focus was on analysing and comparing the math-
ematical relationships within the problems the children had made. Yoshioka-
sensei did not tell the children how to do this. At first, in lesson five, she
simply had them look at the problem and table made by group seven, and
asked them what they noticed about it. She then had each group carry out an
analysis of its own problem – after which the relationships the children had
found within the different problems were compared in a key whole-class dis-
cussion. Focusing on the relationships identified in the problems chosen by
group two (‘when x increases by 1, y increases by 1’) and group seven (‘when x
increases by 1, y increases by 3’), Yoshioka-sensei asked whether these rela-
tionships were the same or not. She pointed out that the numbers involved
were different – so if the two relationships were ‘the same’, as many children
insisted, what did that mean? At this point, none of the children succeeded in
explaining this to her satisfaction, and instead of explaining herself, she sug-
gested returning to the issue later, after further investigation. By the next
lesson, Sato-kun succeeded in explaining that what the two problems (as well
as several others) had in common was that ‘y would result if you multiplied x
by something’ even though the exact numbers involved might differ – thus
showing his understanding of the mathematical relationship involved. By the
end of the lesson, members of the class could differentiate the problems they
had made according to the mathematical relationships within them, and
could also distinguish between trivial differences (numbers) and significant
differences (relationships).
In later lessons, too, the focus continued to be on mathematical relation-
ships and on thinking about processes by which one could tackle problems,
rather than on learning procedures for finding the right answer. In lesson
eight, for example, Yoshioka-sensei provided the class with four problems,
but rather than telling them to solve the problems and find the answers, she
told them to investigate whether the rules they had discovered applied to
these problems, and what kind of problems they were. She also emphasized
doing the problems carefully rather than doing them fast. Again, in lessons
twelve and thirteen Yoshioka-sensei gave the class a problem (that of the two
iron sheets) and instead of just telling them to solve it, asked them to think
about how they could tackle it. These two lessons were then spent discussing
the different ways in which this and similar problems could be tackled, and
why these methods worked. Though Yoshioka-sensei did suggested that some
of the methods proposed might be easier to use than others, she did not place
much emphasis on the issue of learning efficient procedures. Instead, stress
was placed on thinking about how problems might be tackled, or in other
words, how principled knowledge could be applied to generate procedures.
Looking back on the lessons, Sanada-sensei said that from a mathematical
point of view, he had wanted the children to become accustomed to looking
at things in terms of mathematical functions (kansū-teki na mikata), and had
wanted them to become interested in this kind of change, whereby two values
changed together. While giving children lots of problems to do was a way to
improve their ability to solve problems (mondai o toku), he had been aiming at
improving their ability to study in a self-directed way (gakushū o susumeru),
not just their ability to solve problems. Because of the investigative approach,
there had been some parts of the textbook that had not been stressed much,
with the result that these parts had remained vague and the children had not
been able to answer the questions about them in the test at the end of the unit.
After the test, he had tried to deal with the issue of their problem-solving
ability to some extent by explaining how to solve such problems, and then
having them do the same test again.
Another way of tackling this ‘teacher’s dilemma’ was to treat the boundar-
ies of textbook units with flexibility. In discussing how her maths teaching had
changed with experience, Yoshioka-sensei explained that instead of teaching
units separately, nowadays she tended to let them flow into one another,
linking them through the children’s interests. Indeed, both Yoshioka-sensei
and Sanada-sensei spent longer than the ten lessons recommended in the
teacher’s manual on the ‘proportional change’ unit (13 and 16 lessons respect-
ively). However, both took much less time than the manual recommended for
the closely related unit, ‘inverse proportion’ (hanpirei), as they had already
covered much of its content during the lessons on the earlier, closely related
unit. The ‘teacher’s dilemma’, whereby investigation does not necessarily
lead children to learn all that the curriculum dictates, was thus present at
Nakamachi, as at the British schools studied by Jaworski and Boaler, and like
their British counterparts, Sanada-sensei and Yoshioka-sensei found them-
selves dealing with it in various ways, including compromises they did not
regard as ideal.
Conclusion
Sixth year teachers at Nakamachi approached the teaching of mathematics
with a combination of long-standing aims, and newer aims that have arisen in
the context of the educational reform programme. They wanted children in
their classes to understand the mathematics they studied, but they also
wanted them to develop the ability to study in an independent, self-directed
way. In the terms of Edwards and Mercer (1987), the understanding they
aimed at was not ‘procedural’ but ‘principled’. To that end, they acted as
‘learning managers’, avoiding closed, factual questions, fragmentation of
learning, and close teacher control, in favour of larger, more challenging
questions and investigation and discussion by pupils. In this, they were teach-
ing in a way that has previously been observed in Japanese public primary
classrooms from the mid-1980s on by Stevenson and Stigler (1992), Lewis
(1995), and Whitburn (2000). The accumulation of studies at different times
and in different parts of Japan gives confidence that this mode of mathematics
teaching is widespread and long-standing in Japanese primary education;
there is every indication that it represents the mainstream mode.
In order to promote independent, self-directed learning, Yoshioka-sensei
and Saneda-sensei let children in their classes devise their own problems for
mathematical investigation, and also allowed them a significant role in decid-
ing how to investigate the problems. Besides achieving the aim of developing
children’s autonomy for its own sake, these practices are also consistent with
the approaches to maths learning advocated by situated learning theorists
such as Lave (1988), and constructivists such as Jaworski (1994). Teachers

also recognized individual differences in children’s learning by encouraging
them to share a variety of approaches to solving the same problem, so that
children could appreciate this diversity and feel comfortable about using
whichever method suited them best. In this sense, the Nakamachi maths
lessons promoted individuality as well as autonomy. However, the basic
teaching approach, whereby the whole class came together to think about and
discuss problems, did place some limits on the degree to which individuality
and autonomy could be developed. Had children pursued their own math-
ematical interests without regard for what their classmates were doing, it
would probably have become difficult to hold meaningful whole-class ses-
sions. The importance attached by Nakamachi teachers to children’s learning
from one another meant that this was not a practical option.
The value that teachers place on children’s learning from one another is
connected to pedagogical conceptualizations of the nature of learning. There
is nothing intrinsically ‘Japanese’ about these conceptualizations; however,
the common Japanese disposition to see humans as interdependent, and the
view of the class group as a small community whose members help one
another, are certainly likely to make Japanese primary teachers receptive to
such ideas. In this sense, we can see a link between Japanese understandings
of selfhood, and the pedagogical approaches adopted in primary classrooms,
including mathematics classrooms. At the same time, Japanese understand-
ings of selfhood are multifaceted and various, as pointed out in Chapter 1,
and autonomy, individuality, and self-reliance are also valued alongside
interdependence. This makes possible the kind of shift towards greater
emphasis on individual self-direction seen at Nakamachi, and also means
that larger moves in this direction are possible. It needs to be remembered
that the importance of learning from one another diminishes greatly in
Japanese secondary classrooms, whose dominant pedagogy is much closer
to an individually-oriented transmission model (Rohlen, 1983; Fukuzawa,
1994).8 I would argue that Japanese primary teachers do not only value chil-
dren’s learning from one another because of dispositions towards certain
understandings of selfhood, but also because this pedagogical approach has
become strongly entrenched within the primary education system – an system
that is, for practical purposes, an almost entirely separate institution from the
secondary education system in terms of both teaching and personnel. Even
more than culturally significant views of selfhood, institutionally dominant
understandings of pedagogy and human development create significant
resistance to pedagogical approaches that assign little or no role to learning
from one another.
The implications of this are that while culturally specific dispositions in the
understanding of human selfhood may make Japanese primary teachers more
receptive to sociocultural pedagogy, such dispositions are themselves not suf-
ficient to determine whether this or any other type of pedagogy will become
established in schools. In other words, sociocultural pedagogy is not cultur-
ally specific, though its reception may be affected to some degree by local
understandings of human selfhood. In fact, the studies of researchers such as
Jaworski and Boaler show striking resemblances between the approaches to
maths teaching in some British schools and that of Japanese schools such as
Nakamachi. That the British schools appear to prefer an approach focused
on small groups, with more freedom for individual exploration, while the
teachers at Nakamachi remained committed to the value of learning as a
whole class, probably does stem in part from different views of human self-
hood in the two societies at this historical moment. Yet, given that within
both societies there is appreciation both of the value of the individual and of
the significance of human interdependence, it is not difficult to envisage the
justification of future pedagogical shifts through a change in the emphasis
given to one part of the society’s understanding of selfhood over another.
Indeed, it can be argued that the kind of shift in approach seen at Nakamachi
is an example of just such a process.
Notes
1 A number of time clashes between lessons that I was observing in 6–3, and maths
lessons in 6–1, made it impossible to watch all the 6–1 lessons. However, there was
also an advantage to watching a sequence of lessons that were not planned with a
research lesson in view, since such a sequence is inevitably given special attention by
the teacher and is, in this sense, uncharacteristic.
2 As noted in Chapter 2, nakama does not literally mean a ‘family group’, but a
‘group whose members belong together’. ‘Family group’ is used here as an idiomatic
English equivalent.
3 In a later interview on 22 December 1995, Yoshioka-sensei told me that she also
told the students just to make problems in which both values were increasing, so
that the whole class would have this in common. I did not realize this at the time of
the lesson. Yoshioka-sensei also noted in this interview that she had dealt with other
types of problem (e.g. with both values decreasing, or one increasing and one
decreasing) in the following unit on inverse proportion (hanpirei).
4 I missed all but the final 20 minutes of this lesson, as I had agreed to a request from
the principal to help with interpretation for some American exchange students
who were visiting the school. The first part of the lesson is therefore as described
afterwards by Yoshioka-sensei; also, timings for the lesson cannot be given.
5 This translation makes Yoshioka-sensei’s question sound more precise and tech-
nical than it actually was. In Japanese, she merely asked the students what they
noticed about the ‘way of increasing’ (fuekata) without specifying what was
increasing.
6 Furikaeri literally means ‘looking back’ or ‘reflecting’.
7 Unfortunately I did not manage to copy down the working for these last two
methods while I was taking notes on the lesson.
8 According to the research of Stigler and Hiebert (1999), students at junior high do
continue to learn from one another in maths lessons, as the teacher will often ask
several students to present different solutions to a problem. Their focus on maths
lessons may have enabled them to observe practices missed by Fukuzawa. However,
my own observation of junior high maths lessons in Japan indicates that while
students may continue to learn from one another’s presentations, they volunteer
comments and take an active part in class discussion much less than in primary
school.
5 Learning gender
Gender cannot be overlooked in any discussion of selfhood. As anthropo-

logical and other research has repeatedly shown, gender categories and iden-
tity exercise a deep and often determining influence on role, status, language,
and behaviour; and this process begins from the very earliest age. Gender has
certainly been of great social and cultural significance in Japan during the 150
years since the country opened its doors to the Western world, with changes
or threats to dominant gender statuses, roles and identities often leading to
debate and controversy. Education has perennially been one of the central
means used to try to reshape or maintain such gender identities, and it is
therefore important to examine the ways in which Japanese children learn to
become gendered selves within the school environment.
Japanese leaders in the Meiji period (1868–1912) inherited social and intel-
lectual traditions that tended to see women as inferior in ability to men, and
assigned them a lower rank in society (Niwa, 1993; Imai, 1994; Yamakawa,
2001: 142). In the Meiji period itself and thereafter, there were shifts in views
of women, significantly influenced by contemporary Western thinking; in
particular, women were seen as peculiarly fitted for the role of ‘good wife and
wise mother’ (ryōsai kenbo), a doctrine promulgated in girls’ schools by the
Ministry of Education from the 1890s onwards (Fukuya, 1998). These views
about the place of women were dominant until the end of the Asia-Pacific
War in 1945, and continued to exercise a considerable influence in postwar
Japan, despite major reforms introducing constitutional equality of the sexes,
co-education, and political representation of women (Kaneko, 1995: 10–11;
Hara, 1995). There is no shortage of evidence that gender stereotyping and
discrimination have been and often continue to be pervasive in Japanese
society. As many authors over decades have described, dominant postwar
ideologies and institutional arrangements encouraged a strictly gendered div-
ision of labour within the family (Brinton, 1993; Yoda, 2000). Women were to
devote themselves to the roles of wife and mother, on the basis of a belief that
it was this for which they were naturally fitted (Rohlen, 1974: 242; Vogel,
1978; Lebra, 1984; Allison, 1996; Long, 1996; Borovoy, 2005: 67–85). This
also allowed companies to demand that men give their primary devotion to
their work, leaving many with little free time for their families (Rohlen, 1974:
Learning gender 153
248–53; Allison, 1994: 94–110). Until the passage of the Equal Employment
Opportunity Law (EEOL) in 1986, opportunities for management careers
were rare for women, and even after the EEOL (and its revision in 1997),
change has been limited; moreover, many women have been deterred from
seeking management positions by companies’ reluctance to make it easier for
their workers (female or male) to combine work and family roles (Lam, 1992;
Creighton, 1996; Roberts, 2002; White, 2002: 122–30; Gelb, 2003: 49–63).
Firms still largely seem to prefer the longstanding postwar pattern whereby
men are expected to be totally committed ‘corporate warriors’, while women

work full-time until marriage, and then part-time, for lower wages and bene-
fits, once their children are in school – work which is itself often seen as for
the sake of the family (Smith, 1987: 16; Kondo, 1990: 274–85). This situ-
ation may have been strengthened by the recognition given to the importance
of the role of the housewife and mother in modern Japan, so that women do
not necessarily see such a role as inferior to that of men, merely as different
(Iwao, 1993: 80–93). Certainly, ethnographers in the first few postwar decades
found that male white-collar workers and their wives rarely expressed strong
dissatisfaction with the gendered division of labour they experienced (Vogel,
1963; Rohlen, 1974: 248–51; Allison, 1994: 102–10). Yet as Robert Smith
(1987) pointed out, this cannot disguise the real gender inequality in Japan;
and it has become increasingly clear in recent years that significant numbers
of women in particular are no longer prepared to be limited by the gendered
expectations and practices that have dominated the postwar period, and are
looking for a wider variety of ways towards self-fulfilment (Kelsky, 2001:
85–132; Rosenberger, 2001: 125–213). One of the most conspicuous results
has been the increasing numbers of women who get married later, or not at all
(Tokuhiro, 2004), and a birthrate plummeting to an all-time low of 1.25 in
2005 (Asahi Shinbun, 2006), as women refuse the unattractive choice between
giving up their careers, or else assuming the double burden of a job and most
of the care of the home and children (Jolivet, 1997). Indeed, it is probably no
exaggeration to say that Japan is in the throes of a crisis of gender identity
and role.
What roles does Japanese schooling play in the shaping of gender identity
today? Does it contribute to gender stereotyping, or does it help to break
down stereotyped identities and behaviour patterns? Surprisingly, there has
been relatively little research on the role played by education in the gender
socialization process in Japan – certainly nowhere near as much as in Britain
or the United States – and so the answers to such questions remain partial
and unclear. This chapter delineates perceptions and practices of gender at
Nakamachi and Morikawa. Gender identity is a key element of selfhood.
How, then, were children learning gender at these Sakura primary schools?
And how was what they learned affected by the discourses of selfhood mani-
fested in the practices of the schools and of individual teachers? I find that
gender stereotyping and discrimination were far less evident in these primary
schools than they are in Japanese society more generally, judging by previous
154 Learning gender
above-mentioned research. Significantly, many of the most clearly gendered
features observed in the schools were generated by children themselves, or
brought into school by them. This casts doubt on the arguments of those who
might see primary schools as bearing a large degree of blame for socializing
Japanese children into conforming to gender stereotypes. On the contrary, I
would suggest the opposite; that we should consider the possibility that the
relative lack of gender stereotyping in primary schools (and possibly in later
stages of education) may prepare children and young people to expect a simi-
lar situation in adulthood – an expectation that is often not fulfilled – and

thus may provide them with an experiential ideal against which they can meas-
ure adult social reality and find it wanting.1 This would certainly help to explain
the rising expectations of gender equality witnessed among younger Japanese
in recent decades, as well as the increasing dissatisfaction that Japanese
women seem to feel towards gender stereotyping and discrimination.2
Approaches to gender and schooling

Much research on gender and schooling stresses the socializing role of the
school, and sees modern educational institutions as playing a very important
role in shaping gender identity. Sara Delamont’s well-known book Sex Roles
and the School (1990) is representative of much of this research in arguing
that schools impose or strengthen gender identity and stereotyping. The
means through which this is seen as taking place include school architecture
(e.g. separate toilets for boys and girls), institutional practices (e.g. separate
lists of girls and boys in the register, differentiated uniforms and curricula),
discursive practices (e.g. the frequent use of the terms ‘boys’ and ‘girls’), and
the pedagogical and management practices of individual teachers (e.g. calling
on boys to speak more often than girls, organizing competitions on gender
lines, giving boys more attention than girls, encouraging girls to do certain
subjects and boys others).
However, in recent years a number of writers have argued that this social-
ization model is too simple. One important critique has come from authors
influenced by post-structuralist theory, such as Walkerdine (1981) and Davies
(2003). They argue that children are not ‘unitary subjects’ with identity and
behaviour that is consistent across all situations. Rather, the way that children
act changes according to the situation they are in and who they are with
(Davies, 2003: 2–4). They can seem to be different people in different con-
texts. These authors and others, such as Thorne (1993), also suggest that the
socialization model tends to see children as more passive and less powerful
than they actually are. Davies (2003: 6) points out that children do not just
passively accept everything that adults say or do as the norm, and that any
adult who has tried to ‘socialize’ a child knows how far from straightforward
such a process is. Thorne (1993: 3) comments on ‘the ways in which children
act, resist, rework, and create; they influence adults as well as being influ-
enced by them’. She has detailed the many ways in which children at school
Learning gender 155
spontaneously interact in ways that draw attention to and strengthen gender
categories (1993: 63–88) and has pointed out that while school structures and
practices may also have this effect, there are also many occasions when
teachers encourage gender mixing and challenge gendered boundaries (1993:
55–6).
But although it may be too simple to see children as passively socialized
into unitary gender identities by those more powerful than they, it is also
implausible to ignore the forces that do make it imperative for children in
most, if not all, societies to take up a gender identity. Davies (2003: 13–22)
argues that the male–female binary is so deeply embedded in the structures
and practices of most societies that children cannot avoid positioning them-
selves in gender terms. To be ‘a competent member of society’, one must be
able, and be seen to be able, to ‘competently [construct] the gendered world’
(Davies, 2003: 21). Since it is a deep and proper wish of children to become,
and be seen as, competent members of society, they must and will take up a
gender identity, even in the absence of some of the more blatant socializing
practices criticized by Delamont and others. The enormous importance of
the binary gender categories also means that children find it necessary to
engage in constant ‘category-maintenance work . . . aimed at maintaining the
category as a meaningful category in the face of the individual deviation that
is threatening it’ (2003: 31).
Writers such as Davies and Thorne thus acknowledge the power of the
structures and practices that effectively compel children to take up a gender
identity. However, neither believes that this situation is immutable or unchal-
lengeable. For Thorne, the dichotomous categories are filled with ‘compli-
cated, shifting, and sometimes contradictory gender meanings . . . there are
many ways of being a boy or girl’ and ‘at the level of social situations, gender
has a fluid quality’ (1993: 158–9, italics in original). She recommends that
schools and teachers work to challenge structures and practices that promote
polarized gender identity and behaviour. They should also encourage chil-
dren to see that there are various ways of being a girl or a boy. Davies agrees,
but for her, this does not go far enough. She argues that it is also necessary to
work towards eliminating the male–female binary as it relates to everything
beyond biological reproduction, by stopping ‘doing the work that maintains
the difference’ and working ‘towards discursive and interactive practices in
which genital sex and identity in the everyday world are separated’ (Davies,
2003: 141) – though accepting that this is a difficult task, unlikely to be accom-
plished quickly. Despite their criticisms of cruder versions of the socialization
model, then, these writers do believe that school structures and practices
should be changed where necessary. However, neither believes that changing
what schools do will be enough, because of the wide and deep influence of
gendered structures and practices in language and society.
156 Learning gender
Japanese education and gender
Most of the scant available writing on Japanese education and gender has
worked upon the assumptions of socialization models such as those of
Delamont. Much of this literature has been critical of Japanese education
for reinforcing gender stereotypes and thus contributing to the subordin-
ation of women in society. Kameda (1995), for example, criticizes gender
stereotyping in textbooks, gender segregatory practices such as separate
lists of boys’ and girls’ names on the class register, and the low number of
teachers in school senior management positions, especially principal and

vice-principal. Even in 2006, the proportion of school principals who were
women was only 18 per cent at primary level, and 5 per cent at both junior
high and high school levels, with the figures for vice-principal at 22, 8,
and 6 per cent respectively (Monbukagakushō, 2006).3 McVeigh (1997) has
depicted attempts to shape approved forms of femininity at a junior col-
lege (tanki daigaku), particularly by mandating conservative, ‘ladylike’ dress
on campus, and giving guidance about conventionally polite speech and
behaviour in the workplace. Ushiyama (2005a; 2005b) points out that only
a minority of the stories in Japanese (kokugo) textbooks feature leading
female characters, and even fewer present an image of women that tran-
scends gender stereotypes (though she concedes that this is not just a
problem of school education, but also of Japanese children’s literature in
general).
A small amount of research has documented the ways that Japanese
children themselves participate in the gendering process inside and outside
educational institutions. Davies and Kasama (2004: 75–117) describe how
children at preschools in Hokkaido worked to maintain gender hierarchies in
their activities, with some boys vigorously dissociating themselves from girls
and femininity in general. Miyazaki (2004) has also shown how girls and
boys in a junior high school near Tokyo shifted their usage of first-person
pronouns in attempts to negotiate gender identities.
Institutional structures and practices at Nakamachi

and Morikawa
Educational practices can be analysed on several levels: systemic (stemming
from the education system itself), institutional (stemming from a particular
institution, such as a school), communal (referring to practices that are com-
mon to and broadly accepted as normal by many teachers, but are not insti-
tutionally mandated), and individual (referring to practices of a particular
teacher). At the systemic level, there are no gender distinctions made within
the Japanese public primary curriculum, which is the same for all children.
Also, all public primary schools are co-educational. However, research on
school textbooks has found a persistent tendency towards a conventional and
stereotyped portrayal of gender identity and role (Kameda, 1995; Ushiyama,
Learning gender 157
2005a, 2005b).4 As my analysis is ethnographic, I focus on institutional,
communal, and individual practices.
On the institutional level, there was some gender differentiation at both
Nakamachi and Morikawa. Gender differentiation by appearance was limited,
as neither school asked children to wear a uniform, and many children, both
boys and girls, came to school in unisex clothing consisting of trousers com-
bined with some sort of top. In this respect, the primary schools contrasted
both with the city’s junior high schools and at least one of its private kinder-
gartens, which enforced the wearing of uniforms that differed for girls and
boys.5 However, children did wear yellow ‘safety hats’ to and from school,
and boys’ and girls’ hats differed in style. Also, the schools required children
to wear indoor shoes (uwagutsu), and these had a red toecap for girls and a
blue toecap for boys.6 In fact, when I was observing classes at Morikawa for
two weeks in 2004, I often found that looking at the toecap was the only way I
could tell a child’s gender without asking about it.
Besides hats and shoes, there was also institutionalized gender differen-
tiation in various other ways, such as on the class registers (a boys’ list fol-
lowed by a girls’ list),7 lining up for most school ceremonies by gender, and
use of separate girls’ and boys’ toilets.8 On ceremonial occasions, such as
during the graduation ceremony (see Chapter 6), boys invariably preceded
girls, with conventionalized use of gendered first person pronouns (boku for
boys and watashi for girls). These practices contributed to gender differen-
tiation, the basic precondition for gender inequity (Kimura, 1999: 43) and for
restrictive gendered categories to which children and adults feel and often are
forced to conform (Davies, 2003: 115–41). Moreover, all children had a health
record entitled a ‘Mother and Child Health Diary’ (boshi kenkō techō), insti-
tutionalizing an assumption that it was the mother that would take most
care of the health of her children. At Nakamachi, the class teacher’s termly
individual consultation with parent and child (sansha kondankai), was held
during the day.9 This made it much more likely to be attended by mothers
than fathers, since fathers were more likely to be working full-time as the
main family wage-earner. The practice thus reinforced the stereotypical
notion that a child’s upbringing and education is more the concern of the
mother than the father.
Classroom practices and gender

