At A level, we studied peasant farming, I think. I remember Waugh’s chapter on it, at any rate, and learning about enclosure, and changes, and something else. I am embarrassed by my lack of recall; and have no idea what the unit was actually about. But we struggled on this for maybe a term – I know it felt longer. In my first term at university, I remember with startling clarity a lecture by Dr John Langton, where he told this story from start to finish in about 45 minutes. Each change was explained as a context and reaction to the problems of the one before – and the sequence of events was shockingly obvious, now I looked at it through his expert eyes.

My first ever blog post was a frustrated call for a “story of teaching”. As an undergraduate, I had studied a course called the “Philosophy, Nature and Practice of Geography”. I didn’t see the point of the course – which was to tell the story of Geography, and frame it as the output of people and ideas that changed through time – rather than an immutable “truth”. I was forced to read a lot of books that I couldn’t see the point of: Said’s “Orientalism”, or Kuhn’s “Structure of Scientific Revolution” weren’t going to help with my essay on arid geomorphology, were they? I looked at “big texts” like Johnston & Sidaway’s “Geography & Geographers” (now on seventh edition), or Livingston’s “Geographical Tradition” – and I didn’t see their relevance to me.

Looking back, of course, this was some of the most important reading and thinking that I ever did. As an A Level student, and even as an undergraduate to a certain extent, we were taught ideas and asked to critique the concept/how it’s been applied – but how often do we critically examine the narrative that has shaped them? To understand that we went towards x idea as a reactionary move because of the problems that y caused doesn’t help a better understanding of either x or y independently, but it certainly helps you to see how and why the shift has happened and to be able to contextualise within the wider field of learning. My undergraduate self didn’t understand that I was stood on tectonic plates, in terms of philosophy and the approach of the discipline. It’s only through time that I could see how much they have moved, and hence, come to understand the changes.

Mark Enser, clearly, would have been a teacher in the mould of Dr John Langton, and his book “Powerful Geography” is the kind of reading and realisation that brings sharp clarity to the experiences of many Geography teachers in the UK over the last few years.

In Part One, Enser establishes his academic position as a master storyteller. With painful accuracy, he talks about the ‘problems’ of an ill-defined Geography curriculum of my early teaching career, and the debates of ‘sage on the stage’ versus ‘guide on the side’. Inspired by Biesta as much as Young, Enser writes about educational philosophy with confident sharpness – fluently exploring the discourse’s journey through Socrates, Roussea, Bruner and Locke with chronological insight. Arriving at Young’s view of “powerful knowledge” and “Future 1-3” models, Enser reflects on Lambert’s application of these ideas to Geography as a discipline.

The first chapters explore the journey to the present: unpicking the philosophical, geographical and curriculum policy debates that have shaped the subject. It is Johnston-esque in mastery: a clear sense of the pathway, without any missing steps, to the challenges of a modern un-rooted Geography curriculum. The analysis can sometimes feel painful: partly through the clarity of memories of teaching activities; but partly because of the sense of inevitability doomed by good intention. No one deliberately broke Geography as a school discipline – it just shuffled like a tectonic plate to a collision point.

In Part 2, Enser offers a clearly articulated vision of what Powerful Geography could be in a Future 3 model. He offers a disciplinary coherence through specific tools and examples. Here, the use of case studies – one of which, I should note, I was delighted to contribute – shows that this vision is more than abstract idealism. Choosing a wide range of places, schools and people, Enser shows how feasible it is to enact the curriculum he describes.

Enser has been thinking through blogging (since 2015), and previously written the Andy Tharby-inspired book “Making Every Geography Lesson Count” as part of that series, focusing on the “what and how” of classroom Geography teaching. In Part 2 of this book, he draws on all of that experience – and skilfully navigates the Geographical academy of thinkers – Rawlings, Standish, Roberts, Lambert et al. – to provide practical and clear examples of how the curriculum can be made meaningful again.

Ever alert to the risks of “performative rituals” of teaching, Enser’s conclusion deliberately asks the reader not to adopt his ideas unthinkingly; but provides a walk-through and road map for Departments, HoDs and teachers to critically reflect on their own curriculum and practice. There are no “do as I say” moments, or even a sense of this being “Mark Enser’s vision for the subject”. There’s no hard sell; no ego, no stories of what he’s done – only a personal sense of how these things have felt to teach and work through. He writes with great humility and without embellishment.

This is an excellent book – that should be read carefully by all ITT, subject leaders, Geographical thinkers and experienced teachers – as a context and story of our curriculum discipline. I think “Making Every Geography Lesson Count” is still the book I’d recommend to trainees. While it won’t hurt to read it (of course!), I think Powerful Geography – like my undergraduate experience of PNPG –  is the kind of book that won’t make so much sense until you have some lived experience, and you understand how skilfully the retrospective view has been constructed.

Professor Ron Johnston, Professor David Livingston and Dr John Langton would all recognise this book as a kindred spirit, I think. Powerful Geography, indeed.