Most observed classroom practices that had a bearing on gender were not
mandated by the school, but were decided by the class teacher. In some cases,
such as seating, the practices seemed to be common among Japanese primary
teachers. There were also practices that involved the teacher in dilemmas over
priorities, most notably when it came to establishing conventions about
speaking up and gaining attention in class.
158 Learning gender
Seating
In most classrooms observed at Nakamachi and Morikawa, children sat in
pairs, with a boy next to a girl, though there were occasional exceptions.10
Members of the same small group (han) sat near one another. Children were
rarely free to decide exactly where they would sit. One obvious reason for
seating in mixed-gender pairs is to minimize noise and off-task behaviour.
However, this was not always dictated by the teacher. In one of the sixth year
classes I observed at Morikawa in June 2004, the class teacher told me that
the children themselves had decided on this arrangement at a class meeting,

after the original arrangement of sitting next to friends had resulted in a
noise level that bothered the children themselves.
One of the fifth year teachers at Nakamachi told me that he sat children
in mixed-gender pairs because otherwise, boys and girls would never sit
together. This was borne out by my observations. Children at Nakamachi
usually sat in the mixed-gender han to eat lunch, but when they could choose
an alternative seating arrangement, they almost invariably formed same-
gender groups. The same was true of seating choices on other occasions, such
as a coach trip to a museum. In 6–3 at Morikawa, mixed-gender seating was
not insisted on, and as a result, it had disappeared. Though seating children
in mixed-gender pairs reinforces gender categories, therefore, the same would
almost certainly be true, in a different way, if children were allowed to sit
where they liked. Indeed, in her ethnographic study of gender and sexual
relations in upper primary education in England, conducted in the mid-
1990s, Renold (2005: 83–4) describes exactly this phenomenon. Teachers at
Nakamachi and Morikawa usually preferred to mix the genders, as did some
of the US teachers studied by Thorne (1993: 55).
The promotion of choice among children did not necessarily result in any
breakdown of gender categories, therefore. In fact, it seemed to be in 6–3 at
Nakamachi, where Yoshioka-sensei emphasized both self-direction and an
understanding of the class group as nakama, that children were most capable
of overcoming gender categories in their classroom life. There was a striking
contrast between social studies lessons in this class and in 6–2 at Morikawa,
in both of which children formed their own small groups to study a theme
that interested them. In the Morikawa class, all the groups that formed were
single-gender, whereas in the Nakamachi class, there were five mixed-gender
and only three single-gender groups. Yoshioka-sensei’s insistence that her
class members should think for themselves and value everyone in the class
seemed to help the children to make decisions that genuinely reflected their
own study interests, and not just their gendered friendships.
Speaking out and gaining attention

Much has been written about how teachers in Britain and the United States
have given more attention to boys than to girls (Wilkinson and Marrett, 1985;
Learning gender 159
Windass, 1989: 43–4; Delamont, 1990: 31). It has also been noted that the
reasons for this are complex, and are partly because boys receive more nega-
tive, disciplinary attention. In my observations at Nakamachi and Morikawa,
I concentrated on positive, instructional attention, particularly the frequency
with which children spoke out and were called upon to answer in lessons.
However, it was not easy to measure the amount of such attention, partly
because in the two Nakamachi classes where I spent most time observing in
1995–96, the teachers allowed children to speak out in class without raising
their hands, in order to encourage them to speak voluntarily. In both 6–1

and 6–3, the resulting atmosphere was lively, though not disorderly, with
plenty of speaking out by children. Though it was often difficult to identify
the child who was speaking, it was nonetheless clear that in most classes boys
tended to speak out more than girls. The disparity varied between classes; at
Nakamachi, it was smaller in 6–3 than in 6–1. In 6–3, I observed 39 classes in
which I recorded pupils speaking out, and in these, boys spoke out roughly
twice as often as girls. In 6–1, I observed 24 such classes, in which boys spoke
out between three and four times as often as girls.11 It has to be borne in mind
that in both 6–1 and 6–3, there were 16 boys and only 10 girls (in 6–2, there
were 17 boys and 11 girls, resulting in a total of 49 boys and only 31 girls in
the entire year). In the small number of lessons observed at Morikawa in June
2004, the number of girls and boys called on to speak was almost the same in
five of six lessons, with more boys than girls called on in the sixth lesson.
The Nakamachi teachers themselves attributed the disparity between their
classes mainly to the qualities of the individual children who made up the
class. In particular, they believed that in 6–3, there were more girls who were
willing to speak out – which, as a matter of observation, was correct. In 6–3,
there was one girl, Mizutani-san, who spoke out very frequently (more fre-
quently than most of the boys), and three others who quite often spoke out
spontaneously and were happy to answer if called on by the teacher. There
were two more girls who would occasionally volunteer, and four who rarely if
ever did so. Moreover, while many of the boys in 6–3 were willing to speak
out, there were only two who were as vocal as Mizutani-san. In 6–1, on the
other hand, there were no girls as willing to speak out as the four most vocal
in 6–3; most volunteered occasionally, rarely, or never. There were also four
boys who spoke out very frequently, often without raising their hands, as well
as several others who would frequently volunteer. The four most vocal boys in
particular exercised a major influence on 6–1’s cheerful class atmosphere,
with two frequently playing the role of class entertainer.
Thus it was not that boys were invariably readier to speak out than girls, for
some girls were more vocal than some boys. In one or two exceptional
cases, such as Mizutani-san in 6–3 or a girl called Sekiguchi-san in 5–1 at
Nakamachi, girls were among the most vocal pupils in the class. However,
there were fewer vocal girls than vocal boys, and there were more quiet girls
than quiet boys.
The Nakamachi teachers felt that there were limits to what they could do
160 Learning gender
to encourage children to speak out. They called less often on children whom
they seemed to feel disliked this or might find it embarrassing. This included
some boys (especially less academically able ones) as well as some girls.
Sanada-sensei told me that some children didn’t like speaking out and found
it difficult, yet they produced good written work or did well on tests – while
others were the reverse. When assessing pupils, therefore, he took into
account speaking out as well as written work and tests, to give every child a
chance to be assessed on their individual strengths.
Yoshioka-sensei told me that she had changed her approach to calling on

pupils over the years. At one time, she said, she had insisted that children
raise their hands before speaking, but she had found that this tended to
discourage them from speaking at all. So she now usually allowed them to
speak without raising their hands, provided they were to say something that
contributed to the topic the class was dealing with. She told me that she
wanted a class that talked to one another about things (katariau). On another
occasion she noted that some children rarely raised their hands, but you could
often tell when they had something to say, either by their demeanour or by
the way they would mutter to other children. As an example, she mentioned
Koide-san, an academically able girl who would sometimes raise her hand but
at other times would just whisper her ideas to those next to her. Yoshioka-
sensei said she found it best to allow this kind of talk and pick out such
children so that they could then speak to the whole class. This approach
seemed to be successful in giving some girls a greater voice.
Sanada-sensei felt that how the teacher should call on pupils depended on
the situational context (bamen) and the stage the children were at. He told me
that he had tried to get his current class to raise their hands to speak out when
they were in the fifth year, but they had not been keen to do so. He himself
didn’t think it was so very important either. Because few of the class wanted
to speak out, he preferred to emphasize writing rather than endeavour with a
lesson style that he felt was inappropriate for the children.
It was difficult to ascertain exactly why so many girls were reluctant to
speak out. Though I did not ask the primary school pupils about the issue,
questions to girls who were a year older (in the first year of junior high
school) did not elicit any reasons other than being hazukashii (‘shy’ or
‘embarrassed’), on which they were unwilling or unable to elaborate. One
female friend in Sakura suggested that girls were afraid of being seen as
‘trying to look better than others’ by other girls. However, shyness or other
reasons did not affect all girls equally. Girls who were academically abler
tended to be readier to speak out, though not necessarily to the extent of
volunteering. Sanada-sensei believed that the most able pupil in his class
was a girl named Endo-san, but though she would readily give clear and full
answers to questions when called on, Endo-san rarely if ever spoke out
spontaneously.
The considerable variation in children’s willingness to speak out spon-
taneously posed a dilemma to teachers who were trying to encourage such
Learning gender 161
behaviour. They seemed to be faced by a choice between encouraging spon-
taneous participation, with the result that some children’s voices would be
heard more than others, or calling on children equally and thus discour-
aging spontaneous participation. Moreover, this dilemma had a strong
gender dimension, as more boys than girls were willing to speak out spon-
taneously. The difficulties facing teachers in trying to change such a situation
should not be underestimated, given that it seems often to be partly the
outcome of children’s own preferences (including those of girls), preferences
which are the result of gender identity formation that starts at a very early age
(Davies, 2003; Tannen, 1992: 245–79). Very similar conclusions have been
reached by Kimura (1999: 79–81, 99–103) in a study of sixth grade class-
rooms in an Osaka primary school, coincidentally carried out at the same
time as my own 1995–96 study. Like the seating issue, the question of speak-
ing out in class showed the problems involved in trying to encourage children
to act according to their own initiative and choice. Giving children’s own
agency a large role did give a greater voice to some girls, such as Mizutani-
san. Overall, however, it resulted in some children speaking more than others,
and most often it was boys’ voices that were heard. Such experiences may
accustom children to the predominance of male voices and lead them to
accept such predominance more readily in adult workplace settings.
Gender, behaviour and material culture in school

Thorne (1993: 90–1) has pointed out that exclusive attention to gendered
differences in behaviour can result in a distorted portrayal of ‘static and
exaggerated dualisms’ that overlooks commonalities and complexities. I
took account of this in my observations. In many situations at Nakamachi
and Morikawa, there were no obvious significant differences between the
behaviour of boys and girls as groups, and the more significant differences
were between individuals, whether boys or girls. At other times, tendencies to
difference between gender groups could be discerned, but were equalled or
exceeded in significance by individual differences. Finally, there were times
when clear differences related to gender group did emerge.
Lessons: home economics and physical education

In most of the lessons that I observed, the obvious gender difference lay in the
greater readiness of many boys to speak up voluntarily. As I did not examine
children’s written work carefully, it was not possible to analyse the content of
the work done by girls and boys in subjects like Japanese, maths, or social
studies, but obvious differences in what children said in class were seldom
apparent. An exception was one social studies lesson on contemporary
China in 6–2 at Morikawa, where presentations about trade and industry
were exclusively made by boys, while presentations about children’s lives
were exclusively made by girls. In other subjects, it was in physical education
162 Learning gender
that the most striking gender differences were apparent. On the other hand,
in home economics, gender difference was less noticeable in some classes
than might have been expected given dominant gender role divisions in
Japan.
The small number of physical education (taiiku) lessons I watched at
Nakamachi included three sixth year classes in which the children played
soccer outside. In two cases, boys and girls played together, but the girls
generally tried to avoid the ball, huddling together in clusters. Only two girls –
each, as it happened, physically the smallest girl in her class – took part
actively. In the third case, boys and girls played separately, and the girls then
participated somewhat more actively, though still with much less enthusi-
asm or skill than the boys. Such differences were also reflected in children’s
spontaneous play during break times, to be discussed later.
On the other hand, it took careful observation to discern gendered differ-
ences in behaviour in home economics (katei) classes at Nakamachi. The
classes I watched involved cooking and machine sewing, with children work-
ing in mixed-gender small groups. Both boys and girls generally participated
with enthusiasm, though close observation showed that girls were more likely
than boys to take leadership positions in an activity. Individual variation
among girls and among boys was very evident. In 6–3, for example, there
were some small groups in which two girls sat opposite each other in the
middle of the group and took a strong lead. These girls were also the ones
who were least keen on physical activities such as throwing and chasing, and
they were also very reluctant to speak out in class. Conventional femininity
seemed to be particularly important for them. Conversely, there was one boy
in particular, Teramoto-kun, who readily took the lead, as he often did in
other subjects. During one lesson in 6–1 at Morikawa, some boys were much
more enthusiastic participants than others; but in another lesson I observed
in this class, both boys and girls took part with equal enthusiasm. This was a
class in which cross-gender mixing and friendship were much less in evidence
than in 6–3 at Nakamachi, and the attitude of some boys may have been
affected by the expectations of their class teacher, who mostly talked to girls
during the first home economics lesson that I observed, as if this subject
mainly concerned them. In this subject, therefore, differences between classes
and between individual boys and individual girls seemed to be at least as
important as gender differences, if not more so.
Children’s play
During breaks between lessons, children at Nakamachi and Morikawa could
be seen playing all sorts of games, either outside in the playground, in the
gym, or in the classrooms and corridors. Some of these games, especially
skipping and chasing games, seemed very popular with boys and girls alike;
there was usually a tendency for such games to be more popular among one
gender than the other, but individual preferences seemed to play at least as
Learning gender 163
Figure 5.1 Children in 6–3 at Nakamachi in a home economics lesson.
important a role. In other games, there was a clear predominance of one

gender over the other: this was particularly true of throwing games.
Skipping games were popular among all ages, both girls and boys. Younger
girls (especially) and boys could often be seen skipping in the playground or
gym using individual skipping ropes (which were available to be borrowed).
Jump rope (ōnawa), for which two children turned a large rope, while others
lined up to jump in and out, was also popular among both girls and boys. It
was common in the sixth year classes at both Nakamachi and Morikawa for
most or all of the class to go to the gym to play jump rope together in mid-
morning break or lunch break. Sometimes this was organized by a kakari
group in charge of organizing play within the class; the organization of play
by such groups, and the general feeling that the whole class (as nakama)
should do things together from time to time, encouraged the playing of games
suited to large groups. Other such games I witnessed were dodgeball,12 cops
and robbers (keidoro or tandoro)13 and (less often) daruma-san ga koronda.14 I
also took part in two snowball fights in 6–3, organized by the play kakari
group when there was a heavy snowfall.
The popularity of a chasing game like cops and robbers seemed to be more
equally distributed among both boys and girls than that of a throwing game
like dodgeball. Most of the time, both girls and boys participated in cops and
robbers with similar enthusiasm, though there were times when some of the
girls showed little interest in the chasing, preferring just to get together in a
group. Dodgeball was a popular game at both schools, though less so among
164 Learning gender
the sixth year classes than among younger children. Though both boys and
girls participated in it, boys were more likely to catch and throw the ball
skilfully and aggressively. On one occasion at Nakamachi, I watched a group
of 6–3 children playing dodgeball with some first years during mixed-age
activities. On discovering that the first year girls either didn’t want to play the
game or were very poor at it, two of the 6–3 girls played an extremely gentle
kind of dodgeball with them, rolling rather than throwing the ball. It seemed
likely that these first year girls’ aversion to throwing games predated primary
school.15 Drawing on research by Young, Davies (2003: 18–19) has pointed

out that such differing physical abilities have been seen even in young children,
and analysed as the result of children’s learning ‘body comportment and
movement’ (Young, 1980: 153) appropriate to the gender identity they take up.
It has also been argued by researchers in North America that boys there are
more likely than girls to play team games, while girls are more likely to play
turn-taking activities such as skipping or bar gymnastics (Lever, 1976; 1978;
Thorne, 1993: 91–5). Lever has suggested that this may be because of boys’
preference for activities that are competitive, involve larger groups with many
independent positions, and have many explicit rules. She suggests that girls, in
contrast, tend to prefer cooperative activities in pairs or small groups. How-
ever, Thorne (1993: 96–105) has drawn on a variety of studies to argue that
this interpretation is too simple, since there are times when boys also interact
in small groups and take turns, and when girls play in large groups. She argues
that quantitative studies suggest that ‘within-gender variation is greater than
differences between boys and girls taken as groups’ (1993: 104).
Figure 5.2 Children playing dodgeball at Morikawa.

Learning gender 165
My observations at Nakamachi and Morikawa suggested that by and large,
boys did show a greater preference than girls both for throwing games (espe-
cially) and for games in larger groups. Moreover, I only ever saw younger girls
doing gymnastics on the bars around the edge of the playground, never boys.
However, it was also clear that individual preferences did play a large part in
what children decided to play, as did the atmosphere of a particular class. In
6–3 at Nakamachi, arm-wrestling was more popular with boys, but quite a
few girls would also take part. In 6–1, I once saw a game of cat’s cradle
(ayatori) played by a group of boys and one girl. Classes at Morikawa in 1996
exhibited more strongly dichotomous gender behaviour than at Nakamachi,
and girls and boys could be seen engaging in quite different activities, such as
games of shōgi (a Japanese variant of chess) among the boys, and games of
cards or exchange of pretty objects among the girls. A vivid illustration of the
ways that both individual preference and gender influenced children’s activ-
ities was provided at Morikawa when I saw a game of dodgeball that was
unusual in that most of the players were fourth or fifth year girls, with just a
couple of boys. One girl in particular seemed to be a proficient player. Clearly,
these children were happy to play dodgeball, even though it was a relatively
rare choice for girls. Just afterwards, another set of girls started to play
dodgeball, but then changed their minds, switching to a kind of netless vol-
leyball in which everyone tried to keep the ball in the air. In abandoning a
competitive, aggressive throwing game in favour of a non-throwing game in
which cooperation was more important than competition, these girls demon-
strated a preference that may have been gender-related (though I several times
saw a mixed group of 6–2 boys and one girl playing this game at Morikawa,
too). The contrast between these two groups of children showed the fluid
relationship between gender and kinds of play.
Despite the gender-related preferences for some kinds of play, I saw no
evidence of the kind of gender dichotomy and gender-exclusionary practices
that Renold (2005: 57–61, 83–5) has described in upper primary children’s
play in two English schools in the mid-1990s, where boys refused to allow
girls to join playground games of football. Indeed, Renold’s graphic por-
trayal of the extreme concern of the English boys to define and prove their
masculinity by disassociating themselves from girls provides a stark contrast
with the readiness of boys and girls in most classes at Nakamachi and
Morikawa to play together. In comparative context, it seemed that the
Japanese schools had achieved some limited success in the area of gender
relations. This is a counter-intuitive finding, given the pervasiveness of gender
discrimination and gender role stereotyping in Japanese society, discussed at
the start of this chapter. It suggests that more recognition should be given to
the success of some Japanese schools in creating environments that discour-
age the polarization of gender identity.
Downloaded by [Universiti Pendidikan Sultan Idris] at 01:38 12 April 2013 166 Learning gender
Figure 5.3 Children at Morikawa playing at keeping the volleyball in the air.
Art and material culture

During my observations at Nakamachi and Morikawa, the children made
more than one wooden construction in art and craft (zukō) lessons. Generally,
there were noticeable differences between the work of girls and boys, though
there were also individuals whose work did not conform to the common
gender pattern. In late October 1995, for example, the pupils in 6–1 at
Nakamachi finished making wooden boxes to keep small things in. The girls’
work tended to be simpler in design (many had made rectangular wooden
boxes), more carefully made and finished, and painted in bright colours
such as yellow, light green, and red. The boys’ designs, meanwhile, tended to
be more complicated (they included a steam locomotive and a pineapple),
often incorporating extra elements such as doors and wheels. Almost all the
boys painted the boxes with darker colours, such as dark green, dark blue,
and black. However, there were one or two exceptions to this pattern: one girl
had made a box with wheels, painted dark green and dark blue, and one boy
had made a simple rectangular box, painted yellow, light green, and pink.
During the final term, children at both schools sculpted and painted low-
relief designs on craft works to commemorate their graduation (at Nakamachi,
the craft work was a musical box, while at Morikawa, it was a clock – both were
made from kits). At Morikawa, children seemed to have considerable free-
dom to choose their designs, whereas at Nakamachi, Yoshioka-sensei advised
the children to create designs that were ‘individually theirs’ (jibunrashii) and
Learning gender 167
had ‘lasting meaning’, and to avoid designs that were ‘close to comics’. At
Nakamachi, the children’s designs tended to evoke memories of school, and
it was hard to tell whether a particular musical box belonged to a boy or a
girl. At Morikawa, on the other hand, it was almost always easy to tell. Most
boys’ designs featured either sport or characters from comics, cartoons, or
computer games, while most girls’ designs centred on the cute, cuddly, or
domestic (flowers were very popular, and fruit, houses, and cute animals also
appeared). Girls were also much more inclined to designs that were small,
delicate, and intricately patterned. There were, however, a couple of boys who
had produced designs that were not conventionally masculine, one featuring a
large butterfly.
The material objects that children brought to school from home also
tended to be strongly gendered. One girl in 6–1 at Nakamachi brought a
large number of stickers with which to decorate her craftwork; the stickers
depicted little bears, pandas, household objects, and strawberries, which she
informed me were ‘cute’ (kawaii). One boy in 6–1 had a pencil-case displaying
the crest and colours of a Japanese football team, along with a ruler decor-
ated with characters from the combat cartoon Yūyu hakusho. Observations
of pencil-cases and gym-shoe bags at Morikawa in 2004 showed that while
sports and cartoon characters were the dominant designs on boys’ goods, on
the girls’ goods it was cute motifs (animals, foodstuffs, and little hearts) that
tended to feature. On the other hand, the cushions that the children had on
their chairs were more likely to lean towards conventionally feminine than
masculine designs: in 6–1 at Nakamachi, for example, one boy’s cushion was
made of cloth with images of the Dick Bruna rabbit Miffy. This was probably
because the children had been using the same cushions since they were several
years younger; it was nonetheless interesting that boys whose cushions’ designs
were not conventionally masculine did not seem to show any embarrassment
or suffer any teasing.
Observations of sixth years’ clothes at Morikawa in 2004 indicated that
gender was often subtly marked by colour, or by small details such as the
decorative motifs on socks. Both boys and girls tended to wear the same kinds
of clothes – usually trousers or shorts with some kind of top (relatively few
skirts were in evidence, even in June). However, boys mostly wore dark or
subdued colours such as black, dark blue, or grey, though a few wore red or
yellow; girls were mostly dressed in light colours such as white, light blue,
pink, light grey, or light mauve, with a few wearing black, navy, or khaki.
Many children wore plain socks, but whereas girls’ socks, when decorative,
carried motifs such as stars, teddy bears, or dogs, boys’ socks featured sporting
motifs or brand names.
Finally, one of the most immediately obvious gender markers is the Japanese
primary school satchel (randoseru). Boys have traditionally had a black
satchel, and girls a red one. The primary schools I studied did not stipulate
the colour of the satchel, but almost all children had one in the traditional
colours (at Morikawa in both 1996 and 2004, I also saw one or two that were
168 Learning gender
other colours, such as dark blue, brown, maroon, or amber). Most of the
satchels I saw sold in shops were in the traditional colours, and it is likely that
only households that are very liberal or conscious of gender issues would buy
a non-traditional version of this expensive and iconic item. Benjamin (1997:
12) states that satchels are often a present from grandparents, which might
make the choice of traditional colours even more likely.
Attention to clothes, bags, pencil-cases and other items of material culture
is a reminder that most of the personal objects observed at school are actu-
ally brought by the children from outside. By this means, the ways that
gender identity is marked in the wider society enter the classroom. By acting
as a gathering point in this way, schools function in practice as places where
dominant expressions of gender identity become even more widely dispersed,
and perhaps strengthen their hold through processes of surveillance and
teasing that go on when, as Thorne (1993: 52–3) has argued, the assembly
of large numbers of children in itself leads to a strengthening of gender
boundaries.
There is also evidence to suggest that strong gendered identities and mark-
ings of the type discussed above predate entry to primary school, in Japan as
elsewhere. On one occasion, a friend in Sakura showed me drawings made by
all her daughter’s kindergarten classmates, and it was striking how closely the
gendered preferences for the content of the pictures and the colours used
matched those of the sixth year pupils at Nakamachi and Morikawa (as
usual, there were a few individual exceptions – in one case, a girl had drawn
fighting machines in dark colours, perhaps influenced by the preferences of
her two brothers). The early expression of gender identity through art is not
surprising, given the strongly gendered nature of much of the material cul-
ture available for contemporary children in Japan, as elsewhere (Hendry,
1986: 162); the preschool-age daughters of two friends of mine were both
fans of the conventionally beautiful female comic and cartoon character
Sailor Moon, for example. More broadly, Davies and Kasama (2004) have
recently given detailed descriptions of the early development of strong gen-
der identity and behaviour in Japanese preschool children. Obviously, the
primary school is far from the only influence upon the development of
children’s gender identity.
Dealing with gender in the classroom and beyond

Teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa rarely referred to gender issues spon-
taneously, inside or outside the classroom. They saw themselves as trying to
deal with all the children equally and as individuals, regardless of gender.
When asked, they expressed perceptions of clear gender differences in chil-
dren’s behaviour. Some of their actions reinforced gender categories, but others
muted them. Several teachers were also observed to challenge inappropriate
use of gender categories, or oppose gender hierarchy.
Learning gender 169
Teachers’ perceptions of gender difference
Teachers consistently perceived significant gender differences in children’s
behaviour. They generally saw girls as more problematic and harder to handle
than boys, because of their tendencies to form tight friendship cliques which
had the potential to damage relationships within the class severely. This was a
particular concern because of the emphasis on creating a well-integrated class
whose members could all get along well together.
According to Yoshioka-sensei, girls’ tendencies to form cliques intensified
in the second half of primary school. If the teacher didn’t tackle this ten-
dency in the second half of the fourth year, she said, then the last two years
would be difficult. Boys were less of a problem, as they were generally less
intense about friendships, and didn’t bear grudges so easily. If girls had a
quarrel, however, they tended to hold on to the feelings. She cited the prob-
lems that had arisen in her class during their fifth year (described in Chapter
2) as an example. Similar comparisons of boys’ and girls’ relationships have
been made by teachers in the US (Thorne, 1993: 195).
Fujitani-sensei, the class teacher of 6–2 at Nakamachi, felt that girls’
clique-making behaviour was caused by anxiety (fuan). They tended to fit in
with others around them, in order to feel secure in the little worlds they
created. Sanada-sensei also agreed that the girls in his class didn’t want to be
apart from others and were very conscious of how others were looking at
them, lacking the courage to do something different. He also saw differences
between girls and boys in the way they wrote in their diaries (kokoro no
nōto).16 Boys mainly wrote about things that had happened, and rarely about
their worries, while girls tended to write about their thoughts and feelings
(kokoro no naka). For Sanada-sensei, the diary was a good way to get girls to
think again about their feelings and prejudices (omoikomi) about other girls,
since he could respond to what they wrote with a doubt or a query.
Strengthening and challenging gender categories

Some practices I observed in classrooms at Nakamachi and Morikawa
strengthened gender categories. A notable example was the common prac-
tice of having one girl and one boy as monitor (nitchoku tōban) each day.
Similarly, boys’ and girls’ names were often written in different colours on
classroom notices (girls’ names usually being written in either red or pink,
while the colour used for boys’ names varied). Occasionally, a teacher dis-
played conventional gendered expectations, as with the class teacher of 6–1 at
Morikawa when she addressed herself mainly to girls in a home economics
lesson. On the other hand, other practices tended to mute gender categories.
Research in Britain and the United States has noted that teachers there have
often grouped children by gender for academic activities and have referred to
them in gender-binary terms as ‘the boys’ and ‘the girls’ (e.g. Delamont, 1990:
28–30; Thorne, 1993: 34–41). Murao (2003) reports that some research in
170 Learning gender
Japan has yielded similar findings. In my experience, however, teachers at
Nakamachi and Morikawa rarely used these practices. When they did refer
specifically to gender, it was sometimes in order to challenge gender stereo-
types. For example, Yoshioka-sensei told 6–3 not to think that being in charge
of organizing essays for the graduation album was a job for girls. During a
class discussion in a morals lesson (dōtoku), Sanada-sensei told one boy that
he should not make general criticisms of ‘the girls’ unless all the girls were at
fault, that he was too quick to talk in terms of ‘the boys’ and ‘the girls’, and
that he needed to apologize for this and change his way of thinking.
These were among the relatively rare occasions when teachers raised gen-
der issues with students. Another occurred when Yoshioka-sensei’s class was
evaluating Japan’s Meiji period (1868–1912), and she specifically asked some
of the girls in the class what they thought about the Meiji idea that education
for girls was harmful. Not surprisingly, perhaps, the girls said they thought it
was a bad idea, and Yoshioka-sensei followed up by saying, ‘So there was
gender discrimination (danjo sabetsu) in the school system and the society in
general. One should think about whether the Meiji period was really good!’ A
striking example of conflict over gender hierarchy, though probably one that
was not clear to the children, occurred during the teachers’ farewell ceremony
(rininshiki) at Morikawa on 1 April. This was a ceremony at which the
teachers who were to be transferred to different schools made a formal fare-
well to the children. Male teachers came before female teachers, regardless of
age. One woman teacher had already criticized this practice in the staff meet-
ing held before the ceremony. During the ceremony itself, Takamatsu-sensei
(the third most senior male teacher, but not the third most senior teacher
leaving the school) told the assembled children that he wanted to make the
most of what he had learned from being in charge of anti-discrimination
education (dōwa shunin), saying that the fact that he was third to speak
showed that discrimination was still going on. Though it may be doubted
how many children understood what he meant, it was nonetheless a bold
statement to make during a formal school ceremony, and strongly contrasted
with the message being sent by the organization of the ceremony itself.
Conclusion
Practices at Nakamachi and Morikawa helped to maintain or strengthen
gender categories in significant ways. On the institutional level, boys and girls
were differentiated by the use of separate toilets, separate lists on the class
register, and certain items of clothing, such as indoor shoes and safety hats.
Differentiated gender roles were also reinforced by holding consultations
between teachers and parents during the day, when many fathers were at
work. The schools were also obliged to use textbooks that other research
(Kameda, 1995; Ushiyama, 2005a; 2005b) has shown perpetuate conventional
gender representations.
Classroom practices revealed the difficulties that teachers faced in dealing
Learning gender 171
with questions of gender, especially in relation to issues of individuality,
choice, and the encouragement of autonomy in children. Teachers at both
schools were keen to encourage children to develop the ability to act autono-
mously and make their own decisions. They also wanted them to participate
actively in lessons. However, in practice, giving children choice about issues
such as seating tended to result in greater gender segregation, while encour-
aging children to speak out in class spontaneously resulted in more boys’
than girls’ voices being heard. Teachers dealt with these dilemmas in various
ways; in most cases, they ensured that boys and girls were seated in mixed-
gender pairs, avoiding gender segregation, but on the other hand, they gener-
ally preferred to let children speak out freely in class, even when this resulted
in a preponderance of boys’ voices. It seemed that giving children more
choice and more freedom of action actually resulted in the strengthening of
gender categories: as Davies and Kasama (2004: 99, 102) have pointed out,
discourses that emphasize the individual can work to advantage those who
are strong, dominant, or even oppressive. In the class within which gender
relations were best, 6–3 at Nakamachi, there were strong emphases on think-
ing for oneself (not just being swayed by others), as well as on the idea of the
whole class being nakama, and this dual emphasis may well have contributed
to the relatively good gender relations within the class. Indeed, girls and boys
were ready to play together at least some of the time in many classes observed
at both schools, and this may also indicate that the emphasis on the whole
class group that is normal in Japanese primary schools went some way to
combating gender segregation.17
As I noted at the start of this chapter, most writing on gender and educa-
tion in Japan has been critical of Japanese schooling practices. Based on
observations at Nakamachi and Morikawa, I would agree that Japanese
primary schools could do more to reduce gender differentiation, and to free
children from those aspects of gender that are oppressive. At the same time, I
would argue strongly that in many respects, primary schools like Nakamachi
and Morikawa do already provide an environment with far less emphasis on
differentiated gender identity than is apparent in the wider Japanese society.18
Teachers at the schools did genuinely strive to treat children equally, and
refrained from many practices that reinforce gender, such as customary use of
gender discourse or the reservation of large parts of the playground for
games dominated by boys. Moreover, as I have described, many of the prac-
tices and identity markers that differentiated boys and girls came from the
children themselves, in the form of the games they chose to play, the material
culture they brought to school, and the choices they made about speaking or
not speaking in class. Stepping outside the school gates quickly brought an
acute appreciation of how strongly gendered the world beyond the school
was, with items such as clothes, toys, and comics explicitly marked as for girls
or boys, and with all sorts of material culture items, such as stationery,
designed to be conventionally masculine or feminine. As many authors have
shown, the development of gender identity dates from children’s earliest
172 Learning gender
years. All this indicates that Japanese primary schools face a complex and
difficult task if they are to make serious headway in further reducing gender
differentiation and weakening gender identity and its effects. In the mean-
time, however, we should consider whether, rather than inculcating con-
ventional gender identities, Japan’s primary schools largely offer children an
alternative experience, of a life in which gender is relatively unimportant in
determining what people do and become.
Notes
1 In a personal communication, Glenda Roberts has told me of encountering
expectations among female university students that there would be relative gender
equality in the workplace.
2 2005 was the first time when Cabinet Office survey respondents opposing the
statement ‘men should work outside, and women look after the home’ out-
numbered those who agreed, by 48.9 per cent to 45.2 per cent (Asahi Shinbun,
2005).
3 It is true that the percentages of female principals at each level have roughly
doubled compared to ten years before (Monbushō, 1996a), but the figures are
still not impressive, considering that the proportion of teachers who are women is
65 per cent at primary level, 41 per cent at junior high level, and 26 per cent at high
school level.
4 Textbooks are produced by commercial publishers, though inspected and approved
for school use by the Ministry of Education.
5 I am not aware of any statistics about the prevalence of school uniforms in Japan,
but my own impression from literature, school visits, casual observation and the
media is that nationwide, uniforms are much less commonly worn at primary
school than at junior high or kindergarten. Uniforms were not worn at any of the
six Sakura primary schools that I have visited since 1994.
6 However, at the adjacent primary school, Ishida, all children wore indoor shoes
with a yellow trim, without any gender distinction. On my 2004 visit to Morikawa,
the Head of Academic Administration, Imai-sensei, showed some embarrassment
about the distinction at his school, commenting that it was not really appropriate.
7 According to Kimura (1999: 34), a 1993 survey by the Japan Teachers’ Union
indicated that only 20 per cent of primary schools and 8 per cent of junior high
schools used non-gendered class registers at that time. However, since then the
issue has been the subject of significant initiatives and agitation, as seen from the
websites of both local governments and right-wing pressure groups (the latter
concerned about the spread of non-gendered registers). There are a number of
areas where the use of non-gendered registers is reported to have become wide-
spread, often, it seems, resulting from efforts by prefectural and local boards of
education (Murao, 2003): such areas include Kochi Prefecture, where usage was
reported at 100 per cent in 2005 (Kochi-ken, 2005), Niigata Prefecture, where
usage was 98 per cent at primary schools and 69 per cent at junior high schools in
2005 (Niigata-ken, 2006), Chiba Prefecture, where usage was 87 per cent in pri-
mary schools and 64 per cent in junior high schools in 2005 (Chiba-ken, 2005), and
Saitama Prefecture, where 79 per cent of primary schools and 69 per cent of junior
high schools were using non-gendered registers in 2004 (Saitama-ken, 2004). It
may be, however, that only prefectures that have promoted non-gendered registers
report such figures, in which case the national figure might be significantly lower.
8 However, it was interesting to see that in class 6–3 at Nakamachi, which had 16
boys and only 10 girls, the last three boys in the register joined the end of the ‘girls’
Learning gender 173
line’ on ceremonial occasions in order to make two lines of equal length (13
children each).
9 No such consultation took place while I was at Morikawa.
10 In her study of a Saitama primary school during 1989–90, Benjamin (1997: 41)
notes that some classes seated boys and girls in pairs, while others did not. In the
Tokyo primary schools studied by Whitburn in 1995–96, first and second year
children were seated in mixed-gender pairs as far as possible (Whitburn, 2000:
173). At Nakamachi and Morikawa, children were divided into different small
groups for science lessons; these were also mixed-gender.
11 In some classes observed, no pupils were recorded as speaking out to the whole
class, because the lesson was comprised of individual work or group work. It must
also be remembered that most of the classes observed were in the three subjects of
Japanese, maths, and social studies, with one or two classes of home economics
(katei) ethics (dōtoku) and class activities (gakkyū katsudō or gakkatsu).
12 Dodgeball is a familiar game in some but not all parts of the world. It involves two
teams of any number of players, each of which is confined to half of a rectangular
pitch. Players throw a volleyball at members of the opposite team; if you are hit
by the ball, and fail to hold on to it, you are out. The team that eliminates all
members of the opposition wins.
13 The game called ‘cops and robbers’ by Sakura children has similarities to
‘Relievo’, as described by the Opies (1969: 172–4). Children are divided into two
teams, the ‘cops’ (keisatsu or tantei) and the ‘robbers’ (dorobō). The cops chase the
robbers; if a cop touches a robber, the robber must go to the ‘prison’, a marked-off
area, guarded by one of the cops. A robber in the prison can be released if another
robber who is still on the loose manages to touch him or her. The cops win if they
manage to get all the robbers into the prison.
14 In this game, the person who is ‘it’ hides his eyes, and the others have to get as close
to him as they can during the time it takes him to say ‘daruma-san ga koronda’ (the
daruma doll fell over). Immediately he finishes saying this, he looks up, and any-
one he sees moving has to go and link hands with him or with someone else
already caught. This is repeated until someone gets close enough to touch him or
one of those linking hands with him, at which point everyone runs away while the
person who is ‘it’ counts to 10 and then shouts ‘stop!’ He can then take as many
paces as there are syllables in a person’s name (e.g. four for ‘Ki-ta-ga-wa’) to try to
touch that person and make them ‘it’.
15 During the two class snowball fights, the 6–3 girls also participated less actively
than the boys. The class was organized into two teams (not on gender lines), and it
was noticeable on the first occasion that all the girls stood in a line, rather apart
from the boys and from the main scene of the action. The boys were much more
mobile and took part much more enthusiastically. The next day the girls took part
more actively, though still less enthusiastically than the boys.
16 Kokoro no nōto literally means ‘notebook of the heart’. It is common for Japanese
primary teachers, at least in the upper years, to give each child an exercise book in
which they can write about what is going on in their lives for the teacher to read.
This is a way for the teacher to understand them and communicate with them
better. Kokoro no nōto is a common term for such books.
17 Davies and Kasama (2004: 90–4) have also argued that showing dominance and
leadership in a responsible way that involves caring for others is seen as more
legitimate in Japanese than Australian education, and they suggest that this may
make it easier for boys in Japan to take on an identity that combines strength and
dominance with the role of good citizen.
18 Gender differentiation may increase to some extent at junior high and high school
levels; for example, most junior high and high schools in Japan enforce the wearing
of gendered uniforms, and many school sports clubs are also divided along gender
174 Learning gender
lines, with some reinforcing traditional gender stereotypes (Blackwood, 2003,
2007). Junior high and high school teachers are subject specialists, and this may
lead to some subjects becoming associated mainly with male teachers, and others
with female teachers (Kimura, 1999: 33). Gendered class registers are more com-
mon at junior high than at primary level (see note 7 above). Moreover, at high
school level, 30 per cent of students attend private schools (Monbukagakushō,
2006), many of which are single-sex. According to Kimura (1999: 44), about 20 per
cent of high school students attend single-sex schools. However, even at these
levels there are no gendered differences in the design of the national curriculum.
More research is needed on gender in Japanese secondary education.
6 Ceremonial creations
By the time I moved from Nakamachi to Morikawa at the beginning of

February 1996, there were just seven weeks of the school year remaining, and
the attention of teachers and children was starting to be focused on the sixth
years’ approaching graduation. For the sixth years, the graduation ceremony
and the associated events that preceded it were the climax, not only of the
year, but of their entire six years at primary school. Both primary schools and
their teachers put considerable efforts into trying to make these weeks a
memorable and significant experience. What went on during this time repre-
sented an attempt to give shape to self and social reality, shape that would
retain significance into the future through memory. The events of these weeks
spotlighted certain social and cultural values; moreover, the effort and
orchestration that went into this rite of passage communicated not only the
end of one life-stage, but also the intrinsic importance of ritual itself.
The graduation ceremony and the associated activities and events that
preceded it affirmed a moral order through their organization of space, time,
and symbol, and they performed many of the functions that anthropologists
have seen rituals as playing (Moore and Myerhoff, 1977). They emphasized
the reality and importance of the boundary that separated those with the
status of members of the school from non-members, and ensured that chil-
dren were given a safe and clear symbolic passage across the boundary by
ceremonial means. They also expressed some of the centrally approved values
of Japanese society, in particular affirming the importance of interdepend-
ence, and the need for younger persons to be grateful to older ones for their
help and guidance. To achieve this in a memorable and impressive way, they
used a variety of means, particularly the staging of unusual events, and the
use of stylized symbolic expressions in the form of music, rhetorical struc-
tures, and visual transformation. By the very fact of the time and care that
went into the elaboration of this series of events and activities, moreover, they
sent to the children a powerful message about the significance of ritual itself
in constituting reality.
The events surrounding graduation included at least one that could clearly
be categorized as a secular ritual, the graduation ceremony itself. Other
events also contained features of ritual, notably special acts undertaken to
express and reinforce solidarity just before separation. Yet many of the events
mixed not only ritual, but also educational and recreational aspects (in this
sense resembling other Japanese educational programmes, such as the train-
ing programme for new bank employees described by Rohlen (1986), or the
club activities of junior high and high schools (Cave, 2004)). In particular,
there was a clear attempt to use these events to help children learn certain key
values and practices, and to shape experience and memory through a com-
bination of discursive and embodied activities. Such an approach, experi-
enced by the children through their school careers in daily activities such as
class singing and extraordinary ones such as sports day, was the culmination
of the primary schools’ education of the self.
Ritual and socialization in school events

By the time they approached their graduation, the sixth years at Morikawa
and Nakamachi had a great deal of experience of school events (gakkō gyōji),
which were and are an official part of the school curriculum (Monbushō,
1989: 111–12). These not only gave the school year an order, as intended by
the curriculum, but were also used by teachers as arenas and catalysts for
particular aspects of the children’s human development. They included a
series of school trips that lasted longer and departed to more distant destin-
ations as the children moved up the school, culminating in a two-day trip
(shūgaku ryokō) to the historical sites of Nara and Ise in the first term of the
sixth year. As mentioned in Chapter 2, Yoshioka-sensei had used the experi-
ence of planning for the trip to Nara and Ise to break down barriers between
the cliquish girls in her class. Another major annual event was the school
sports day (undōkai), which took place every September. At Nakamachi, the
sports day featured not only races, but also a variety of performative elem-
ents, each of which was seen as having an educational purpose.1 There was
an entrance procession and an opening ceremony, in which children were
expected to learn to walk and behave in an age-appropriate way – small
children walking energetically (genki-yoku), older ones with dignity (dōdō-to).
There was a cheering contest (ōen gassen), in which each group of children
competed to cheer loudest for their team, and there was a whole-school dance
(zenkō dansu), which was devised by the sixth years – to give them the
opportunity to exercise creativity, I was told. Finally, the sports day was the
stage for the sixth years to perform team gymnastics in the form of human
pyramids of larger children supporting smaller children. This exercise was
a particularly good way for children to learn the importance of interdepend-
ence through experience, as it demanded mutual trust, support and cooper-
ation in the most physical form. Yoshioka-sensei believed that it had done
a great deal to help bring her class together. However, she did not just
see school events as arenas for developing a sense of interdependence or
solidarity; they also provided opportunities for different children to develop
their own individual potential (kosei or sono ko-rashisa) – by taking a
Ceremonial creations 177
particular important role in part of an event, for example. Teachers should
avoid always giving the lively, active children these opportunities, she told
me, as that just turned them into bigheads, and they got too far ahead of
the others. Children who weren’t obviously outstanding also needed the
chance to shine; then they would gain confidence, and they would change and
grow.
School events such as these have a ritual aspect in ‘imparting order and
change to school life, and deepening the sense of belonging to a group’
(Monbushō, 1989: 111), as the curriculum expresses it. Moreover, they hap-
pen every year, at roughly the same time and with content that changes only
slowly, and have often done so for generations, giving a sense of tradition
and predictability. Many school events, such as the sports day, also include
explicitly ceremonious aspects. However, these events are not pure rituals;
correct order and symbolic performance are not all they are concerned with.
They combine ritual, educational, and recreational elements, sometimes over-
lapping, and sometimes in turn. Such an analysis applies also to graduation
and its surrounding events.
Last term: preparing for graduation

The events that led up to and marked graduation differed at Nakamachi
and Morikawa. Nakamachi staged not only a graduation ceremony, but also
a graduation show (sotsugyō happyōkai) which took place two weeks before
the graduation ceremony proper. Morikawa, on the other hand, only held a
graduation ceremony, though its ceremony incorporated a children’s per-
formance, which Nakamachi’s did not. Both schools also held a separate in-
school event called Send-off for the Sixth Years (rokunensei o okuru kai),
which was organized by the fifth years, and in which the entire school took
part. These large-scale events required considerable preparation time, not
only for performance practice and rehearsals, but also because the events
involved material objects made by the children themselves. For the teachers,
one of the purposes served by the events was to provide occasions for the
children to learn and develop. In the case of the graduation show and the
Send-off event, there were opportunities for the children to get involved in
the planning themselves. The graduation show and the graduation cere-
monies were staged before invited audiences from outside the school, and so
also demanded that the children execute their performances with discipline.
In some cases, these and other preparations for graduation started even
before the final term had begun. All the sixth years wrote an individual
composition to be printed in the graduation album, and at Nakamachi, the
children were writing this in November, four months before graduation. In
December, the children of 6–3 at Nakamachi began practicing the orchestral
piece they would play at the graduation show. Other graduation activities,
such as carving commemorative craftworks, began in January.
While the content of the graduation ceremonies themselves were decided
entirely by teachers, children themselves participated in shaping what hap-
pened in other activities. Individual creations such as the graduation album
composition and the commemorative craft works gave the greatest scope to
children’s individuality. In both cases, Yoshioka-sensei encouraged her class
to make something that came from themselves – though with limitations.
After reading some of their graduation compositions, she told them that she
had given up halfway through because they were all so similar (so many
children having written about the sports day). Either write about a different
subject, or else make sure you don’t just write things we all know, she told
them: ‘Write something that only you can write’ ( jibun ni shika nai yō na
kakikata ni kaeyō). When she came to give the children their musical box kits
a few weeks later, she told them that they should carve pictures and motifs
that were individually theirs ( jibunrashii). However, in this case she also told
them not to carve pictures that were ‘close to comics’ (manga ni chikai), such
as Godzilla, but instead something that would have lasting meaning; her
reference to images such as Mt Fuji, birds, and flowers reflected an aesthetic
drawn from traditional Japanese high culture. In the end, there were striking
differences between the reliefs made by Yoshioka-sensei’s class, and by the
sixth years in the two sixth year classes at Morikawa whose designs I saw.
Many children in Yoshioka-sensei’s class carved motifs connected to the
school and their experiences there, such as the sports day, or the trip to Nara
and Ise; examples included the school crest, motto, or song, pictures of the
rising sun over the hills of Ise, or a deer signifying Nara. Other children
carved musical motifs, and only a few made carvings with no connection to
the school, such as a baseball player or a Lamborghini car. In contrast, most
sixth years in the Morikawa classes carved designs that were strongly gen-
dered and had no connection with the school. Girls carved conventionally
feminine, cute, or domestic motifs such as flowers, cute animals, fruit, or
houses, while boys tended to carve cartoon characters, especially warriors or
monsters. School experiences may have been more important to the children
of Yoshioka-sensei’s class than to the children at Morikawa; alternatively,
Yoshioka-sensei may have influenced the way her class made their material
commemoration of graduation, by steering them away from cartoon-style
motifs and towards designs with ‘lasting meaning’.
The children participated in the commemoration of graduation in other
ways too – some directed or encouraged by teachers, and some not. In two of
the sixth year classes at Morikawa, children hung up a B4-sized card in the
classroom every day, counting off the number of days left until graduation
day. Each child was responsible for designing and drawing one or two cards,
on each of which was recorded one of that child’s good memories of his or
her days at the school. Some cards were quite plain, while others showed
considerably artistic talent. While allowing individual self-expression, the
cards were also public artifacts with a clear implicit agenda – to commemor-
ate good memories of the children’s schooldays – which inevitably placed
boundaries on what children would produce. The overall effect was to create a
selective public record of children’s memories that resulted in an overwhelm-
ingly positive collective memory.
The children themselves also organized class farewell parties and other fun
events to mark the end of their primary school careers. At Morikawa, class
6–4 made party food, decorated the school’s multipurpose hall with flowers
and banners, and sang lots of karaoke in groups, using songs from the
‘Young Song’ section of the Myōjō magazine for young teenagers. While some
children were karaoke enthusiasts who joined their friends at the microphone
again and again, others were shy and spent most of the time watching. Class
6–2 also held a karaoke party, which went less well than they had hoped
because of the reluctance of many children to get up and sing, even in the
groups that had been arranged beforehand. More successful was the basket-
ball tournament that they organized. Class 6–3 organized a tournament of
kick-base, a game similar to rounders, but in which one kicks instead of hits
the ball, while 6–1 used home economics lessons to prepare a special lunch for
themselves. The most popular graduation-associated activity amongst the
Morikawa children, however, was getting their friends to fill in sain-chō –
commercially produced file cards with spaces to write contact and personal
details (including star sign, blood type, ‘future dream’, ‘secret’, and favourite
music, colour, entertainer, and so on).2 Whereas I had never seen children
exchanging sain-chō at Nakamachi, they were already all the rage when I
arrived at Morikawa – suggesting that Morikawa children may have been
more absorbed in commercial culture than their Nakamachi counterparts.
Figure 6.1 Cards recording memories and the number of days remaining until gradu-
ation, hung in the classroom of 6–2 at Morikawa.
However, in a later interview, Yoshioka-sensei told me that she had banned
sain-chō in her class, on the grounds that some children would receive a lot
and others very few. Instead, each child in the class wrote a letter to each
other child, so that all children received an equal number of letters. This
approach was clearly more in harmony with Yoshioka-sensei’s approach to
the class as nakama. The difference between her class and the Morikawa
classes in this regard illustrated the variation in teachers’ practices within a
common paradigm. Yoshioka-sensei’s approach diminished the children’s
autonomy in one sense, but arguably forced them to think more carefully
about the other children in the class; and by substituting a letter, whose
content was decided by each individual, for the formulaic sain-chō, it poten-
tially gave more scope for children’s individuality to emerge.
The Send-off for the Sixth Years

In terms of formality and organization, the Send-off for the Sixth Years lay
somewhere between the graduation ceremony and the farewell parties organ-
ized by individual classes.3 At both Nakamachi and Morikawa, it was divided
into two parts. The children first divided into their mixed-age groups for
farewell gatherings whose central feature was the presentation to the sixth
years of gifts made by the younger children – a pendant and a colourfully
decorated cardboard crown, together with a box to hold pens (at Morikawa)
and a cape (at Nakamachi). The second period was held in the gym, which
had been arrayed on all sides with decorations made by the children. Once all
the younger children had sat down around the sides of the gym, the sixth years
processed in to take their seats at the front, smiling and still wearing their
crowns – accompanied at Morikawa by applause, and at Nakamachi also by
the waving of flags and the playing of drums and trumpets by the fifth years.
Each year then performed a song, a piece of instrumental music, a recital, or a
skit, addressing the sixth years in fictive kinship terms as ‘big brothers and big
sisters’ (onı̄san, onēsan), and thanking them for looking after them and help-
ing them while they were at the school. The sixth years then responded
with performances that their spokesperson at Morikawa called ‘presents’
(purezento) offered in return (o-kaeshi ni), recapitulating their memories of the
school by singing or playing music from each year they had spent there. They
ended with a recorder performance of part of Elgar’s Pomp and Circum-
stance March No. 1 (Ifū dōdō), and then sang the wistful song, Sayonara tomo
yo (Goodbye my friends), before making a presentation of a further token of
thanks – floorcloths (zōkin) which they had made for each of the first year
pupils.4 The climax came when a square box suspended from the roof of the
gym was made to open, scattering the sixth years with confetti-like sparkly
paper before they processed from the gym ahead of the other children.
The Send-off was an event that was explicitly intended to express approved
feelings and develop approved values and abilities in the children. As for
other school events, the teachers in charge produced a plan that stated the
event’s aims, content, scheduling, and organization. At Morikawa, one major
aim was to enable the fifth years to gain experience and confidence in organ-
izing and running a major gathering; another was to have the younger chil-
dren think about the feelings of the sixth years (aite o omoiyatte) and try to
give them an enjoyable experience. A third aim was to have the sixth years
recall their time at the school and be thankful to the people they had inter-
acted with during that time. The event was thus intended to highlight some of
the values central to Japanese primary education – thinking of others (omoi-
yari) and thankfulness (kansha) – both of which are integrally linked to a

view of humans as fundamentally interdependent beings. Indeed, as other
studies have shown (Kondo, 1990: 76–115; Reader, 1995; McVeigh, 1997:
155–8), the promulgation and inculcation of such values is undertaken with
vigour by other institutions in Japanese society too. The Send-off also
expressed the importance of gift exchange, another key practice in Japan
(Rupp, 2003): the sixth years’ presentations (as well as the floorcloths they
gave to the first years) were explicitly articulated as a return for the presenta-
tions made by the younger children (which, in their turn, had been presented
as a return for the kindness and guidance of the sixth years over the years).
Moreover, the event worked along with other graduation events and activities
in an apparent attempt to create an affectionate collective memory (omoide)
of the children’s days at primary school. As during the recitations at the
Nakamachi graduation show and the Morikawa graduation ceremony, so
during this event the sixth years recalled and recapitulated moments from
their entire career at primary school from beginning to end. Finally, the
Send-off was also the occasion when positions of leadership passed from the
sixth years to the fifth years. By giving the lead role to the fifth years, who
both undertook the main organization and acted as masters of ceremonies,
the event affirmed the practice of allocating roles according to seniority, with
each age-cohort expected to take on the responsibility of leadership as the
climax of their school career. It was also a ceremony that marked the sixth
years’ passage into a state of liminality. No longer the leaders of the school’s
children, yet still at the school, the sixth years now had no clear place in
the school hierarchy; all that remained for them was to prepare for their
graduation, two-and-a-half weeks later.
The graduation show at Nakamachi

Three days after Nakamachi’s send-off event, the school staged its gradu-
ation show in the gym. The audience for the show was the sixth years’ parents
– mainly mothers, but in some cases fathers as well. Some of the children’s
school work – especially in art and craft – was on display to one side of the
gym. Each of the three classes in the sixth year staged performances on the
stage at one end of the gym, culminating in each case with orchestral music.
Sanada-sensei’s class, 6–1, began with a short play entitled ‘Hang in there,
Tsuji-kun!’ about a boy in a wheelchair and how his classmates learn to
appreciate his difficulties and help him in various ways. I was told that the
children had written the script based on a book they had chosen from the
school library, after which it had been revised by Sanada-sensei. Fujimoto-
sensei’s class, 6–2, began with a recital by the whole class of Miyazawa Kenji’s
famous poem Neither Yielding to Rain (Ame nimo makezu) (see Chapter 2).
Some parts of the poem were spoken by small groups of children, while others
were given extra power by being spoken by the whole class. This was followed
by a song, Tsubasa o daite (Embracing my wings). The performances by
Yoshioka-sensei’s class, 6–3, centred on the theme ‘to live’, and were accom-
panied by the projection of slide pictures. They began with pictures from
the Kobe earthquake of January 1995, saying how it had made them realize the
importance of living. This was followed by the recitation of two stories, the
second of which, entitled ‘I wanted to live too’, was about a child who dies in
Hiroshima from leukemia in the 1960s, as a result of radiation from the atomic
bomb. This was followed by a recitation by the whole class of the poem To Live
(Ikiru), which had featured at the end of the sixth year Japanese textbook
(see Chapter 3), accompanied by slides of the children themselves playing
outside, which very effectively captured the spirit of the poem. All three
recitations gave roles to individual children, each of whom read a few lines.
The performances were followed by a light meal, with party food that the
children had prepared in home economics classes, after which the teachers
who had taught the children during the sixth year sang the song, Yume o
akiramenaide (Don’t give up on your dreams) as a send-off present to the
children, and were themselves presented with bouquets of flowers by the
parents.5 The culmination of the show was a long recitation (yobikake), writ-
ten and performed by the entire sixth year. Each child had two or three lines
to recite, with some parts spoken by all the children. While the recitation was
being performed, a slideshow projected pictures of the children engaging in
various activities during their six years at the school. The opening lines set a
tone of upbeat resolve for the future and fond recollection of the past:
Seki-kun: The long time we have lived at primary school will soon
end
Okabe-kun: We who will advance to the new path called junior high
school
Kimoto-kun: Our dreams become bigger with each day that passes
Inada-kun: The power with which we tackled this year as leaders
Minami-kun: We want to show at junior high school too
Yamada-kun: And the rucksacks on our backs are packed full of
memories
Ogi-san: The sports day, the school trip, the mixed-age activities
Machida-san: So many memories. And
Teramoto-kun: The days we passed looking at the figures of our friends
(nakama) come floating to our minds
All: Come floating to our minds
The recital then moved on to recollections of each year the children had spent
at school, with many references to the love shown by their parents – though
mothers received more mentions than fathers – and culminating in thanks
to them:
Takamori-san: There were many times when we said selfish things

We caused you worry any number of times
There were times when we were cheeky to you
But you always watched over us warmly

Ichiri-kun: Thanks to that
All boys: We have grown so much
All girls: We are full of feelings of gratitude
Sato-kun: Thank you so much
All: Thank you
Fujii-san: For twelve years of love
All: Thank you
The next section was entitled ‘Thank you to our friends (nakama)’, and spoke
of how they had helped one another during their school life, with the longest
mention going to the human pyramids at the sports day:
Sakata-san: The fact that we succeeded at the human pyramids

Ando-kun: Was because our friends (nakama) were there
Shimada-kun: We practised together
Yuya-san: Again and again until the day before
Takamori-san: When it came to the real thing everyone came together as
one (minna ga hitotsu ni narimashita)
Finally, each teacher with whom the children had interacted, as well as the
janitor and the cooks, were individually thanked by name for specific teach-
ing, help and support they had given, before the recitation ended by recapitu-
lating thanks to all who had supported the children during their time at the
school.
The graduation show at Nakamachi gave the children themselves an
important role in deciding what to perform and in executing the perform-
ances. It was the children themselves who chose the themes and who wrote
the lines for some of the plays and recitations, thus exercising a degree of
autonomy. On the other hand, the show was also about working together and
giving everyone recognition. Every performance involved the whole class
and gave each child a role. It was also clear that the show had a definite
unwritten script that embodied clear expectations about the kind of things
that should and should not be said, and that had guided the children in their
preparations. The values and sentiments that pervaded 6–1’s play about a
disabled boy, 6–2’s recitation of Neither Yielding to Rain, or 6–3’s series of
presentations on the theme ‘to live’ – thoughtfulness, kindness, perseverance,
selflessness, and valuing life – were exactly the kind that the school had been
trying to develop in them; indeed, as we have seen in earlier chapters, they had
encountered more than one of the poems and songs they presented at the
school itself. The final recitation followed a basic framework provided by the
sixth year teachers (beginning with recollections of school and thanks to
parents, then to classmates, and finally to each teacher), with the children
writing the specific words for most of the text.6 Its focus on thanks for the
support and love received from others followed a clear cultural imperative to
acknowledge one’s dependence on others and to express gratitude to those

who gave necessary support (Kondo, 1990: 76–115; Reader, 1995: 233). This
had indeed also been evident in the Send-off, a few days before (there
expressed by the younger children to the sixth years themselves).
It was not only towards people that the children expressed gratitude. A
week before the graduation ceremony, the sixth years at Morikawa spent two
periods in an expression of gratitude to the school building itself – by clean-
ing some of the stairwell walls. The action was mainly symbolic, since only a
limited part of the building was affected, but was no less significant for that,
not least in its representation of the importance of symbolic ritual action
itself. As Reader (1995) has pointed out, cleaning is frequently a symbolic act
in Japan, used to express cleansing and burnishing the self, gratitude, and the
imposition of order on the environment.
The graduation ceremony

Meanwhile, practice for the graduation ceremony itself went on at Morikawa,
for at least one period every day during the fortnight before the ceremony
itself. The extensive time spent in practice, and the seriousness with which
the teachers approached the practice, constituted in themselves a lesson to the
children about the importance of public ritual and the need for it to be
performed with appropriate formality and precision. Different parts of the
ceremony were practiced separately; in the first practice I observed, on
5 February, the children first practiced standing, sitting, and bowing in uni-
son. At two points in the ceremony, they needed to stand up together, pick up
their chairs, turn them around, and sit down again, and so they first practiced
doing this rapidly (ensuring that they all turned the same way and avoided
collisions), and then as quietly as possible. The graduation ceremony, like
other school events, was allocated curriculum time in the category ‘special
activities’ (tokubetsu katsudō), but as the number of periods in this category
was too few to accommodate as much practice as the teachers felt they
needed, periods officially intended for physical education and music were also
used for the purpose.
On 15 March, four days before the ceremony itself, the sixth years
rehearsed the entire event in the school gym; then, the day before, there was a
second rehearsal, this time with the whole school present. All actions were
prescribed and choreographed in minute detail. For example, in order to
Figure 6.2 Sixth years at Morikawa cleaning the school walls, a week before their
graduation in 1996.
ensure an orderly entrance by the sixth years, the teachers instructed them to
step up to a yellow line on the floor of the gym once the preceding children
had taken three steps beyond it. The procedure for receiving the graduation
certificate was also minutely prescribed. After leaving their seats, children
proceeded through a series of intermediate wait points before reaching the
second step up to the centre of the stage, at which point the class teacher read
his or her name, and the child replied ‘Hai!’ (yes) in a loud voice, stepping up
to the stage alongside the previous child, who had just stepped back after
receiving the certificate from the principal. Both children then bowed, and
while one walked off the stage to the left, the newcomer received the gradu-
ation certificate from the principal with both hands. After descending from
the stage, the child would then walk to a table at the side of the gym and
hand the certificate over to a teacher with a bow. Returning the bow, the
teacher rolled up the certificate, inserted it in a long box, and handed it back
to the child with another bow, holding the box with both hands, one at each
end; the child received the box with upturned palms before returning to his or
her seat.
The morning of the day before the graduation ceremony was taken up by
the final rehearsal. After lunch, the sixth years cleaned up their classrooms
for the last time. Gradually, over the preceding days, the posters and artwork
that normally covered the classroom walls had been stripped away, and the
children’s school gear taken home, until by the end of this penultimate day,
the classrooms were virtually bare – a state that symbolically echoed the in-
between, liminal state into which the children were entering (Turner, 1967:
98–9, 109–10). All of those things that made the classrooms ‘their places’
had been taken away; they had been ‘divested of trappings of their social
selves’ (Kondo, 1990: 89). Over the previous week, they had engaged in a
series of events that had symbolically bound them together for a final time as
a class, events that would be memorable precisely because they were unusual –
lunch prepared for themselves in 6–1, a joint artwork in 6–2, a kick-base
tournament in 6–3, the karaoke party in 6–4. Now, with their classrooms bare
and featureless, the children were ready for the final event, the reality-defining
ceremony that would declare their primary school lives over.
The final two periods of the day were devoted to class activities. The chil-
dren received their graduation albums, which included not only many photo-
graphs taken by the school photographer during their six years at the school,
but also the compositions that each one of them had written. The children
were soon writing messages to one another on the blank pages at the end of
each album. The class activities over, they left for home.
Meanwhile, the other teachers and the fifth year pupils had been preparing
the school, decorating the gym and the corridors. Just after five o’clock, there
was a short meeting (uchiawase) in the staffroom. Normally, such meetings
were held at the start of the day, not the end, and this deviation from the
normal pattern marked the day as extraordinary. The principal made a
speech, thanking all the teachers for the work in preparation for the gradu-
ation ceremony. The four sixth year class teachers then left their seats to stand
in a line at the end of the staffroom. The head of year, Kotani-sensei, made a
speech thanking all the teachers for their help, and expressing her hope and
confidence that the children would give of their best next day. Then the sixth
year teachers went to their classrooms, to make the final preparations for the
morning. On each child’s desk, they laid the pink bunches of ribbon that the
children would pin to their breasts, and they prepared the blackboard by
writing on it a poem, or the children’s names, along with decorative flourishes
in coloured chalk. Once Satoyama-sensei had taken down the poster that
expressed the year-group goal from over 6–2’s blackboard, all the classrooms
were completely bare except for vases of flowers on the teachers’ desks, which
stood out all the more because all other objects had been removed. In 6–1’s
classroom, the vase was full of lilies brought by one of the children, sending out
a delicious fragrance. Other teachers gradually left for home, but three of
the sixth year teachers were still at the school by the time I departed at
6.30 p.m.
The next day dawned bright and clear. Both teachers and children started
arriving quite early, around 8 a.m. All three of the female sixth year teachers
were wearing traditional Japanese dress (kimono and hakama), while Teraoka-
sensei wore a black suit and white tie, and the principal was in morning dress.
The sixth years were also smartly dressed, some wearing all or part of their
school uniforms, which had otherwise hardly been in evidence during my time
at the school. The children had each written a letter to their parents, and these
were laid out on tables outside each of the sixth year classrooms, for the
parents to find when they arrived a little later. Once all the parents had come,
group photos of parents and children were taken in the gym, after which
the sixth years returned to their classrooms while the younger pupils filed into
the gym.
Finally, the moment came for Kotani-sensei to lead the sixth years into the
decorated gymnasium, amid solemn music and much applause. Once each
class was assembled, they bowed as one to the stage, adorned with a banner
with the words ‘Congratulations on your graduation’ above the national and
city flags, and then sat down as one. When all were seated, the ceremony was
declared open. After the singing of the national anthem came the presenta-
tion of certificates, each child going up to the stage and back in the prescribed
fashion, as each name was read by the class teacher to the accompaniment of
wistful, uplifting music. As each child received the certificate, video allowed
his or her face to be seen in close-up on a huge screen. The presentation of
certificates was followed by speeches from the principal and the chairman of
the Parent–Teacher Association, then the introduction of VIPs and the read-
ing of telegrams of congratulation.
Now the sixth years, who had been facing the stage up to this point,
turned their chairs around to face the audience. They sang Yuzuriha no uta
(Yuzuriha song), which echoed the yuzuriha poem they had read a few weeks
earlier with its reference to the growth of a new generation; then all except ten
children sat down, while those who remained standing began a recitation
whose first part recounted the main events of their collective life at the
school, beginning with their entrance ceremony six years before:7
Child 1: Spring, overflowing with hope

All: Spring
Child 2: Heisei year 8
Child 3: March 19th
Child 4: Now
All: Now
All boys: We
All girls: We8
Child 5: Who will graduate
Child 6: The time for 125 children to set off on our journey
Child 7: Graduation ceremony
All: Graduation ceremony
(Background music)
Child 8: 1,389 days
Child 9: That we came to school, even in rain and snow
Child 10: Now, when we graduate
Child 11: Many, many memories revive
Each child had a line to speak out in a loud voice, with some lines spoken by
all; as they spoke, sentimental background music played softly, becoming
louder at transition points. After the first ten children had spoken, they took
their seats again, and the next ten stood to continue. After the first part of the
recitation, dealing with memories of schooldays, all present sang the school
song: it was then the turn of the younger pupils to respond with their own
recitation, congratulating their ‘big brothers and big sisters’ and thanking
them for their help and their example:
Child 20: Going to school in a group every day

Child 21: ‘Be careful not to run out in the road’
Child 22: ‘Be careful when a car comes’
Child 23: Always, for our sakes
Child 24: You took care
Child 31: Sports Day in the autumn

Child 32: You taught us
Child 33: How to do cheering
Child 34: Till your voices were hoarse
Child 40: The club activities that were so much fun

Child 41: When we were at a loss
Child 42: When we didn’t understand
Child 43: You always kindly
Child 44: Taught us
The younger pupils then sang a song entitled, ‘Congratulations on your

Graduation’, at which the sixth years then resumed their recitation, first
thanking the younger children and urging them to ‘build an even more won-
derful Morikawa Primary School’, and then expressing thanks to their
fathers, their mothers, and their teachers for all their care and support, before
singing ‘with feelings full of gratitude’ the song Sudachi no uta (‘Leaving the
nest’). After they had risen and bowed to the stage once more, the ceremony
was declared to be at an end, and the sixth years processed out to applause
and the upbeat music of Okamoto Mayo’s hit pop song, Tomorrow.
From the gym, the sixth years returned to their classrooms, where they
were joined by their parents and the class teachers. One of the previous year’s
sixth year teachers told me that she expected that the teachers would now be
talking to the children about life (jinsei), with the children sitting as still as
stone. Teraoka-sensei had prepared for each child a yosegaki (a square, gold-
edged card, used for farewell messages), with a picture of himself with the
child, and an individual message to each child. He had also put a second
photo of himself with each child into what he called a ‘time capsule’, and
during his talk after the ceremony, he planned to tell the children that he
would keep the ‘time capsule’ and open it in 20 years. By then, their real faces
would have changed – would they be sad, or smiling? He hoped they would be
smiling.
Meanwhile, the younger pupils were being assembled along the path from
the main door to the school gate, over which there was a banner: ‘Graduates,
go powerfully into a new world’. As the sixth years and their parents emerged
and walked down the path and out the gate, applause surrounded them, while
the signature tune of the television drama ‘Kinpachi-sensei of Class 3-B’
wafted above.
The graduation ceremony as a rite of passage

The graduation ceremony was considerably more formal than any of the
associated events that had preceded it. This was not surprising, given its
function as a classic rite de passage, intended to perform a clear and decisive
change of status. In van Gennep’s terms (1960 [1908]), the entire ceremony
can be understood as a rite of separation. Acts prior to the ceremony itself,
such as the Send-off and the cleaning of the school walls, also participate in
this separating ritual; like the stripping of the classrooms, the cleaning of the
walls is particularly suitable in this respect, since, on an unconscious level, it
symbolically represents the removal of the physical traces of the children’s
presence during their time at the school.9 On the day of the ceremony itself,
the sixth years enter classrooms transformed into spaces quite unlike a nor-
mal classroom; they enter the gym separately from the other children, and are
seated separately. The recitation that they perform emphasizes the separation,
by its recapitulation of the children’s entire primary school life, by its declar-
ation that this stage of life is at an end, and by its parting exchange of thanks
to significant others for their help during this period. After the ceremony, the
children return to the special spaces that their classrooms have become, and
from there they exit the school directly, with no further contact with the other
children. Their liminal state will continue until they are admitted to junior
high school in a few weeks’ time, at an entrance ceremony which acts as an act
of incorporation into their new status and institution.10
The structure of the recitation during the graduation ceremony at Morikawa
was fundamentally similar to that during the graduation show at Nakamachi,
with memories of schooldays being succeeded by thanks to parents, other
pupils, and teachers. The formal similarity indicated that both recitations
shared the ritual function of elaborating the basic rite of separation, though
at Nakamachi, this particular elaboration was carried out before the gradu-
ation ceremony itself. The ritual function of the recitation not surprisingly
limited the extent to which the children themselves were able to shape its
content; even at Nakamachi, where the children did write a large proportion
of the actual words spoken, their freedom of expression was severely limited
by the framework they were given by teachers. Moreover, it is significant that
even this limited autonomy of expression was separated from the graduation
ceremony itself, taking place in an earlier and less formal event.
Ritual and other narratives