Prompted by a fascinating conversation thread with Kat Howard (@saysmiss) on culture , I returned to Daniel Coyle’s (@DanielCoyle) book “The Culture Code” today, intending to briefly remind myself of what I was going to contribute to a thread. Some hours later, I finished re reading it. 

There are a number of authors that balance this mixture of “business school, psychology professor, and corporate consultant” in their style, including Adam Grant and Simon Sinek. It’s an approach that I really enjoy reading and exploring, particularly as one of the most common features is their good storytelling. While there are subtle differences in their approach – Grant tends to be quite academic, with footnotes and references, Sinek seems to be more about the story and the message – Coyle seems to weave a nice thread between their work. I think I’ve read that Grant & Sinek are good friends now, after an initial period of uncertainty; and I could easily imagine Daniel Coyle joining that line up and making a superb panel of discussions!

Originally written as a follow up to the Talent Code, a book exploring individual creativity factors, like Grant’s “Originals”, Coyle’s book is a really readable analysis of lessons learned from a huge range of examples and case studies. In short, there are three key lessons that he draws out.  

First, Coyle talks about creating “psychological safety”. He argues that strong cultures flood the zone with belonging cues — simple, short signals that create a sense of connection and future. They show care, commitment, and create a strong, deep connection. He uses examples from a range of different places, including KIPP schools, the San Antonio Spurs, Google (of course!), WIPRO and Tony Hsieh, and tells the story of how to build up safety and how it’s been done. I really liked the call to action at the end, with very practical suggestions of specific measurable things you can do. Most of these examples were unfamiliar to me before reading this; lots of people look at Google for creativity and other explorations, but this is the first time I’ve seen “under the hood” of the safety culture.

Second, Coyle talks about sharing vulnerability. Strong cultures have a set of habits that helps them share risk and weakness. This is the one most groups simply don’t get. In good cultures, Coyle says, people continually share uncomfortable truths with each other. Those hard truths might have to do with their own shortcomings, or with a group performance, but they have the same function: they wash away all the distractions of status, and create a shared truth around which the group can work to improve.

Coyle’s approach here is to show the different ways that teams, from Pixar, via international jewel thieves and improvisational comedians, to SEAL Team 6 are able to exchange frank and supportive analysis of their performance as part of how they get better. Kim Scott’s Radical Candor is a mechanistic analysis of how this needs to be done, but Coyle looks at the consequences of how the team do it. Personally, I think that diversity of examples is what makes Doyle’s work so readable. There isn’t a sense of “corporate world” and profit and bottom line, or a semi hero worship of military masculinity… there’s a blended and more diverse range of aspects, voices, and examples. To an extent, I think this makes the shared commonality of message more powerful, too… seeing that all of these teams share the same magic, and the ingredients are understandable and actionable. The depth of each example is narrated effectively and authentically: you get enough depth and context to understand how this team operates, and I think Coyle is excellent in identifying and pulling out the key threads and analysis to emphasise for the inexpert reader!

Third, Coyle talks about the work that Sinek has done more of, in how groups establish purpose — a set of super-clear shared goals that they put in the group’s windshield. Strong cultures work to unearth and expose the core narratives of their group, then drastically overcommunicate those narratives, using every possible mode (story, artifacts around the space, video, slogans, you name it). KIPP schools, and TLAC are very clear case studies here, and so too are Tylenol, Johnson and Johnson, Meyer restaurants, the Portuguese riot police and Pixar. Again, the diversity of experience and message reinforces the importance of groups doing this for themselves; rather than simply copying what’s been done by someone else. Johnson & Johnson’s Credo would be useless for the SEALs, and KIPPs now partially discredited “work hard, be kind” might not suit the SEALs either. Equally, the SEAL motto of “Shoot, Move, Communicate” isn’t a good look for the Portuguese riot police. You get the idea.

Early on in the book, Coyle talks about wanting to spend more time with each of these high performing cultures, and finding excuses to go back and ask them a little bit more. I feel the same way about this book. It provides a flavour of analysis, and often links up areas where specific books and work have been done – referencing Kerr on “Legacy”, or “It’s Your Ship”, or various other authors. An interesting reading guide is provided at the end, as are academic references where relevant, but so much of this is based on participant observation or personal anecdote that it doesn’t feel like an academic text. 

With short actionable points, the book gives a lot of practical perspectives, and translates the many stories in to a coherent, readable picture of cultures and how to build great ones. Doyle writes and investigates like a journalist, and a good one: the story is compelling, and you almost don’t realise how much you are learning until you stop and think about it.

The net impression is of someone giving you the highlights of a lifetime of experience, of reading, of so many stories they could tell… and I was drawn in to wanting to know more. Despite only wanting to dip in to this to satisfy a thread of curiosity on a Twitter thread, I re-read the whole book in basically an afternoon. It’s a compelling topic – exploring cultures and how we create them – but I think the writing style of Coyle is equally compelling.