Interdependence, individuality and autonomy received varying degrees of
emphasis in the series of actions and ceremonies that led up to and culmin-
ated in the graduation ceremonies at Morikawa and Nakamachi. Inter-
dependence was stressed most strongly, particularly on occasions such as the
Send-off for the sixth years, the graduation show at Nakamachi, and the
graduation ceremony at Morikawa, when expressions of thanks for others’
support became a central message. Cooperation, not competition, was
encouraged; teachers were careful to ensure that all children were able to
participate actively in events, and there were few opportunities for some indi-
viduals to stand out more prominently than others. At Nakamachi’s gradu-
ation show, for example, most of the activities involved all children more or
less equally, whether preparing food to eat, making a group recitation, or
singing a song or playing an orchestral piece as a class. In cases where some
children had a larger role (for example, in writing a script), this was mainly
behind the scenes. The only exception to this general rule came in 6–1’s short
play, ‘Hang in there, Tsuji-kun!’ which gave some children larger roles than
others.
When there were opportunities for individuality and autonomy, they were
often subject to a strong implicit script that carried easily decipherable
expectations about what kinds of expression were desirable. This was the case
with the ‘X days until graduation’ cards hung in the classroom, on which
children in 6–2 and 6–3 at Morikawa wrote their memories of school, as well
as the performances at Nakamachi’s graduation show. Though this did not
necessarily make what the children created in these contexts unreflective of
their thoughts and feelings, it did impose conventional limits on what could
be produced.
There were times, especially at Morikawa, when children were subject to
less guidance, particularly when decorating their commemorative craftworks,
and when organizing their own graduation-associated rituals, either in the
form of parties or the exchange of sain-chō. In these cases, children very often
turned to commercial culture for a means of expression, in the form of pop
songs for karaoke, cartoon images of warriors or cute characters, or the
mass-produced sain-chō. In their use of these popular culture artifacts, they
tended to produce alternative identities and constructions of self to those
that the school sought to develop. In particular, whereas the school held up as
an ideal the class group as nakama, with each child caring for each other
child, karaoke parties and sain-chō resulted in some children standing out,
as a result of popularity and an outgoing character, while others were
marginalized.
Yet despite the formality of the graduation ceremony, and the tendency of
the ceremony and associated graduation activities to emphasize interdepend-
ence over individuality or autonomy, there were indications that graduation
placed more emphasis on individual children than in the past – at least in the
eyes of the teachers. More than one teacher at Morikawa told me that gradu-
ation ceremonies of the past had been more formal than they were currently. I
was told that the children all used to bow when the principal reached the foot
of the steps up the stage, and again when he reached the top step; while only a
few representatives of the children used to speak during the ceremony.
Indeed, during a Morikawa staff meeting a month before the graduation
ceremony, it was suggested that the plan drawn up by the sixth year teachers
also be simplified in this fashion, to reduce the number of children who
would speak. The original plan was strongly defended, however, by the head
of year, Kotani-sensei, who argued that it was very meaningful for each child
and for his or her parents that each child speak, and that each child’s face be
seen. Takamatsu-sensei, who was in charge of anti-discrimination (as well as
being the teachers’ union representative), further argued that there was no
need for all children to do things together in perfect unison, as in the old days
– a school graduation ceremony was not the army. In the end, every child did
stand and speak, and every child’s face was shown on a huge video screen as
she or he was accepting the graduation certificate. Thus, while the Morikawa
graduation ceremony continued to emphasize formality and interdependence,
it did so in a way that allowed each of the graduating children a degree of
active participation as an individual.
Conclusion
The graduation ceremony and its associated events and activities create a
ritualized context by taking certain motifs and values familiar to primary
children (interdependence, friendship, gratitude, the significance of age-roles,
the importance of memory) and presenting them in an increasingly formal-
ized and systematic way, a way that strips away potential distractions to allow
what remains an unhindered prominence. As Kondo (1990: 110) has pointed
out, both familiarity and formalization can contribute to making ritual con-
texts emotionally persuasive. The considerable elaboration of the basic ritual
of graduation is certainly intended to carry emotional power, and this in
itself is significant. Ritual is not always designed to have emotional effect; as
Bell (1992: 186) has noted, it is often enough for participants simply to assent
to going through the motions. Moreover, from a ritual point of view, the
graduation ceremony in itself is quite adequate to perform the function of
symbolically moving children out of the status of ‘primary school pupil’;
events and activities such as the Send-off for the Sixth Years and the gradu-
ation show are unnecessary, as indeed are the recitations and songs that
formed part of the Morikawa graduation ceremony. Indeed, in my personal
experience, graduations at junior high school and high school in Japan
become progressively more austere, with fewer and fewer elements intended
to move the participants emotionally. The comments of teachers about the
gradual elaboration of primary school graduations suggest that at this stage
of schooling, efforts to make these events emotionally meaningful to the

children have increased over the years. The complex of events and activities
that surrounds graduation from primary school indicates that these rituals
are not intended only to perform a rite of passage, but also to impress upon
participants certain values, and create in them shared memories. It is worth
remembering that children participate in events such as the Send-off for the
sixth years and the graduation ceremony six times in their school career,
albeit only once as graduating pupils. Such events are thus educationally as
well as ritually significant.
Rohlen (1989: 27) has written that in Japan, much more ritual attention is
paid to entrance to than exit from a state or institution. This may often be
true, but not in the case of primary school, where graduation undergoes as
much ritual elaboration as entrance, if not more. This may be explained by
the fact that the whole of the primary school experience is equivalent to the
kind of initiatory training that new employees undergo when they first enter a
company – primary school being the first (compulsory) stage of initiatory
training for life as a whole. The primary school graduation ceremony and its
associated activities are thus in one sense situated part-way through the long-
drawn-out educational process that forms the entrance to modern life. When
one considers again that children experience the graduation events repeatedly
throughout their school career, it can be seen that while ritually they may
be ‘exit’ ceremonies, educationally they can be understood as ‘entrance’
ceremonies.
Yet in a more profound sense, they do indeed represent an end. In pre-Meiji
Japan, boys underwent the genpuku ceremony to make them men from the
age of 12 onwards. In today’s Japan, it is only up to the end of primary school
that children are eligible for child fares on public transport – as the sixth year
teachers sometimes reminded their pupils, to impress on them the significance
of their graduation. With entry to junior high school, children enter a more
ambiguous phase of life, where they are still seen as children, yet children
with a qualification – children in a kind of pupa state, undergoing the difficult
process of transformation into adults. As they went out from the school gates
after their primary school graduation ceremony, the pupils of Morikawa and
Nakamachi were indeed entering a new world – and bidding farewell to
unambiguous childhood.
Notes
1 Benjamin (1997: 97–104) gives a detailed description of a primary school sports
day in Saitama in 1989, including features found in the Nakamachi sports day,
such as a whole school dance, cheering, and human pyramids. Cheering and
dancing also feature in Hendry’s description of a kindergarten sports day in
1981 (Hendry, 1986: 142–3).
2 In 1996, mobile phones were not yet widespread enough to be given a space on the
cards, but some cards did have a space for a pager (pokeberu) number.
3 Tsuneyoshi (2001: 75–6) gives an outline of a similar event at a Tokyo primary
school, with some differences in details.

4 At Nakamachi, the sixth years concluded with the upbeat pop hit Tomorrow (also
played on recorders by the fourth years at Morikawa).
5 This included not only the three class teachers, but also three other teachers who
had each taught a subject to one of the classes.
6 The first two sections excerpted above were provided by teachers, while the third
was written by the children.
7 Tsuneyoshi (2001: 75–6) describes a very similar recitation at a Tokyo primary
school, and points out that the format is ‘suggested in some teachers’ guidebooks’.
8 Boys said ‘bokutachi’ a first-person pronoun conventionally used by boys and men,
while girls said ‘watashitachi’, a pronoun conventionally used by girls.
9 Van Gennep (1960 [1908]: 35–6) notes that rites of separation often take place in
stages, and surmises that the intent is ‘to make the break gradual’.
10 Nonetheless, Morikawa teachers were told at a staff meeting that their school
continued to have responsibility for giving guidance (shidō) to the sixth years even
after the graduation ceremony, until they formally entered junior high school.
Moreover, the sixth year teachers were required by the school to make patrols in
the locality during the spring vacation, to help ensure that the newly graduated
children did not get into any trouble – despite the fact that at least one of the
teachers told me that she thought such patrols were a waste of time. This demon-
strates once again the extraordinary expectations that are made of Japanese
schools; it might well be thought that supervision of the children during these
three weeks could fairly be left to their families.
7 The next stage – 2002 and
all that
As described in Chapter 1, the 1998 revision of Japan’s national curriculum

involved a significant cut in the hours that primary schools devoted to trad-
itional school subjects. In part, this was inevitable because of the implemen-
tation of a five-day school week, which meant that fewer school hours were
available for lessons. However, it was also necessary because of the introduc-
tion of the new curricular area of sōgō-teki na gakushū (Integrated Studies),
which was allotted as many as 105–110 hours a year in the third to sixth years
of primary school – more than any subject except Japanese (kokugo) and
maths.1 Usually referred to more briefly as sōgō gakushū, this new area was
the centrepiece of the reform programme at the primary level, and key to the
attempt to solve the problem of how to develop children’s individuality at
the same time as making them better socially integrated.
As the first chapter of this book has explained, the new curriculum came
under sustained attack not long after it was published, forcing the govern-
ment to introduce measures designed to reassure the public that ‘academic
attainment’ (gakuryoku) as traditionally understood would be upheld. This,
however, did not involve a retreat from the emphasis on the individual. In
fact, one of the main measures intended to ensure the maintenance of stand-
ards was encouragement for schools to tailor their teaching more clearly to
the needs of individual students, by organising teaching according to chil-
dren’s academic performance. On the face of it, this was a striking departure
from the avoidance of streaming or setting that had dominated Japanese
primary teaching since the end of the Second World War.
In this chapter, I will examine how the 2002 curriculum and subsequent
changes were implemented at Morikawa and other primary schools in Sakura.
The main basis for the account is a two-week visit to Morikawa during June
2004, during which I observed classes, interviewed teachers, and collected
school documents. In addition, I draw on observations of single lessons at
Morikawa and Ishida primary schools in October 2002 (along with docu-
ments from both schools), interviews with the headteachers of Nakamachi
and Taira primary schools in October 2003 (again accompanied by docu-
ments), and periodic conversations and interviews with primary school
teachers in Sakura over several years. I argue that curricular changes have
The next stage – 2002 and all that 195
been implemented in ways that show considerable continuity with practices
before 2002. Teachers continue to focus on developing both interdepend-
ence and autonomy in children, with a particular emphasis on improving
children’s socialization through experiential interaction with their local
community and environment. The implementation of small-group teaching,
meanwhile, seems to have concentrated on meeting children’s individual
needs and promoting self-directed learning, without abandoning teaching in
the class group or introducing performance-based teaching wholesale.
Changes since 2002 thus amount to evolution and not revolution.
The 2002 curriculum and its aftermath: sōgō gakushū and small-
group teaching
According to the curriculum published in 1998 and implemented in 2002,
schools were to use the time allocated to sōgō gakushū for ‘creative edu-
cational activities such as cross-curricular and integrated studies, and studies
based on the interests of children’ (Monbushō, 1998b: 2). The curriculum
stated two main sets of aims for the new area. The first was ‘to develop
[children’s] abilities in the areas of identifying key questions, learning, and
thinking by oneself, judging autonomously, and becoming better at problem-
solving’ (1998b). The second set of aims was ‘to have children learn how
to learn and how to think, to develop [in children] an attitude that tackles
problem-solving and exploratory activities autonomously and creatively,
and to enable them to think about their own ways of living’ (1998b: 3). In
December 2003, following the furore about allegedly falling academic stand-
ards, a third aim was added: ‘to interconnect and integrate the knowledge and
skills acquired in other curricular areas and subjects, making use of them in
study and in life’ (Monbukagakushō, 2007). The curriculum suggested inter-
national understanding, information technology, the environment, and health
and welfare as examples of specific areas that could be the focus of study in
sōgō gakushū, and it noted a number of points for schools to bear in mind.
First, they should incorporate experiential (taiken-teki) study and problem-
solving, such as experience of nature, volunteer activities, studies that used
observation, experiments and surveys, presentations and debates, and making
things. Second, schools should try to use diverse modes of study, such as
groupwork and mixed-age activities, and should make active use of study
materials and environments provided by the local area (chiiki), with the
cooperation of local people. Third, schools should ensure that where children
learned conversational foreign languages as part of education for inter-
national understanding, these studies should be experiential and appropriate
for primary school level (Monbukagakushō, 2007).
As noted earlier, what was remarkable about these stipulations was their
brevity and the amount of freedom they gave schools in developing their own
curriculum content. They also represented a clear response to the two key
issues identified by the reports issued by the Chūkyōshin, the government’s
196 The next stage – 2002 and all that
main advisory body, in the mid-1990s: first, the need to encourage creativity,
initiative, and independent problem-solving ability, and second, the need to
provide children with better socialization, especially by connecting them more
adequately with the natural and social environment of their localities. The
wording of the curriculum made it clear that sōgō gakushū time should not be
used for the formal, text-centred teaching of English.
Between the publication of the curriculum in December 1998, and its
implementation in April 2002, there were just over three years for schools to
ready themselves to teach sōgō gakushū. Their primary means of preparation

was through the continuous in-school research programmes (kōnai kenshū)
in which all public primary schools in Japan engage as a matter of course
(Fernandez and Yoshida, 2004), and which involve, among other things, open
lessons followed by discussion seminars. When I interviewed Imai-sensei, the
head of academic administration (kyōmu shunin) at Morikawa in June 2004,
he told me that following the publication of the first drafts of the new curric-
ulum, Morikawa had made sōgō gakushū the main theme of its in-school
research for a full five years. This approach is likely to have been typical of
schools throughout Japan, faced as they were with a major new curricular
area to teach. They were also helped in their preparations by a flood of
writing about how to teach the new area. In December 2001, for instance,
I counted 160 different books about how to teach sōgō gakushū on sale at
a major Tokyo bookstore – 23 written by teachers themselves about their
schools’ pilot programmes (Cave, 2003: 96). Using these means and resources,
schools prepared themselves for the new challenge.
The introduction of small-group teaching was a very different story.
Whereas sōgō gakushū had been introduced with a long lead time, as is nor-
mal for curriculum revisions in Japan, small-group teaching was a measure
that the Ministry of Education had not expected to take, one that it was
forced into by the furore over supposed ‘falling standards’ that erupted from
1999 onwards. From 2001, the Ministry announced that prefectures should
allocate extra teachers to schools for the purpose of implementing small-group
teaching (shōninzū shidō). Such teaching also went under the title of ‘teaching
adapted to the individual’ (ko ni ōjita shidō) and ‘teaching according to degree
of learning mastery’ (shūjukudobetsu shidō). Terms such as ‘ability grouping’
(nōryokubetsu shidō) were scrupulously avoided, given the opposition they
would have been likely to arouse among teachers and parents who believed in
the egalitarian treatment of children. The Ministry also designated 1,692
primary and junior high schools as ‘frontier schools for the improvement of
academic attainment’ (gakuryoku kōjō furontia-kō) by means of ‘teaching
adapted to the individual’ (Asahi Shinbun, 2002). By 2003, a Ministry survey
found that 63 per cent of public primary schools were implementing ‘small-
group teaching according to degree of learning mastery’, though this was
very largely confined to the subject of maths (Monbukagakushō, 2003).
In contrast to sōgō gakushū, small-group teaching was implemented with
little or no lead time. However, whereas sōgō gakushū was mandatory for all
schools, small-group teaching was not. Even by 2003, 37 per cent of primary
schools had not introduced small-group teaching in any subject, and overall,
the approach remained confined to a small minority of schools (11 per cent
or less) in all subjects except maths, for which it was being used by about
40 per cent of schools from the third year of primary school onwards
(Monbukagakushō, 2003).
Sōgō gakushū at Morikawa and other Sakura primary schools

During my visits to Morikawa in 2002 and 2004, I observed sōgō gakushū

activities for the fifth and sixth year pupils, and discussed these with teachers.
The fifth and sixth years’ activities were part of the school’s comprehen-
sive plan for sōgō gakushū, which covered the third to sixth year children.
Imai-sensei, the school’s head of academic administration, explained to me
that activities in one year were intended to form a basis for subsequent years.
There were two major aims that ran through all four years: ‘connecting with
other people’ (hito to no kakawari) and ‘thinking about the way one lives’
( jibun no ikikata o kangaeru). The exact content of the activities varied from
year to year, and even to some extent in the course of the year, since the
teachers’ ideas developed, teaching personnel themselves changed, and each
year’s plans were developed in consultation with the children. There was
nonetheless a broad framework that had continued over several years.
The third year was mainly devoted to raising children’s awareness of the
local environment, so that they noticed more about it. In 2002, for example,
40 hours were devoted to activities to do with the river that ran in front of the
school – exploration, play, and cleaning up rubbish. In the fourth year, the
focus moved from noticing to acting. Most of the year was divided into
three blocks: 30 hours focusing on ‘rubbish’ (gomi), 30 looking at the river,
and 30 thinking about making the local area a better place for everyone to
live. During each block, the children explored the local area and decided on
the problems they wanted to tackle with a view to improving the locality, with
input from local people involved in areas such as recycling, river management,
or welfare. There was a decided focus on what the children themselves could
do, resulting in activities such as cleaning up rubbish and greeting others
loudly – long-standing concerns in Japanese primary schools (Lewis, 1995:
47–8; Tsuneyoshi, 2001: 29–30, 82).
The fifth years’ activities centred on the theme of ‘getting to know others’
( fureai). The vast majority of the year (80 hours) was spent on activities
with children in the local kindergarten and day-care centre, during which the
fifth years played with and helped take care of the preschoolers at a series of
gatherings. Finally, the sixth years again focused on the local area (chiiki). In
2002, almost the entire year (96 hours) was devoted to learning about or
participating in local volunteer activities, aiming to find out for themselves
how they could make a contribution. In 2004, however, activities were more
diversified; the children spent the first term learning about nature (shizen) in
the local area, and during the second term looked at local history, moving on
to interaction (kōryū) with local people in the third term.2
Fureai with the preschoolers: fifth year activities in sōgō gakushū

The term fureai is not easy to translate into natural English. Sato (1998: 229)
explains it as ‘emotionally supportive interpersonal contact’. It refers to
informal social contact of all kinds – especially everyday activities that come
naturally, such as spending time together chatting and (in the case of chil-
dren) playing. Of course, this kind of everyday human contact is exactly what
is widely felt to be increasingly lacking in the lives of today’s Japanese chil-
dren, living as they are often said to be in more organized yet narrower and
more socially impoverished worlds. A focus on fureai also shows Japanese
educators’ continued concern to develop the interdependence that I have
argued is a major discourse of selfhood in Japan.3
On my visit to Morikawa in October 2002, I watched the fifth year pupils
spend time preparing for a gathering with the preschoolers the following
month. This was the second session the children had spent thinking of
activities they could do with the preschoolers.
The children were assembled in the school gym, receiving directions from
Yoshioka-sensei (who had been transferred to Morikawa in 2001). They spent
15 minutes writing down ideas for games and other things to do with the
preschoolers, and then 30 minutes in small groups, putting together their ideas
into plans for each group, and noting down what they needed to prepare in
order to carry the plan out. A final few minutes were spent in reflection
( furikaeri) and self-evaluation.
During my 2004 visit, I was able to take part in a fureai event, as well as
watch some of the preparations. During the three preparatory periods I
observed, children worked in small groups, planning games to play, making
colourful name labels, and making presents to give the preschoolers. In many
cases, the presents were origami of various kinds – coasters, jumping frogs,
cranes, and a star-shaped ninja throwing weapon called a shuriken. One group
used cardboard to make boxes, which were covered in coloured paper and
decorated, while another group prepared boxes full of translucent, coloured
‘stones’ (made of plastic), bought at a video game centre. The most interest-
ing presents were inflatable toy ‘balloons’, made from plastic bags, paper cups,
and drinking straws (an idea the children told me they got from the television).
On the day of the fureai event, those fifth years visiting the day-care centre
(hoikuen) assembled outside at about 9.15 a.m. They first listened to Yoshioka-
sensei remind them that the important thing was to help the preschoolers
enjoy themselves. They should remember to smile, and shouldn’t worry if
things didn’t go exactly according to plan. If they scolded the preschoolers
and ordered them around, it would be no fun for the preschoolers, who
wouldn’t look forward to the next time the children visited. Also, it was
important to say goodbye in a very friendly way, not a perfunctory way.
The fifth years and their teachers then walked the short distance to the day-
care centre, where they divided up into small groups and spent 30–40 minutes
playing with the preschoolers. The activities were varied, ranging from chas-
ing games, or the card game, karuta, to making origami, or making ‘swords’
from rolls of paper. Some groups also spent some time reading story books
with the preschoolers. Finally, Yoshioka-sensei told the children it was time
to give the presents and say goodbye, and the event came to an end with an
informal ‘closing ceremony’.
As we walked back to the school, I listened to some of the boys talking

to each other delightedly about how the preschoolers had played and got
involved. I had rarely seen Japanese primary school children so full of spon-
taneous pleasure and enthusiasm at a school event. Yoshioka-sensei also
commented on the children’s reactions as we talked afterwards. ‘The expres-
sions on their faces really change, don’t they?’ she said. ‘Even children who
mess about in school are trying to think of the preschoolers and how to
interact with them.’ It was clear that she considered the activity to be very
worthwhile in its impact on the children. A similar view was expressed by
Takamori-sensei, a young woman who was one of the sixth year class teachers,
and had also taught the current sixth years when they were fifth years. She
told me that because the children usually only played with others their own
age, at the start they hadn’t known how to play with the preschoolers. Over
the year, their language had become kinder and gentler (kotoba ga yasashiku
natta), not only to the preschoolers, but also to their classmates, as they
themselves had noticed. She thought that it was probably the first time that
they had needed to think about someone other than themselves. They them-
selves had noticed that they had grown as persons, and they had liked and
looked forward to sōgō gakushū a great deal.
Though sōgō gakushū is a recent addition to the curriculum, it is not dif-
ficult to see the continuities between the fifth years’ fureai activities and
activities at primary schools before 2002. The most notable similarity is with
the mixed-age activities that had been carried out for about a decade prior to
2002 (and which were still going on at Morikawa at the time of my 2004 visit).
The fureai and mixed-age activities had similar aims – to have children make
plans and think for themselves, and to further their emotional and social
development. The activities through which these aims were pursued were
fundamentally similar – mixed-age activities organized in small groups –
though within the framework of sōgō gakushū, the activities and their prepar-
ation took more time, and went beyond the borders of the school itself
(which may well have increased their significance for the children). In fact, the
fifth years’ fureai activities were actually designed to connect to the mixed-age
activities within the school. Imai-sensei, the head of academic administra-
tion, explained to me that one year later, the fifth years would be in the sixth
year, while the preschoolers would be entering Morikawa as first year pupils.
At that time, the new sixth years would help bring the new first years to the
school, welcome them, and help them to settle down, and would continue to
interact with them during the school’s regular mixed-age activities, fulfilling
the traditional, socially approved role of ‘older brothers and sisters’. It is
clear, therefore, that the fureai activities are essentially a further development
of what primary teachers were already doing before 2002.
Experiencing the natural environment: sixth year activities in

sōgō gakushū
During June 2004, the sixth years’ sōgō gakushū activities were focused on
exploring nature (shizen) in the local area. I watched some of their activities
during a session early in my visit. On this occasion, the children were spend-
ing time outside the school, in three separate groups. The aim of the activities,
which stretched over three lesson periods, was to make use of nature in play-
ing (shizen o tsukatte asobu). Some of the children were carrying nets and
insect cages, presumably for the insects they hoped to catch.
As I needed to return to the school after two periods to watch the fifth
years’ sōgō gakushū activities, I joined the group that was to stay nearest the
school. Accompanied by one of the sixth year class teachers, the group went
to one of the two wooded hills that adjoined the school grounds. After a
few instructions from the teacher, and a reminder to assemble when she blew
her whistle, the children dispersed and started to play. Gradually they found
things to do. Many plucked leaves and started trying to make boats by tearing
and folding them. A group of boys made catapults, using sticks they had
found, together with sellotape and rubber bands that they had brought with
them. They reacted with delight when they found that the catapults worked:
‘Wow! That flew a long way! Let’s have a war!’ Meanwhile, some of the girls
were picking up little pine cones and throwing them at each other.
After 10 to 15 minutes, most children were busily engaged in a variety of
activities. Three boys climbed a tree, while six or seven girls threw pine cones
at them. Some girls made catapults. A pine-cone fight ensued, with the boys
using their catapults and the girls throwing pine-cones. In another part of
the open space below the wooded hill, a small group of boys made boats
and mats out of leaves. Three girls searched for a lizard they had seen. There
were, however, also three girls who seemed to spend the entire time sitting
and chatting, without any effort to ‘play using nature’. After about an hour,
the teacher led the children across a road to a second hill, and after resting
for some tea, further play ensued. I had to return to the school after about
an hour and a half.
Later that day and subsequently, I discussed the activities with two of
the sixth year teachers, the year head, Kawai-sensei, a man of about 40, and the
youngest of the four teachers, Takamori-sensei. They explained that the day’s
activities were the culmination of earlier sessions. The children had begun by
finding pieces of natural environment near their own homes where they could
play, and telling other children who lived in the same neighbourhood about
them. Then, children who lived relatively near the school introduced places
they knew, and these were joined into three ‘courses’ for the children to visit
that day. In the next session, the children would talk about what they had
played and what they had discovered.
Takamori-sensei added that the children had spent about four hours
making preparations for that day’s ‘playing with nature’. They began by
writing down their own ideas and experiences, but found they could hardly
write anything. This was because, according to Takamori-sensei, they never
played outside, unless they were playing with balls or on swings, and were
quite unused to play that made use of natural objects. Next, they looked for
ideas in books and on the internet, but were still unable to write very much.
Finally, they asked people they knew, especially older people such as grand-
parents, and got more ideas that way. Though Takamori-sensei did not so
express it, this could be seen as the children getting in closer touch with the
local community and its past.
Kawai-sensei, meanwhile, identified a number of difficulties that he felt the
sixth year sōgō gakushū faced. The acutest problem was a contradiction
between the aims of the sōgō gakushū activities, and other imperatives that
the school had to accommodate – most notably, concern to ensure children’s
safety. Concerns about safety meant that there were, in practice, severe
limitations to what children could be allowed to do. It was necessary to
organize out-of-school activities in larger groups, since there were only a
limited number of teachers who could supervise the children. Children were
not encouraged to go off in small groups without adult supervision. Yet they
were probably more likely to make their own discoveries in these ‘unsafe’
smaller groups, Kawai-sensei thought. Furthermore, while on the one hand
the school encouraged the children to discover their local environment, on
the other, it also regularly warned them not to go to the local hills or river
on their own, because of the possible dangers there. This was in response to
the wishes of parents and the local Board of Education. The result was that
it was difficult to see how the school could really encourage its children to
do much with what they had experienced in sōgō gakushū. Although in
theory the children were being encouraged to explore the local environment
and make their own discoveries, in practice, the school was obliged to do
its best to prevent such exploration, unless it took place with adult supervi-
sion. The same problems came up when the children were looking at local
history. Though the teachers wanted to encourage them to pursue their own
interests, it wasn’t practical to supervise small numbers who might want to
visit more distant sites. There was a perennial tension between the imperative
to encourage children to pursue their own interests, and the difficulties
involved in coping with the enormous diversity of activities that could arise
as a result.
A second problem that Kawai-sensei identified was that of the relative
anonymity and uniformity of many local neighbourhoods. It was all very
well to talk about ‘making the most of the local area’s particular features
(tokushoku)’, as the Ministry of Education did, but not all localities had very
remarkable features, and there could be problems making the most even
of those that did exist, such as the ‘dangerous’ river that ran in front of
Morikawa. One rural area some distance from Sakura was noted for its many
fireflies, so at the local school there, sōgō gakushū was centred on fireflies –
raising their grubs and putting on a firefly festival. Most neighbourhoods
did not have such notable features, however. Morikawa was located near
an ancient highway, it was true, but the neighbourhood had never been a
posting-stop (shukubamachi), so there wasn’t actually much for the children
to see there.
Kawai-sensei’s comments highlighted some of the practical realities that
impeded the sōgō gakushū ideal. His observations also drew attention to the
contradictory desires that many in today’s Japan have for children. On the one
hand, there are frequently expressed concerns that children today do not spend
enough time interacting with others and with nature, and nostalgia for child-
hood as it used to be. On the other hand, there are demands that children be
kept as safe as possible – demands that were never made in the vanished
society that so many idealize. It seems impossible for these contradictory
demands to be fully reconciled.
Assessing children’s performance in sōgō gakushū

One of the biggest problems posed by sōgō gakushū concerns how to assess
the performance of individual children in the area. I discussed this issue with
several teachers at Morikawa, including two heads of academic administra-
tion, Imai-sensei in 2004, and his predecessor Okada-sensei in 2002. On my
earlier visit, Okada-sensei expressed her view that the assessment criteria that
Morikawa had devised needed further improvement, as they were currently
quite subjective (shukan-teki). They needed to develop more objective ways of
evaluating what students did. Two years later, Imai-sensei also said that it was
difficult to convert children’s performances in sōgō gakushū into precisely
measurable data. The most useful methods they had found involved the
assessment of portfolios of work that children produced, including material
such as ideas, plans, and reflections that children wrote down. Without some
such physical record, Imai-sensei said, it was easy for teachers to become
vague in their assessments and write that children had ‘more or less’ achieved
the desired level of performance. A further method was for teachers to make
notes on children’s observed performance, using record sheets with a space
for each child (karute), similar to ones used by preschool teachers. During the
Morikawa fifth years’ visit to the day-care centre, teachers used a video
camera to make a more permanent record that could be used to help them
assess the children. Assessment clearly remains a key issue for sōgō gakushū;
indeed, Imai-sensei told me that he thought it would disappear from the
curriculum unless there were clear measures with which to evaluate it.
Sōgō gakushū at other Sakura primary schools and beyond
Besides Morikawa, I learned about sōgō gakushū activities at a number of
other Sakura primary schools through visits, school documents, and inter-
views with teachers. The broad themes tended to be similar to those at
Morikawa, with particular focus on the local environment, interaction with
the local community, and welfare issues. Popular topics included the explor-
ation of local rivers, woods and hills, the investigation of pollution issues, and
practical application through involvement in clean-up activities. Two schools
that I visited had children learn about rice experientially; with guidance from
local people, they planted the rice in the spring, either in buckets or in a small
rice field, observed and recorded its growth, and then harvested it in the
autumn. Finally, they held a harvest festival, and used the harvested rice in
cooking and making traditional material objects.4
Another popular theme was welfare, which sometimes took the form of
volunteer activities with local groups such as old people’s groups. I was told
that in 2002, the Morikawa sixth years had spent time reading to old people
in the locality. As with the Morikawa activities with the preschoolers, welfare
topics often built on activities that pre-dated the introduction of sōgō
gakushū. Several schools had children spend some time looking at the prob-
lems faced by blind and handicapped people, and studying ways to help
them, including environmental design and Braille. This incorporated activ-
ities that I had observed at Nakamachi in 1995–96, such as having the
children experience wheelchairs and letting them walk around the school
‘blind’ through the use of eye masks.
English conversation activities were a relatively minor component of sōgō
gakushū at all the schools I visited, taking up only 13 or 14 hours of each year.
This is not particularly surprising, given the practical difficulties faced by
most primary schools in this area. Japanese primary teachers are representa-
tive of the general population in their very limited English conversation abil-
ities. At Morikawa and other primary schools I visited, English was a matter
of becoming familiar with English sounds, words and phrases through games
and songs. These hours were taught by peripatetic foreign teachers (usually
but not always native speakers of English) employed by the local Board of
Education.
As noted earlier, many reports by public primary schools or teachers about
how they have implemented sōgō gakushū have been published in books and
journals aimed at practitioners. My examination of a selection of these
(Kojima et al., 1997; Katō and Sano, 1998; Inagaki, 2001; Satō and Nara-ken
Ikaruga-chōritsu Ikaruga Higashi Shōgakkō, 2002; Masaki, 2006; Yamamoto
and Ōmura, 2006) suggests that the way sōgō gakushū has been implemented
at Morikawa and other Sakura primary schools is not unusual. The local
community is a major focus of study in many reports of sōgō gakushū activ-
ities, and themes such as environmental concern, local traditions, volunteer-
ing, and the welfare of the local community frequently recur. Rice-growing
seems to be a popular activity, being reported by schools in Nara (Satō and
Nara-ken Ikaruga-chōritsu Ikaruga Higashi Shōgakkō, 2002: 127) and Gifu
(Yamamoto and Ōmura, 2006) prefectures, for example; but foci also vary
with the locality, so that one school in Aichi had its children look at the
cast metal workshops that dominated the area (Katō and Sano, 1998: 84–99).
At the same time, some schools seem to allow children more opportunities
to pursue a diversity of topics than was apparent at Morikawa (e.g. Satō
and Nara-ken Ikaruga-chōritsu Ikaruga Higashi Shōgakkō, 2002: 124–64)).
Larger-scale research is needed to explore the issue of commonalities and

diversity among schools in greater depth.
Assessing sōgō gakushū: self, individuality, and community

As discussed earlier, sōgō gakushū represents a response to two different
problems, as perceived by the Ministry of Education, its advisory council
(Chūkyōshin), and many others in Japan: first, the need for more individuality,
creativity, and problem-solving ability in children, and secondly, a desire that
children should develop healthily as social persons through interaction with
their local environment and community. At this stage, only tentative conclu-
sions can be drawn about the extent to which sōgō gakushū as implemented in
Morikawa and other Sakura primary schools is achieving its ends. However,
my observations do suggest that Sakura schools are attempting to develop
both children’s autonomy and individuality on the one hand, and also
their interdependence on the other, just as did teachers at Nakamachi and
Morikawa during the mid-1990s. There are marked continuities between the
content of sōgō gakushū and activities that were undertaken in primary
schools before the introduction of the 2002 curriculum. In these senses, sōgō
gakushū does not represent a sharp break with the past, but a development
and expansion of previous concerns and practices.
During my own observations of sōgō gakushū in Sakura schools, the accent
seemed to be placed more on developing children’s interdependence, social
integration, and empathy, than on developing individuality and autonomy,
though the latter concern was not absent. The framework of aims and
approaches laid out in the national curriculum is broad enough to give schools
considerable latitude in interpreting how the curriculum should be imple-
mented. In practice, schools’ central concern seemed to be that children be
better socialized through greater experiential integration with their local
community and environment. The sense that contemporary children had too
little direct experience of nature and an impoverished social experience was
very strong – exactly the concern expressed in the Chūkyōshin’s 1996 report,
which itself expressed a view that is widely held in contemporary Japan. In
this sense, the sōgō gakushū programmes that schools were implementing
seemed to be attempts to repair or recreate what are imagined to be the best
features of the Japanese childhood of 30, 40, 50 or more years ago. The
dominant concept in these programmes is that of the local area (chiiki). It is
integration with the natural environment and social community of the local
area that are thought to provide a healthy developmental experience for
children. It is also thought that the local area should be the first object of
children’s concern and action as good citizens.
It was hard for me to avoid the feeling that many activities that schools
were implementing under sōgō gakushū were born of nostalgia for an ideal-
ized past. The sceptic within me asked whether childhood in the 1950s, say,
really was as healthy in its effects as is imagined, or whether contemporary
children really are as impoverished in their experience of nature and society

as is claimed. It certainly is not true that contemporary Japanese children
have no experience whatsoever of their natural environment, for example.
I have seen boys playing in Sakura’s rivers, and more than one boy at
Nakamachi was a fishing enthusiast. Yet at least one survey does suggest that
children’s experiences of nature dropped significantly in the decade from
1984 to 1995.5 Moreover, there are very plausible arguments that childhood
in Japan really has changed dramatically over the last few decades, along
with the rest of Japanese society. It is very credible that children spend less
time playing outside in mixed-aged groups, now that there are so many
indoor, sedentary activities to occupy them, along with the many organized
activities such as lessons in swimming, piano, English, ballet and so on. There
can be little doubt that the spread of roads and motor cars since the 1950s has
also contributed to a decline in outdoor play, by making the environment
more dangerous for children. One Morikawa teacher in his fifties, who lived
close to the school and had graduated from it himself, told me that when he
was a child, he only had to go down to the big sandbank on the river to find
playmates. It is rare today to see children playing there. Similarly, arguments
that children have less social contact with a variety of adults are credible
when one considers the decline in social interaction in even rural Japanese
communities, as documented by authors such as Dore (1994: 326–7) and
Curtis (1999: 221–3).
A belief in the educative value of interaction with nature and with local
people is longstanding in Japan, as is advocacy of the importance of the local
community itself. During fieldwork in a bank during the late 1960s, Rohlen
(1986: 322) noted that the bank’s president would ideally have liked to have
all new employees spend their first year farming together, on the basis that the
‘agricultural cycle is the best education in persistent effort and due reward’.
Robertson (1991: 27) points out that ideas about the value and autonomy of
the local community appeal both to the political Right and Left. Indeed, the
nostalgia for an idealized past where life was warmer and more genuine has
been widespread for many years in Japan, as Robertson (1991) notes in her
explication of attempts to create a ‘hometown’ feeling ( furusato-zukuri) in the
Tokyo suburbs. Moreover, it is important to remember that concerns over
whether the lives of children in modern, affluent, industrial countries are really
good for them are by no means confined to Japan: best-selling books with a
similar message have been published in the US (Elkind, 1988; Postman,
1994) and Britain (Palmer, 2006), and in 2006, 110 academics, authors, and
teachers wrote a public letter to Britain’s Daily Telegraph newspaper, blaming
children’s increasing behavioural and mental health problems in part on the
world they grow up in (O’Malley, 2006). Anxieties in Japan are one variant of
a concern that is international.
Although the heaviest stress in the sōgō gakushū programmes I observed
falls on developing children’s interdependence, empathy, and integration with
the locality, the programmes do also encourage children to think for them-
selves and make their own decisions. Children may take part in helping to
decide exactly what subjects should be tackled within the broad frameworks
that teachers have set up. In addition, they have to make plans and decisions
about how to carry out many activities, such as how to play and interact with
the preschoolers in Morikawa’s fifth year programme. Morikawa’s head of
academic administration in 2002, Okada-sensei, emphasized that while some
activities that were now carried out as part of sōgō gakushū predated the
curriculum reform, what had changed was that the role of children in planning
and execution was significantly greater than before. Her own view was that the
basic purpose of sōgō gakushū was to have children do things themselves,
rather than being passive and simply learning from the teacher. Her successor,
Imai-sensei, explained that by the fifth and sixth years, the school tried to
develop children’s ability to plan (keikakuryoku), gradually leaving more and
more to the children. He saw the activities as involving problem-solving on
both large and small scales: for the fifth years, for example, larger-scale
problem-solving included the issues of working out what was important when
relating to the preschoolers, or what an individual needed to change about
himself in order to relate well with them, while smaller-scale problem-solving
involved questions such as what kind of name label would be appropriate to
make. Yoshioka-sensei added that they also wanted children to be able to
change plans if they were not going well, and respond appropriately to the
needs of the people they were dealing with (aite no koto o kangaeru). This
suggests that teachers thought that, in practice, the development of problem-
solving ability could not be separated from the development of sensitivity to
others; individual autonomy and interdependence needed to develop together.
It needs to be noted that the creativity and individuality that the pro-
grammes encourage are developed within a group context. During the fureai
event with the preschoolers, as well as the preparation for the event, the
Morikawa children were working in small groups, meaning that the ideas of
individuals had to be shared and discussed with the group before decisions
were taken. Children thus had autonomy as groups made up of contributing
individuals. This approach is not surprising from the point of view of the
practical organization of activities. It also represents an attempt to combine
the development of individuality, creativity, and thinking for oneself on the
one hand, and interdependence and cooperation on the other. Such an attempt
echoes the similarly balanced aims and practices of teachers at Nakamachi
and Morikawa in the mid-1990s.
Small-group teaching at Morikawa
Morikawa was one of the 1,692 primary and junior high schools designated
as ‘frontier schools for the improvement of academic attainment’ by the
Ministry of Education in 2002. Whereas the school had spent several years
preparing for the introduction of sōgō gakushū in 2002, the goal of improving
academic attainment had been thrust upon it suddenly and unexpectedly,
following the public furore over supposedly falling academic standards. The
strategy favoured by the Ministry of Education to improve academic attain-
ment was teaching adapted to individuals, with a view to achieving what

the Ministry’s slogan expressed as ‘solid academic attainment’ (tashika na
gakuryoku). Not surprisingly, the documents Morikawa had produced on the
issue by 2004 were full of Ministry catchphrases, from ‘solid academic
attainment’ and ‘small-group teaching’ to ‘teaching adapted to the individual’.
More significant than the words, however, were the way they were translated
into actual practice.
‘Small-group teaching’ at Morikawa was confined to three subjects: maths,
science, and Japanese (kokugo). Its implementation in each of these differed.
It was only in maths that learning was organized according to children’s
academic performance. However, not all textbook units (tangen) were taught
in small groups; in any given term, only one or two units would be taught this
way – according to Okada-sensei and Yoshioka-sensei, those that caused
children more difficulty and were likely to result in a wider range of perform-
ance among children. This was partly for practical reasons, small-group
teaching being more demanding to organize, and partly because teachers con-
tinued to value the relationship-building, nakama feeling, and learning from
one another that the regular class group made possible.
During my 2004 visit to Morikawa, I was able to observe the start of one
fifth year maths unit that was being taught in small groups. There were five
groups of children, instead of the four classes in which the fifth years nor-
mally studied. One of the five groups was taught by an additional teacher,
who was placed in the school specifically for the purpose of facilitating small-
group teaching. Before beginning the unit, which dealt with division using
decimals, the children took a placement test (pure-tesuto).6 This included prob-
lems about the unit that they had just studied (multiplication with decimals),
as well as problems from a unit they had studied as fourth years (division with
whole numbers). At the same time, they chose one of three courses to follow
during the unit. The ‘excitement course’ (waku-waku kōsu) was described to
them as ‘a course whose participants go back to the concept of the meaning
of 0.1 in decimal multiplication and to fourth year division with whole num-
bers, taking time over solving division with decimals’. This was designed as
the course for poorly performing children. The ‘smooth movers course’ (sui-
sui kōsu) was described as ‘a course whose participants start by thinking
about how many units of 0.1 come out of 0.6 ÷ 3, connect this with written
calculation (hissan), and solve division with decimals’. This was designed to
be a course that more or less followed the textbook. Finally, the ‘on and on
course’ (don-don kōsu) was described as ‘a course whose participants keep in
mind the meaning of the concept of 0.1, solve written calculation of division
with decimals, and attempt lots of problems’. This was designed as a course
for children who performed well in maths. I was told that all the courses
would eventually cover the textbook material, but while the ‘excitement
course’ started with revision of fourth year work, the ‘on and on course’
covered the fifth year textbook material more quickly than the others, and
then moved on to more advanced problems.

Perhaps not surprisingly, the largest number of children chose the ‘smooth
movers’ middle level course. These children were further divided into two
smaller groups, based on the results of the placement tests. The children who
had chosen the ‘excitement course’ were also divided into two groups, so that
they could be taught in smaller groups of about 15 children each. ‘Small-
group teaching’ was not an entirely accurate term, in fact, as it was only the
slower ‘excitement course’ that was really taught in groups much smaller than
the normal class size. Indeed, the teacher who oversaw small-group teaching
at Morikawa went so far as to say to me that with able children, the size of the
class was unimportant – even large classes were fine.
Yoshioka-sensei explained to me that one major aim of the small-group
teaching in maths was to have all the children reach a certain level. A second
aim was to enable as many children as possible to experience the feeling that
maths was fun and that they could do it, at least to some extent. What they
had to avoid, however, was a situation where some children felt they were in
the ‘good group’, while others were in the group for those who were bad at
maths. This was the reason for having children choose their own groups,
rather than simply allocating them. It was hoped that as a result, all the
children would be able to feel satisfied with what they had achieved. The
children were generally realistic in their assessment of their own abilities; if
a child chose a group that was too difficult for her, the teacher might talk to
her about it, and ask her if she was sure that was the most suitable group, but
this was not usually necessary. It was also possible to change courses once
the unit had started, though this was not encouraged. In fact, some able
children chose slower groups because they wanted to understand the material
thoroughly.
In science, small-group teaching as implemented at Morikawa was uncon-
nected to children’s academic performance. During my 2004 visit, I observed
several sixth year science classes organized as so-called ‘small-group’ teaching.
As with maths, the term ‘small-group teaching’ was something of a misnomer;
while it was true that the groups were smaller than normal classes, since the
children were divided into five rather than four groups, the size difference was
not dramatic. In fact, sometimes the groups that resulted were the same size
as normal class groups. The children again divided into groups according to
their own preferences, but in this case, they all studied the same material,
merely rotating around a series of lessons, each of which was taught by one
teacher who repeated the lesson five times. The advantage to be gained,
according to Morikawa teachers, was that the arrangement allowed each
teacher to spend more time in lesson preparation – since he or she only had
one lesson to teach, instead of five. The result, at least theoretically, was more
elaborate and interesting lessons.
Unfortunately, no small-group lessons in kokugo were taking place at the
time of my 2004 visit. However, according to the accounts I received from
Morikawa teachers, small-group teaching in kokugo too was organized more
on the basis of children’s interests than their academic performance. In

certain textbook units, teachers created a variety of courses that allowed
children to work on certain strengths or weaknesses they diagnosed in them-
selves, or that gave them different levels of support for a certain task. One
example was a story-writing unit, for which children could choose one of four
groups – one that gave them help with thinking of ideas and images, one that
gave support with writing itself, a third that gave both kinds of help, and a
fourth group for children who felt confident about writing imaginative fiction
with little or no help.
It was clear that ‘small-group teaching’, as implemented at Morikawa, was
not a simple or monolithic phenomenon. Teachers did not see it as a panacea
to be implemented across all subjects, or even during all textbook units in a
single subject; rather, it was used in different ways for different subjects,
according to what teachers perceived as the needs of the children. Given the
value that Japanese primary teachers have long placed upon the class group
as a unit where effective learning and human development can take place, it is
not surprising that they continue to see teaching in the class group as primary.
Nonetheless, their readiness to implement teaching and learning that uses a
different framework is also very significant, showing a willingness to acknow-
ledge and respond to the diversity of children’s needs in new ways. What is
also interesting is the large degree of choice given to the children themselves
in the small-group teaching process. As implemented in science and Japanese,
it appeared to be entirely up to children themselves to decide which groups to
join, depending on their interests and their own evaluation of their needs. In
the case of maths, the use of a placement test meant that choice was not
entirely in the hands of the children, but even there, it played a major role.
This approach is not entirely surprising, given the long-standing egalitarian-
ism of Japanese primary schools (Cummings, 1980), and teachers’ concerns
that parents would complain of discrimination (sabetsu) if their children were
obliged to join a slower class. It should also be noted that the approach is not
entirely new; in fact, a similar approach was being used for some maths units
as long ago as 1994, during my original pilot research at Morikawa. Even so,
it is impressive, showing respect for children’s dignity and their ability to
make decisions about their own learning. In this sense, Morikawa’s small-
group teaching seemed genuinely to be responding to children’s individual
needs and promoting their autonomy.
Conclusion
The 2002 curriculum revisions amounted to the most significant changes to
the content of Japanese primary education for over 40 years. The subsequent
introduction of small-group teaching has also attracted much attention, as to
organize teaching and learning according to children’s academic perform-
ance has been seen as a significant break from the undifferentiated treatment
of children that has been the norm in postwar Japanese public education.
These measures raised the question of whether Japanese primary education
was undergoing rapid and radical change, away from uniformity, egalitarian-
ism, and groupism, and towards increased stress on individuality and diversity.
The way sōgō gakushū and small-group teaching have been implemented
at Morikawa and other Sakura primary schools suggests that while the
changes since 2002 are significant, they do not amount to a revolution. In
sōgō gakushū, there is evidence that teachers have given children more scope
to plan activities and solve problems by themselves. The new curricular area
certainly allows teachers and children greater freedom to explore and study
their locality and the issues that face it. At the same time, the focus on the
local area that dominates sōgō gakushū at Sakura’s primary schools reflects a
conviction among teachers that children today are insufficiently integrated
with their local environment and community – that they are insufficiently
connected to the webs of interdependence in the natural and social worlds
that are thought to make up the essential support of human society. In other
words, sōgō gakushū is not only about developing individuality, autonomy,
and initiative; it is also very much about increasing children’s contact with the
natural and social worlds, making them aware of the interdependence that is
an essential feature of these worlds, and their own roles and responsibilities
within them. It is intended to develop children’s sociality, as well as their
individuality. In this sense, there are strong continuities between sōgō gakushū
and school practices before 2002. Indeed, as has been seen, some activities in
sōgō gakushū are developments of activities carried out by schools during the
1990s, and some pre-existing activities have been incorporated into the new
programme. At the same time, there must be doubts about the extent to which
sōgō gakushū can succeed in helping to recreate the essence of an idealized
Japanese childhood. It is hard not to feel that the contradictions in what
contemporary Japanese want for their children are difficult or impossible to
reconcile. Allowing children the freedom to explore their local environment
inevitably involves dangers, yet adult society in Japan, as in other countries,
wants to keep its children as safe as possible. As a result, sōgō gakushū activ-
ities could end up as little more than feeble and restricted imitations of the
kind of activities that Japanese children of the past engaged in. More opti-
mistically, however, they might encourage localities to develop in ways that
take the needs of children into greater account.
In small-group teaching, too, the changes that have taken place are sig-
nificant, but by no means represent a complete abandonment of previous
practices. Morikawa is representative of the vast majority of Japanese pri-
mary schools in confining organization of teaching and learning by academic
performance to maths, the subject where disparities in academic performance
are clearest. In other subjects, small-group teaching is unconnected to chil-
dren’s academic performance, and is much more about increasing children’s
choices and their learning autonomy. Even in maths, small-group teaching
is not always used, because teachers continue to value the pedagogical and
developmental benefits that the class group offers. And when small-group
teaching is used in maths, it is not simply a matter of dividing children into

groups on the basis of a placement test. Children’s own choices play an
important role in the organizing process. In this sense, it can be said that
small-group teaching, as implemented at schools like Morikawa, allows chil-
dren to exercise more autonomy in the learning process. It may well be the case
that it also enables schools to respond more effectively to differences in the
mathematical ability of individual children, though more research is needed
into this question. Thus, small-group teaching as organized at Morikawa pro-
motes children’s autonomy, and may represent a more appropriate response
to their individuality than previous practices.
The continuities between the practices of primary schools before and after
2002 are to be expected. As this book has explained, increasing stress on
individuality and autonomy in education has been a gradual process during
the 1990s. Teachers have had many years to consider how to change school
practices to this end. The question of how to improve the socialization of
children has also been a long-standing concern, which schools were tackling
even before 2002 through practices such as mixed-age activities. Moreover,
teachers rarely change their basic beliefs, attitudes and practices overnight.
It was evident in 1995–96 that teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa were
concerned to develop both the individuality and autonomy of their children
on the one hand, and also their sociality and ability to act interdependently
on the other. These same concerns have remained strong over subsequent
years. They embody a desire to bring up children who can think for them-
selves and yet be sensitive to the community of which they are part – a desire
that well represents the complexity of ideals of selfhood in modern Japan.
Notes
1 Sōgō-teki na gakushū no jikan is not a ‘subject’ (kyōka); it is a separate area of the
curriculum, as are moral education and special activities.
2 Tsuneyoshi (Tsuneyoshi, 2001: 114–15) describes experiential activities conducted
by a Tokyo primary school during the five years leading up to 2001, which have
similarities to some of the sōgō gakushū activities at Morikawa and other schools in
Sakura.
3 Sato (1998: 229–34) has described activities designed to promote fureai at a primary
school in northern Japan during the mid-1990s, showing that such initiatives are
widely spread in Japan and have been going on for some years. Leng Leng Thang
(Thang, 2001) also describes a facility that provides both an old people’s home
and a preschool, organizing fureai between the old people and children with the
aim of benefiting both. Jennifer Robertson (1991: 186–7) notes that fureai is a key
quality emphasized by local authorities and others aiming to create a ‘hometown’
feeling in modern suburbs (furusato-zukuri).
4 A rice-growing project in a mini-paddy was central to an episode of the primary
school television drama Minikui Ahiru no Ko in 1995, suggesting that such projects
predated the introduction of sōgō gakushū by some years.
5 Cited in a Chūkyōshin report (Chūō Kyōiku Shingikai, 1998: 97), this survey
included the findings that between 1984 and 1995 the proportion of children
who had ever picked and eaten wild berries, grasses or mushrooms dropped from
49 per cent to 32 per cent, the proportion who had ever gone fishing dropped from
36 per cent to 21 per cent, and the number who had ever caught a butterfly or
dragonfly dropped from 15 per cent to 4 per cent. Of the 11 experiences of nature
surveyed, only skiing increased.
6 Common sense suggests that the Japanese term ‘pure-tesuto’ derives from the
English, ‘placement test’, but teachers at Morikawa did not know what ‘pure’ was
short for.
Conclusion
Education in primary school in Japan deals with intellectual development,

but goes much further. It involves not only education in subjects such as
mathematics or Japanese, but also, and more deeply, education in what it
means to be a person. This book’s portrayal of schooling therefore has impli-
cations not only for understanding learning, in Japan as well as more gener-
ally, but also advances the understanding of Japan’s society and people. In
this conclusion, I will summarize these implications and discuss some of the
issues raised by the book as a whole.
Educational reform in Japanese primary schools: innovation

and continuity
First, this study illuminates developments in Japanese primary education
over the last fifteen years. At the start of the book, I explained the develop-
ments and debates that have gone on since the late 1980s about reform
in Japanese education, describing the concerns of Japanese policymakers
and commentators about two perceived deficiencies in Japanese children –
insufficient individuality, creativity, and independent learning ability on the
one hand, and inadequate sociality and social integration on the other. The
response of government policy was increased emphasis on developing chil-
dren’s individuality and ability to learn for themselves, along with more time
outside school, and more study of and involvement with the local com-
munity. After 1998, this met with a strong backlash from critics, concerned
that these policies were leading to falling academic attainment and increased
inequality. The government’s response, however, was not to abandon its
approach, but to introduce new measures that were again based on an orien-
tation to individuals, this time in the form of small-group teaching. There
have been previous, partial accounts of this process of policy debate and
development (Cave, 2001, 2003; Tsuneyoshi, 2004; Motani, 2005), but what
has not been clear to date is how primary schools and teachers in Japan have
been responding to the new demands made upon them, and how they have
translated curricular change and pedagogical imperatives into classroom
action.
214 Conclusion
This study makes clear that while schools have been changing, there is also
a substantial measure of continuity in their practices. The indications are that
changes in Japanese schools are gradual and measured. Japanese primary
teachers are open to innovation, but they are far too competent (and far too
confident in their own practices) to discard approaches that they have found
to be of value over many years. This finding about the gradualness of change
means that the book has more enduring things to say about how Japanese
primary teachers organize learning, as well as what Japanese primary schools
teach about selfhood and the meaning of being human.

Japanese primary schools were by no means inattentive to individual chil-
dren and their needs even before the publication of the 1989 curriculum.
The studies of scholars such as Catherine Lewis (1995) and Nancy Sato
(2004) in the 1980s show teachers devising learning activities that give indi-
vidual children considerable scope to pursue their own ideas and learning
strategies in active ways. Responding to government calls for more emphasis
on individuality and self-directed learning seems to have entailed a develop-
ment of existing practice, rather than a radical change, at least for more able
teachers; indeed, more than one teacher told me that the government had
merely caught up with what many primary teachers had already been doing
for some time. At the same time, even teachers at Nakamachi, a school with a
deliberate focus on the encouragement of self-directed learning, were far from
abandoning teaching and learning strategies that involved the whole class.
Instead, they modified their existing practices to allow individuals to make
more decisions about what and how they studied, but continued to ensure
that children listened to and learned from one another in a whole-class
context.
Examining the way that children at Nakamachi and Morikawa studied
kokugo is particularly revealing of the balance that teachers struck between
individual and whole-class work. Children had ample opportunity to engage
with texts individually – and at Nakamachi, teachers like Yoshioka-sensei
and Fukushima-sensei encouraged this individual engagement further by
allowing children to determine how they studied texts and what method they
used. However, their study did not end at the individual level; children then
shared their insights with one another through class discussion of the text.
Similarly, the textbook’s new debate unit encouraged individual children to
develop their abilities in formulating and articulating arguments; but, again,
this was not just an individual affair – children worked in groups, and so had
the opportunity to help and learn from one another. Moreover, Yoshioka-
sensei emphasized the role of the audience for the debate in listening to
and evaluating the arguments of the debaters, so that learning became an
interactive experience in which all the children were involved.
In maths, as in kokugo, Sanada-sensei and Yoshioka-sensei attempted to
encourage both self-directed learning and learning from one another, in this
case by first letting individuals think of maths problems, then bringing the
children together in small groups to work on the problems together, and
Conclusion 215
finally discussing the problems as a whole class. Once the whole class had
discussed the problems thoroughly, the teachers then gave the children fur-
ther problems to tackle as individuals. In some cases, there was then a further
round of discussion of certain problems in the whole class. The fundamental
teaching pattern was similar in both maths and kokugo, however; the class
would begin the textbook unit together, before moving to individual work
(whether on a kokugo text or a maths problem), and then back to whole-class
discussion (sometimes preceded by small-group work); after which, there
was sometimes a further cycle, in some cases ending with individual work,
particularly in maths.
The combination of emphasis on the individual and engagement with
others was also evident at Morikawa in 2004. While sōgō gakushū gave scope
for an increase in self-directed learning on the part of children, many of the
activities observed in 2004 also involved children working together in small
groups. Moreover, sōgō gakushū often centred on engagement with the local
community, ranging from preschoolers to the elderly. Indeed, it was clear that
sōgō gakushū was at least as much about improving children’s integration
with the community and ability to relate to others, as it was about encour-
aging self-direction. In the case of small-group teaching, engagement with
others was less in evidence; in this case, the main emphasis was on meeting
the different needs of children in particular subjects. However, one of the
significant things about small-group teaching was the limited extent to which
it was being used, even in a school like Morikawa which had been chosen
to pioneer the approach. Despite acknowledging the value of small-group
teaching, teachers continued to see the class (gakkyū) as the basic teaching
unit. This was in no small part because of their conviction that the education
in human relationships that went on in the class, through lessons as well as
other activities, were a central part of what primary school was about; and,
conversely, that the learning from others that could be achieved in the class
unit made for more effective academic study. In 2004, as in 1995–96, partial
innovation was undertaken on a bedrock of continuity.
Learning and selfhood in Japanese primary education

Through both academic and non-academic school activities, children at
Nakamachi and Morikawa were learning about self and what it means to be
a person. However, what they were learning did not amount to one single
discourse of selfhood; rather, they encountered a range of discourses, either
in the explicit form of texts, or implicitly, through their experiences in school.
Interdependence was one of the major discourses in both schools. It was
articulated in the language of the class as nakama, and given practical form in
everyday school life, ranging from lessons to class meetings, chores, class
play, and mixed-age activities. Previous writers on Japan’s primary schools
have rightly emphasized what children can learn about human relationships
through the schools’ non-academic activities, but interdependence is also
216 Conclusion
learned through the organization (and sometimes also the content) of aca-
demic learning. Lessons were organized to make learning from one another a
central feature, and this in itself gave an implicit message that people are
interdependent, needing others in order to learn. In some subjects, lesson
content also taught interdependence. This was most notably so in kokugo,
especially in texts such as stories and the poems that were the culmination of
the children’s primary school career. The lyrics of the songs that many classes
sang were also full of explicit emphasis on interdependence. Finally, the
importance of interdependence was learned through experience and articu-

lated in explicit form at special events such as the sports day and the series of
events that culminated in the graduation ceremony.
Although interdependence was perhaps the most pervasive discourse of
self encountered at Nakamachi and Morikawa, other discourses emphasizing
the individual were also in evidence – in particular, discourses of individual
perseverance and autonomy. Quite a number of texts encountered within the
schools could be interpreted as stressing the need for inner strength and
perseverance – what I have called the discourse of seishin. Such texts included
kokugo stories such as The Song of the Mortar, songs that children sang in
class, or poems such as Ezo Pines or Neither Yielding to Rain. Sometimes it
was the children themselves who interpreted texts in this way, even when
the words themselves did not seem so explicit – suggesting the children’s
familiarity with this discourse. Besides texts, there were also school activities
that encouraged or demanded perseverance from the children. These were
incorporated into the fabric of daily school life, in the form of the daily goals
to strive for on the blackboard, the ‘marathon’ running session during morn-
ing break, or ‘try-your-best notebooks’, and were also highlighted during
some special events, especially in activities such as the cheering contest and
the pyramid gymnastics at the sports day. In some cases, notably texts such as
Ezo Pines or in the human pyramid gymnastics, the discourses of inter-
dependence and individual perseverance were united, as Moeran (1989) has
pointed out can often happen. In other cases, however, such as ‘try-your-best
notebooks’, perseverance was very much an individual endeavour.
The development of autonomy and self-direction in the children was also a
major concern of teachers. However, emphasis on autonomy was more often
encountered in school activities, including academic activities, than in texts,
whether in kokugo or elsewhere. In addition, teachers saw autonomy as
learned as often in a group as in an individual context. Many of the decisions
that children had to make, they made as part of a group. One notable example
was the issue of cliquishness and friendship among the girls in 6–3 at
Nakamachi. This was not resolved by the teacher holding individual discus-
sions with the children involved, nor simply by appeals to their individual
moral sense. Yoshioka-sensei felt that such methods would have been ineffect-
ive. Though she wanted the girls to learn to make their own decisions about
friendships, she felt they needed to experience the pain that their actions were
causing others, and to learn that they could be friends without forming
Conclusion 217
cliques, again through experience; and this necessitated class discussions and a
reshuffling of small groups within the class. Other examples of decision-
making as part of a group occurred during maths lessons (when children
decided which maths problems to focus on), mixed-age activities, and sōgō
gakushū activities. Of course, a major reason why children were called on to
make individual decisions relatively rarely was because many academic activ-
ities were organized in small groups. Besides some maths and social studies
lessons, this was normally true of science and home economics, for example.
However, there were some subjects that involved more self-directed individual
work, notably kokugo and art and craft, both of which involved imaginative
engagement, while in social studies, children usually made individual decis-
ions about which topics to study, and then joined together in groups based on
common interests. Of the subjects I observed in depth, it was kokugo where
children had the greatest opportunities to make individual decisions about
what to study and how. It was also in writing (the compositions for the
graduation album) and artistic creation (the graduation craft works) that
Yoshioka-sensei most explicitly urged the children towards individuality.
Teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa were more explicitly concerned
about developing autonomy and self-direction in children than they were
about developing individuality. I suspect that the reason for this was that they
felt that ‘individuality’ was something that would emerge naturally and
inevitably, once children were truly acting in an autonomous, self-directed
fashion. Teachers seemed to understand ‘individuality’ (kosei) primarily as
the realization of oneself and one’s positive potential – jibunrashisa (‘being
like oneself’) or jibun no yosa (‘one’s own goodness’). This did not always or
inevitably carry an imperative to be different from others, though there
were times when teachers explicitly encouraged children to be unique, as did
Yoshioka-sensei over the compositions for the graduation album. On the
other hand, they certainly did not seem to discourage difference. There were
several children in the classes I observed who stood out strongly among their
peers, especially in their willingness to speak out frequently and in an unusual
way in class, and they received very positive treatment from their teachers.
Even when children at Morikawa acted in ways that caused concern, dyeing
their hair or piercing their ears, there was lengthy and serious discussion
among teachers about how to deal with such behaviour, with concerns voiced
about the need to respect individual difference.
These different discourses of self did not appear to be necessarily in con-
flict. In fact, it was particularly interesting to note that Yoshioka-sensei’s
appeared to be not only the class where the interdependence discourse was
strongest, but also the class where there was the strongest emphasis on
autonomy and self-direction. Her personal belief that there was no necessary
contradiction between caring about and learning from others on the one
hand, and knowing one’s own mind and making decisions accordingly on the
other, seemed to be validated by the way children in 6–3 went about their
daily school life. This outlook seems to have similarities to that which Fujita
218 Conclusion
(2000: 54) has called ‘civic symbiosis’, in which ‘all individuals are assumed as
being equal, autonomous and independent, but at the same time, as having an
orientation to accept different people, ideas and cultures, and to cooperate for
improving their welfare’.
Gender was a further aspect of self, generated in part by school practices,
but at least as much by the practices of the children themselves, along with
those of their families. School practices such as institutionalized separation
of boys and girls on the school register and on ceremonial occasions helped
to reinforce and maintain gender as a category, but on the whole, it was

children’s own, spontaneous behaviour, whether during lessons, while play-
ing, or in the realm of material culture, that seemed more powerful as a
gendering force. Moreover, it seemed to be classes with a stronger emphasis
on a combination of nakama ethos and self-direction that maintained the
best gender relations. These findings suggest that the overwhelmingly critical
picture that has been drawn of the gendering effects of Japanese education
need to be somewhat reassessed, at least at the primary level. They may also
provide some useful pointers to issues that need to be considered, and
approaches that might be further explored, in attempting to make education
an arena where gender has no negative effects.
In anthropology, views of selfhood in Japan have sometimes tended
towards the stereotypical, in an attempt to capture what is common to the
behaviour of all or most Japanese people. At the same time, many writers on
self in Japan have been driven by empirical rigour to note the strikingly
diverse values and ways of behaving that may be observed among Japanese
people. Benedict (1974 [1946]) observed that the Japanese were both deeply
aware of others, and acutely concerned with their own responsibilities as
individuals. Lebra (1976: 2, 156–68) emphasized the ‘social preoccupation’ of
the Japanese, but also argued that they yearned for individual freedom and
purity. Kondo’s (1990: 304, 307) observations of the diversities in the lives of
her co-workers, friends and neighbours led her to the conclusion that their
‘selves’ were ‘performative assertions’, revealing ‘complicated, shifting, mul-
tiple facets’. I would argue that we need to recognize more explicitly the
variety of discourses of self that exist in Japan, and that are constantly being
appropriated for assertion and for living out, often in combined and modified
forms, by individuals and groups. It is this variety that contributes to human
diversity and behavioural flux in Japan as elsewhere, allowing arguments for
the legitimacy of different worldviews and ways of living to be endlessly
debated. The ways people in Japan see the world have too often been over-
simplified. The Japanese, like others, deserve the respect that consists in the
acknowledgement of complexity, variety, and dynamism.
Sociocultural learning: lessons from Japanese primary schools

Scholars who favour a sociocultural model of learning have to date paid
relatively little attention to Japan. Similarly, experts on Japanese education
Conclusion 219
have engaged little with the writings of authors in the field of sociocultural
learning, such as Vygotsky, Lave, Bruner, Mercer, or Wells. The findings of
this book suggest that this should change. Through the writings of authors
such as Lewis (1995), Manabu Sato (1998), Tsuneyoshi (2001), and Nancy
Sato (2004), it has been appreciated for some time that Japanese primary
school teachers place considerable emphasis on the development of a class-
room community with an atmosphere of mutual support and cooperation.
Scholars investigating maths and science education in Japan have also shown
how teachers there emphasize inquiry and explanation over procedural learn-
ing (Stigler and Perry, 1990; Lewis, 1995; Stigler, et al., 1996; Tsuchida and
Lewis, 1996). However, for the most part research written in English has
confined itself to examining maths and science education in Japanese primary
schools, with little study of other major subjects, such as kokugo or social
studies. Thus, it has perhaps not been fully appreciated that features such as
inquiry, explanation, and discussion are found across the spectrum of aca-
demic subjects in Japanese primary schools, including arts and humanities.
Lewis (1995) has made clear the importance of a supportive classroom
atmosphere to the kind of inquiry-based learning she describes in early years
classes, and the significance of this coupling is enhanced by the theoretical
framework offered by sociocultural models of learning.
In the lines of thinking originating from the research of writers such as
Vygotsky and Lave, what is agreed is that learning is not primarily a solitary
experience, where individual children encounter and grapple with the world
in splendid cognitive and social isolation. Rather, learning is primarily a
social experience. It is aided by interaction with supportive others, who can
engage with a dialogue with the learner, by turns clarifying, querying, chal-
lenging, and exploring. These supportive others can include both teachers
and fellow-learners. Above all, learning is an aspect of a larger experience. It
can be the result of what Lave and Wenger (1991) call ‘legitimate peripheral
participation’ in a ‘community of practice’ whose main purpose is not actu-
ally learning, but something else – the tailoring of clothes, or weight man-
agement, for example. But in a school, an institution whose main professed
purpose is learning, it may be better conceived of as the result of participa-
tion in what Wells (1999) has called a ‘community of inquiry’. This is a term
that well describes what many Japanese primary teachers, including those at
Nakamachi and Morikawa, are trying to achieve. In successful classrooms,
the two elements work together; ‘inquiry’ helps to create ‘community’, as
children learn from one another and appreciate others’ contributions, and
‘community’ enables ‘inquiry’, as children feel confident enough in the sup-
portiveness of their teacher and peers to voice ideas, doubts, and arguments.
As elsewhere in the world, it cannot be assumed that every primary class-
room in Japan is a success. The extent to which classes become genuine
communities of inquiry no doubt varies from classroom to classroom. What
is in little doubt, however, is that the broad approach that aims to achieve
both a classroom community and a spirit and practice of inquiry is the
220 Conclusion
mainstream in Japanese primary schools, and has been for some time. This is
evident from the research of Sato (1998), Nakano and Oguma (1993) and
others on the history of class management in Japan, and from the research of
Lewis (1995) on practices of classroom inquiry, not to mention the records of
such classroom inquiry found in Japan’s plethora of action research journals.
This in itself should draw the attention of those interested in exploring the
effectiveness of sociocultural models of learning within public school sys-
tems. When coupled with the consistently excellent performance of Japanese
children in international scholastic achievement tests, the widespread use of a

sociocultural approach to learning in Japanese primary schools should pro-
voke inquiry into the extent to which such an approach may have contributed
to learning effectiveness.
Like their counterparts elsewhere, Japanese primary schools are under con-
stant pressure to improve their performance. Despite the many indicators that
they are doing a very good job, there seems to be no satisfying the Japanese
public, and the Japanese media in particular – possibly a result of the perfec-
tionist streak to which Robert Smith (1983) has drawn attention in Japan.
Japan’s primary teachers can no doubt become even better at creating and
managing inquiry-based learning. This endeavour would probably be aided
by studies that make detailed comparisons of how such learning practices are
carried out in Japan and other countries. Such studies would need to examine
not only learning practices in particular classrooms, but also the ways in
which a supportive class atmosphere is created.
Anthropology of education? Anthropology of learning?

This book attempts to engage with educational institutions not only as places
of socialization, acculturation, or identity formation, but as places of learn-
ing, and specifically academic learning. In this, it is unusual for a work of
anthropology. On the whole, anthropologists have not been very interested in
either educational institutions or academic learning, unlike, say, sociologists
or psychologists. This was noted by Audrey Richards in Britain over 30 years
ago (Richards, 1970); it was reiterated by Levinson and Holland (1996: 20–1)
in the US; and it was recently noted yet again in Britain by Brian Street
(2004). Of course, there are exceptions. There have been some very fine stud-
ies of education and even academic learning by anthropologists: Shirley Brice
Heath’s Ways with Words (1983) is one of the finest. Moreover, there have
been outstanding studies of learning, mainly outside educational institutions,
by anthropologists – including the immensely influential studies of Jean Lave
(who described her groundbreaking work Cognition in Practice as a ‘social
anthropology of cognition’) (Lave, 1988: 1). Yet it is hard to say that this
constitutes a tradition, or a field, as is constituted by areas such as political
anthropology, economic anthropology, or the anthropology of religion, for
example. Most of the time, anthropologists seem to see schools as places
where things other than academic learning happen: where conflict takes
Conclusion 221
place, social behaviour or identity is learned, ethnic boundaries are confirmed
or challenged. For anthropologists, most of the time, schools are about every-
thing except what most people think they are about – learning maths, lan-
guage, history and so on. Studies of cognitive learning, meanwhile, tend to
be pushed into a ghetto called ‘cognitive anthropology’, which, like most
ghettos, is a place that ‘normal (anthropological) folks’ rarely if ever go.1 As a
result, Jean Lave can be referred to in a major anthropological journal as an
‘educationalist’ from whom ‘anthropologists’ can learn, effectively denying
her work the status of anthropology (Street, 2004: 2).2

Of course, anthropologists are right to believe that schools are about much
more than academic learning, and they are also right to recognize that much,
probably most, of children’s learning is not academic, and goes on outside as
well as inside school. But even so, anthropology’s near-total lack of interest
in academic learning goes too far. If anthropology really is the paramount
human science, more comprehensive and profound in its reach than any
other, how can it ignore the immense amounts of time that children spend in
lessons at school? How can it behave as if they have no social or cultural
significance of which anthropology needs to take cognizance? This is a situ-
ation that needs to change. It is true that, fortunately, scholars from other
disciplines have done excellent work in documenting and analysing what goes
on in classrooms, and anthropologists who do write or teach about edu-
cational institutions are much in their debt. This does not change the reality
that an anthropology that ignores schools and classrooms is ignoring one of
the most important institutions of modern society.
In this book, I have attempted to deal with academic learning alongside
topics of more common interest to anthropologists, such as the self, gender,
and ritual. Besides trying to show how what happens in the classroom has
significance for issues such as self and gender, I have also tried to show how
academic learning itself can be understood in terms of institutions and prac-
tices with their own historical and cultural specificity, and with important
consequences for societies and their modes of understanding and being. As I
have attempted to portray, the educational process is a complex and multi-
layered one. It encompasses policy formation, curriculum creation, and text-
book publication, as well as the actual classroom practices that are constrained
to some extent by institutional, curricular, and discursive structures, and that
yet, in the hands of teachers and children, also have their own independent
power to reshape and even escape outright the supposed ‘givens’ of structure.
In-depth anthropological scrutiny can reveal that each level of the educational
process is significant for what it shows about the structure, values, and dynam-
ics of a society, although limitations of time and space inevitably mean that
attention must be concentrated on one or two levels in any single study. This
book will have achieved something if it can convince others that this kind of
attention to education and learning is a worthwhile undertaking for anthro-
pologists. Putting any aspect of human action beyond our normal purview
only diminishes the revelatory power of this fullest of the human sciences.
222 Conclusion
Notes
1 In their outstanding book, A Cognitive Theory of Cultural Meaning, Strauss and
Quinn (1997: 9) recall that ‘one anthropologist in our department, when told
the title of this book, suggested we leave out the word “cognitive” if we wanted
anybody to read it’.
2 This, of course, is more anthropology’s loss than Jean Lave’s; given the huge influ-
ence of her work in other fields, it seems rather surprising that other anthropolo-
gists are not keener to recognize her work as part of their domain.
Glossary of Japanese terms
Chūkyōshin Abbreviation of Chūō Kyōiku Shingikai (Central Council on

Education), the Minister of Education’s main advisory council.
han Small groups of children, formed in primary classes for a variety of
academic and non-academic purposes.
juku Private tutorial colleges that supplement regular schooling.
kakari groups Small groups of children, formed in primary classes mainly
for non-academic purposes and chores.
kansōbun Short piece of writing expressing one’s thoughts and feelings.
kokugo The school subject of Japanese language and literature.
kosei Individuality.
nakama A term with various meanings, including ‘a group whose members
belong together’, and ‘friends’, used by some teachers to express the idea
of the class as a group whose members should have a special relationship
of warmth and solidarity.
Rinkyōshin Abbreviation of Rinji Kyōiku Shingikai (Ad Hoc Council
on Education), a supra-cabinet advisory council set up under Prime
Minister Nakasone’s office in 1984 and functioning until 1987.
seikatsu-han Small groups whose members sit near one another in the
classroom, often doing academic work together.
seishin ‘Spirit’ or ‘inner strength’.
sensei An honorific word meaning ‘teacher’ or ‘master’, used as a suffix
after the names of respected persons, notably teachers.
sōgō gakushū A term translated as ‘integrated studies’, and also used as an
abbreviation for sōgō-teki na gakushū no jikan (‘integrated studies
hours’), the new area introduced into the school curriculum in 1998 and
implemented from 2002.
yutori kyōiku A term that can be positively translated as ‘education with
room to grow’ or negatively as ‘relaxed education’; in recent years it
has usually been used negatively to criticize the slimming down of the
Japanese school curriculum.
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Index
ability grouping 26, 194, 196; see also ceremonies 69, 175–92, 199: and gender
academic performance grouping 157, 170, 172–3
academic attainment 207; basic chiiki 15–16, 18, 74–5, 195–8, 200–5, 210
attainment (kiso gakuryoku) 22, 29, 50; childhood: changing 204–6; end of 192
disparities in 20, 211; international children: cognitive development of 44
tests of 20, 49–50, 111, 220; national children in Japan: adults’ desires for 202,
tests of 21; new view of 210; antisocial behaviour of 15; body
(shingakuryokukan) 17; in postwar adornment among 82–4; changing
Japan 21; seen as falling in Japan lifestyle of 15, 18, 74, 205;
19–21, 23, 196 development of 16, 32, 100, 199, 205;
academic performance grouping 21, 28, ideal of, in kokugo textbooks 89, 103;
194, 207–9, 211 pressures on 14–15; social interaction
achievement tests: in Japan 21, 25 15, 198, 205; socialization of 18, 30, 40,
action research 142, 196; groups 53, 85; 195–6; study habits 20, 24; views of
journals 9, 53, 85, 96, 220 personal development 62–3, 71
Ad Hoc Committee on Education see choice 82–3; and gender 158–61, 171; of
Rinkyōshin clubs 35; of kakari katsudō; of schools
Ame nimo makezu 77–9, 182–3 25, 50; of school subjects 18–19, 29; of
anthropology: and education 220–2 small group 208–9; of way of studying
art and craft 166–7, 177–8, 181, 217 97–8, 102, 114, 143
assessment 160, 202 Chūkyōshin 14, 18, 28, 195
autonomy 22, 26, 28, 31, 33, 36, 42–3, 51, class group see gakkyū
54, 79–81, 83, 88, 94, 180, 183, 195, class size 29, 59
204, 209–11, 216–17; and gender 158, classroom organization 34, 65–6; seating
171, 195; lack of 98, 190; and 157–8; see also small groups
pedagogical practice 96–8, 100, cleaning 34–5, 52, 66, 184–5, 189, 197, 203
102, 106–7, 111–12, 143; see also cliques 67, 80–1, 169
subject clubs: age-roles in 76, 188; and gender
173–4; at junior high and high school
Benedict, Ruth 31, 40–1, 93, 218 35, 176
Béteille, André 40, 51 companies in Japan 18, 40: and gender
Boaler, Jo 113, 144–6, 148, 150 153; reluctance to hire permanent staff
Buddhism: emphasis on interdependence 37; training programmes of 76–7, 176;
40, 90; understanding of the self 40 welfare systems of 40
bullying 14–16, 35, 83 competition 41–2, 51; in education 16,
burakumin 82–3 18, 30, 54
composition: kansōbun 96–7; non-fiction
Central Council for Education see 103; lack of imaginative 103
Chūkyōshin conflict 35, 82–4, 170
240 Index
consumer culture 41, 179, 190 and formation of cultural schemas 63;
cooperation 18, 30, 43, 50, 65, 71–3, 80, and language 64; and ritual 191–2; and
105, 176, 183, 190 singing 69–70, 73; desire 41; emotional
cosmology 40, 73, 90 development in Japan 32; feeling in
creativity 14–15, 18–19, 27, 176, 195–6 kokugo 97, 102–3; feeling in nakama
crime 21, 23 62–4; ninjō 41
curriculum 176, 184: and gender 156; empathy 43, 89, 204; see also omoiyari
conflict between curricular aims 102; English (school subject): 21, 195–6, 203
standard curriculum hours 109, 195; enquiry see inquiry
national curriculum of Japan see enrichment activities 15, 74, 205
gakushū shidō yōryō environment: interaction with 195,

200–1, 203–5; study of 107, 195, 197
Davies, Bronwyn 154–6, 164, 168, 171 equality in Japanese education 15, 21, 54,
debate 104–6 69, 100, 190, 196, 209: under threat 20,
democracy: and education 26, 29 29
dependence 32, 40, 184 eugenics 25
deviance 82–4 examinations 18, 40, 42; emphasis on
diaries 86, 169 14–15
discipline 177: and body adornment exchange see gift-giving, reciprocity
82–4; lack of 15, 23–4; outside family experience: of children 18, 62;
33; teachers’ avoidance of overt 34; see articulation as social reality 63;
also self-discipline involving action and discourse 64, 70,
discrimination 82–3, 170, 209 176
discussion: in class meetings 66–7, 80, 82; experiential educational activities 17,
in lessons 98–102, 112, 114–49 176, 195, 197–205, 211
Doi, Takeo 32 expression 102–7
dōtoku (morals) 170
family: age-roles in 76; children affected
economy of Japan 21: changing needs of by problems in 83; educational role of
18; stagnation of 23, 37 15–16, 18; and gender 152–3;
education: ‘progressive’ 21, 24, 53, 146 maihōmu-shugi 36; as primary group
education in Japan: business leaders’ 61; role in self formation 32;
views of 14–15; dissatisfaction with traditional 6
14–15, 23; egalitarianism in 15, 21, 54, Foucault, Michel 51
69, 100, 190, 196, 209; history of 25; Fujita, Hidenori 14, 17, 21, 24–5, 49–50,
left-wing views of 14, 24, 28–30; 217–18
uniformity in 14, 20, 22, 26 fureai 197–200, 211–12
educational reform in Japan; and furikaeri see reflection
Fundamental Law of Education 50; furusato 205, 212
and teaching 98–102, 104–7, 111; futōkō (school non-attendance) 14–16,
attitudes of primary teachers 54–5; 35, 82–3
debates about 19–24; five-day school
week 19, 23, 29, 49, 194; in 1960s– gakkō gyōji 35, 52, 63, 68–9, 80–1, 176–7
1970s 28; in 1980s 17; in 1990s 18; gakkyū 26, 29, 34, 55–74, 209, 215; class
kyōiku kaikaku kokumin kaigi events 68; class goals 35; class
(National Commission on Education meetings 66–8, 80–2; class newsletters
Reform) 50; programme 16; resourcing (ichimai bunshū) 68; class problems 67,
20–1, 29 80–2; class projects 35, 62, 65; as
education system in Japan 4; community 47, 52, 100–1, 145–6, 171,
standardization 9 219; ethos 100–1, 114, 145, 165,
effort 36, 41, 62–3, 72–3, 76, 93–5, 216 219–20; farewell parties 179; gakkyū
elective subjects 19, 29 keiei (class management) 56, 69, 100,
elite: elite education 24–5, 29, 50 220; history of 55–7
emotion 180: and embodied activity 64; gakkyū hōkai 15, 23
Index 241
gakuryoku see academic attainment perseverance 76–7; understandings of
gakushū shidō yōryō: cuts in content of 25–6, 42; in Western society 38–9
19, 23; nature of 19, 21; 1989 revision individualism 27, 36, 38–9, 51
17, 98; 1998 revision 19, 194–5; 2003 individuality 16–17, 21–30, 35–7, 42–3,
revision 21 54, 88, 166, 176–8, 180, 194, 204,
gender 32, 81, 152–74, 218; children’s 210–11, 217; debated meaning of
agency in 154, 156, 158–68, 171; 24–30, 82–4; and deviance 82–4; and
discontent about, in Japan 153–4; and imaginative writing 104; and
division of labour 152–3, 157, 172; pedagogical practice 96, 105, 143, 146
girls’ clique-making 67, 80–1, 169; inequality 20–1, 37
identity formation 154–5, 161, 164; inochi 90–3, 182

and individual variation 161–8; and inquiry 219: community of 47, 89, 100–1,
material culture 157, 166–8, 171; in 142, 145–6, 219; dialogic 89; as
school 153–4, 156–72; and school learning model 114
senior management 156, 172; integrity 41–2
stereotyping 152–4, 156–7; and interdependence 28, 30–5, 40, 42–3, 47,
teachers 155, 157–61, 168–70; voice 50, 54, 62, 69, 71–3, 75–6, 88, 90–102,
158–61; in workplace 152–3, 161, 175–6, 181, 190, 195, 198, 204, 210,
172 215–16
gift-giving 40, 180–1, 198 interdisciplinary study 18–19, 53, 195
graduation 71: graduation album 62–3, Integrated Studies see sōgō-teki na
73, 170, 178, 186; graduation gakushū
ceremony 69, 175, 177, 184–91;
graduation show (sotsugyō happyōkai) Japanese language and literature see
69, 79, 177, 181–4; and individuals kokugo
190–1; planning for 177, 180–1; Jaworski, Barbara 114, 144–6, 148, 150
rokunensei o okuru kai 177, 180–1; jibunrashisa see individuality
sain-chō 179–80 juku 40, 42, 57
gratitude 181, 183–4, 188 junior high school 4, 35, 151, 192
greetings 66, 197
group 34, 42; orientation 51; see also Kageyama, Hideo 23
gakkyū, nakama, shūdan seikatsu, kakari katsudō 65, 68–9, 163
small groups Kariya, Takehiko 20–3
kejime 32–3, 35
han see small groups kenkyū jugyō 10, 53, 85, 97, 102, 115, 196
hardship: instrumental in forming knowledge: construction of 101; in
emotional bonds 63; as means to Japanese education 14–15, 17, 22, 98;
growth 71–3, 93–4 ‘principled’ versus ‘procedural’
high-growth period 28 113–14, 146–8; rapidly outdated 18;
high school 35, 192 transfer 46, 113
hikikomori 15 kokugo 68, 71, 79, 88–110, 207, 209;
Hiroshima atomic bomb 182 curricular aims 89; curricular hours
history: local 198, 201 109; and gakkyū keiei 100; and gender
home economics 162–3, 179, 182 156; imaginative writing 103–4, 209;
homework 135 and personal development 100;
human nature see person textbooks 89–96
human rights 83 kosei see individuality: koseika 16–17, 21;
kosei jūshi 17
identity 47, 94–6, 190: and learning 46, kōnai bōryoku 14–15
101; formation 101; group 35 kyōyō: kyōtsū kyōyō 29, 50
ikiru chikara 18, 22
individual: counselling of 67, 81–2; in language: connected to selfhood 33, 40,
education 28, 104–7, 160, 182–3, 191, 86; and gender 157; integral to
207, 209, 211; in Japan 31, 34–7; experiential understanding 64
242 Index
Lave, Jean 45–7, 51, 113–14, 146, 219, 171, 218; and lessons 101; deviations
221–2 from 80–1, 191
learning: by rote (cramming) 14, 18; nationalism 26–7
controlled by students 114, 143; of nature: educational role 18, 195, 200,
culture 72; independent 17, 22, 26, 204–5; humans as part of 91–3;
54, 102, 105, 111, 114, 143, 146, 148, sensitivity to 89; study of 197
195; individual 97, 102, 128–30, 134, neighbourhood see chiiki
136, 139–41, 145; through experience neo-Confucianism 40, 90
46, 53, 114, 146; through hardship neo-liberalism 24, 29, 50
63, 71–3, 93–4; through interaction non-academic activities 34, 52
with others 26, 44, 46–7, 89, 97, 100,

105–7, 111, 114, 145–6, 198, 207, obligation 29–33, 36, 40–1, 95–6
219 Occupation of Japan 27
Lebra, Takie S. 31–2, 35, 41, 218 ōen gassen 176, 188
left-wing 205: and interdependence o-keikogoto see enrichment activities
discourse 40; views of education 14, omoiyari 18, 181
24, 28–30
life see inochi parents 201, 209: and children’s identity
local community see chiiki 94–6; children’s indebtedness to 92–3,
lunch (school) 34–5, 52, 65 83; and graduation events 181–4, 187
patrols 193
Makarenko, Anton S. 30, 56 pedagogical practice 9–10, 215–16;
‘marathon’ 76–7 history of, in Japan 55–6, 108; in
marketization 25 kokugo 96–108; in mathematics
Maruyama, Masao 51 111–49; variation in 11, 106, 112,
mathematics 43, 46, 111–49: academic 141–2
performance grouping in 21, 196–7, pedagogical theory: discovery models
207–8, 211; approaches to teaching 114, 140; in mathematics 111–14, 140;
141–9; international tests in 20, 49–50, sociocultural learning 43–7, 100–1,
111; at junior high school 151; 114, 142–50, 218–20; transmission
proportion 115–41 models 114
matomaru 81 person: concept of 27–8, 31–43
maturity 94 personal relationships 36, 62, 67, 80–2
media 37: coverage of educational personnel: transfers 53–4, 85
problems 15, 220 physical education 162, 184
Meiji period 25, 56, 152, 170 Piaget, Jean 44, 113
memories 103, 176, 178, 180, 182; social play 18, 75, 199; and gender 162–5; in
memory 103, 179, 181, 188, 192 neighbourhood 74–5, 200–1; as whole
Mercer, Neil 45, 101, 113, 143–5 class 68, 163
Ministry of Education (Japan) 16, 26–7, popular culture 167–8, 178–9, 190:
53, 152, 196, 207 school dramas 57–9; superhero
Miyazawa, Kenji 77–9, 182 dramas 50
mixed-ability groups 34 preschools 32–4, 47, 64–5, 74, 76, 193,
mixed-age activities 74–6, 103, 180, 182, 197–200; and gender 156, 168
195, 199–200 presentation 106–7
Monbukagakushō see Ministry of principal (of school) 83, 156
Education (Japan) problem-solving 18, 50, 112, 146–9,
Monbushō see Ministry of Education 195–6
(Japan)
music: in schools 69–74, 177, 180–1, 184; reciprocity 31, 40, 180
lessons 69 reflection 71, 86, 122, 128–9, 139, 145,
198
nakama 52, 60–4, 69, 73, 80, 101, 163, research lessons see kenkyū jugyō
180, 182–3, 207, 215; and gender 158, research methods 8
Index 243
research site 5–8, 52–5, 59 assessment of 202; problems with 201;
rice-growing 203–4, 212 revision in aims of 21
right-wing 205: and interdependence solidarity 176: in class group 80; in
discourse 40; views of education 14, nakama 60; social 27–8, 36
50 songs see singing
Rinkyōshin 14, 16–17, 24, 28 Sōseki, Natsume 42
rites of passage 175, 189–90 sport 40; high school baseball
ritual 33, 175–7, 184–92; secular 175 championships 95
role 34, 94, 183; age-roles 75–6, 175–6, sports day (undōkai) 63–5, 68, 80, 103,
180–1, 188, 200; see also social role 176, 178, 182–3, 188, 193
routines 33, 35 staffroom 59

state 26, 43
Satō, Manabu 10, 15, 17, 24–5, 28, 50, student guidance see seito shidō
211, 220 subject (agentive) 26, 114
school events see gakkō gyōji symbolic action 175, 184, 186, 189
school refusal see futōkō
school trips: shūgaku ryokō 63, 80, 103, Taishō jiyū kyōiku (Taisho free
176, 182; gasshuku 63 education) 25–6
school violence see kōnai bōryoku Taisho period 25–6
science (school subject) 17, 43, 207–8: Tanikawa, Shuntarō 90–1
international tests in 20 tatewari katsudō see mixed-age activities
seikatsu-ka 17, 53 teachers: action research 9–10, 53;
seishin 40–2, 72, 76–7, 93–4, 96, 216; and attitudes to reform 54–5; classroom
resistance 51 discourse of 143–5; freedom of 19, 106,
seito shidō 82–4, 193 112; and gender 155, 157–62; ideal
selection 24, 29 image of 57–9; as individuals 11, 59,
self-discipline 30–1, 40, 42, 51, 76–7, 88, 106, 141–2; as initiators of change 108;
94, 96 pedagogical role of 96–101, 142–5; role
selfhood 211: Japanese discourses of 26, of 56, 193; teacher’s dilemma 114, 143,
30–43, 215–18; in kokugo textbooks 148; in television dramas 57–9
90–6; mature 94; and pedagogy 150; teachers’ unions 8; reports advocating
and personal identity 94–6, 190; and reform 28–9; views of education
power 43; and self-exploration 37; self- 14–16, 28–9; views of union
formation 79–80; and self-realization representative 82–3, 191
36, 40; self-reliance 31, 43 teaching: accepting of variation 136,
shiren 71, 93, 95 138–9, 146; individualized 23, 207;
shūdan seikatsu 33, 35 ‘scaffolding’ 45, 101; speaking out by
shutaisei see autonomy children 159–61; whole-class 96–101,
singing: in class 69–74; for graduation 115–42, 145–6; see also pedagogical
events 180, 182, 188; as a means of practice
learning culture 72 television: school dramas 57–9, 189, 212;
small groups 34, 65, 77, 80, 102, 104–5, Shomu-ni (drama) 37
114, 118–35, 158, 195, 198–9, 217; textbooks: and gender 156; kokugo
small-group teaching (shōninzū shidō) 89–96, 102–6; in maths 121, 135, 139,
195–7, 207–11 148; teachers’ departures from 104–6;
social control 31, 35 units (tangen) 9, 112, 207
social role 31, 94, 210 thinking: analytical 89, 105;
social withdrawal see hikikomori independent/individual 18–19, 22, 54,
socialization 33, 154–5; see also children 81, 104–5, 195, 199; principled 113,
in Japan 146–7
society (Japan): increasing diversity in Thorne, Barrie 154–5, 158, 161, 164, 168
30, 36; conflict in 35; social Tokugawa period 41, 56, 77
organization in 40; variation in 35, 218 Tokyo: education in 3–4, 84, 211
sōgō-teki na gakushū 19, 23, 29, 194–211; Tsuboi, Sakae 93
244 Index
uchi 32, 60–1 ura 32–3
uniform 157, 172, 187
United Kingdom: children in 205–6; volunteer activities 37; and schools 75,
education in 21, 44, 47, 54, 103, 109; 195, 197, 203
gender at schools in 158, 165, 169; Vygotsky, Lev S. 44–5
maths education in 113–14, 144–6,
148, 150 welfare 195, 203
United States: education in 20–1, 44, Wells, Gordon 47, 89, 100–1, 104, 219
47; gender at schools in 158, 169;
maths education in 114, 146; yutori kyōiku 21–3
superheroes 50; view of children in

89, 205 zone of proximal development 44–5, 101

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Primary School in Japan

The balance between individual independence and social interdependence is a

Peter Cave is a lecturer in Japanese Studies at the University of Manchester,

Hirochika Nakamaki, National Museum of Ethnology, Osaka

Founder Member of the Editorial Board:

A Japanese View of Nature Psychotherapy and Religion in Japan

First published 2007

ISBN 0-203-93581-0 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN13: 978–0–415–44679–2 (hbk)

List of ﬁgures viii

Introduction: self, society and education in Japan 1

1 Education and individuality in Japan 13

2 Groups and individuals at primary school 52

3 Stories of the self 88

4 Mathematical relationships 111

5 Learning gender 152

6 Ceremonial creations 175

7 The next stage – 2002 and all that 194

1.1 Morikawa primary school in the late 1990s 7

4.1 Group seven’s table 121

Kariya Takehiko, Gerald LeTendre, Catherine Lewis, Okada Akito, Sato

Publishers), and I am grateful to Ongaku no tomo sha for permission to use

An important aim of the Japan Anthropology Workshop series is to present

only a marginal part in ethnography on Japanese education, quite dis-

repeatedly debated during Japan’s modern history, both by the Japanese

ticular yet enduringly signiﬁcant, representing as they do continuing debates

Settings and methods

yards from the front gate of the school.

Figure 1.1 Morikawa primary school in the late 1990s.

Figure 1.2 Children playing in the playground at Morikawa.

Another is the nationwide reach of the media of pedagogical discourse, not-

another of the primary schools in Sakura, conducting observations of fourth

bringing up Japanese children who can ﬂourish in the twenty-ﬁrst century.

Demands for reform in Japanese education

21st Century Vision Committee of the largest teachers’ union, Nikkyōso:

The conventional Japanese education system . . . has forced ‘mass-

At the educational grassroots, one primary school teacher succinctly summed

The Educational Reform Programme issued by the Ministry of Education in

Individuality and educational reform: the development of

Japanese education’ (Fujita, 1995: 85). In 1999, another Tokyo University

When devising and carrying out the school’s educational activities,

socialization, linking this to a decline in local community and correspond-

Controversies surrounding the 1998 curriculum

Individuality and basic academic attainment

People’s individuality (kosei) ﬂourishes in a free environment. It is

important to remove the framework of uniform control (kakuitsu-teki

At ﬁrst glance, it seems as if judgement and thinking ability might be

In a later publication, he argued that the notion of autonomy (shutaisei) was

There is an over-hasty notion that if we just give children chances to say

individuals and society.12 There was obviously no consensus in favour of

‘Individuality’ and its meanings

even spatially’; in civic symbiosis, ‘all individuals are assumed as being

the class (gakkyū) as primarily a unit of social organization, in which children

as alien and inappropriate to the essence of Japanese education (Katagiri,

to complete individuality (kosei o kansei suru) is not to make each person

By considering sociality to be an integral and inevitable aspect of individual-

to cooperating with others for the good of society – diﬀers fundamentally

Kosei and the power of ambiguous rhetoric

Tobin therefore argues that preschool is an important place for Japanese

ridiculed, or smilingly coerced (Hendry, 1986: 144–52; Peak, 1989: 117–23).

The individual self

and society in relation to the concept of ‘the individual’, what do we really

ぼくらのまえには　ドアがある Before us there are doors