Summarize Emile Durkheims social theory and how it implicates its.docx

Summarize Emile Durkheim's social theory and how it
implicates itself in his theory of suicide. (400 - 750 words)
Keywords: Durkheim, idealism, materialism, values, norms,
division of labour, social solidarity, praxis, mechanical
solidarity, organic solidarity, collective conscience, regulation,
integration, attachment, fatalistic, anomic, egoistic,
altruistic,suicide
1. Introduction-
2. “Ought”, Idealism, values, beliefs and norms vs. “Is”,
Materialism, Rationalization, division of labour
3. Social Solidarity - Organic Solidarity vs. Mechanical
Solidarity, Collective Conscience-
4. Regulation vs. Integration + discuss types of suicide -
fatalistic, anomic, egoistic, altruistic -
5. Conclusion -
Emile Durkheim’s Social Theory
and the
Motivation behind Suicide
1. Introduction
0. Social Solidarity - Organic Solidarity vs. Mechanical
Solidarity, Collective Conscience
Durkheim’s model reflects that a society is made up of two
contributing factors, the “ought” (which represents idealism)
and the “is “(which reflects materialism). Materialism and
idealism are made up of various particulars of a society:

1. Idealism is made up of the, at times abstract, but very real,
elements such as values, beliefs, and socialization, which form
a society’s norms, or expectations and rules by which members
must adhere. It is with respect to these norms that Durkheim
developed his theory of deviance and its four functions.
Deviating from these norms serves a for societies and these
functions are:
a) to serve as a warning;
b) as a means to set boundaries;
c) to establish solidarity; and
d) to prompt social change, if required.
2. Materialism is made up of the more functional parts of
society, that which relates to the tangible products of a society.
This includes rationalization and technology, agriculture, and
division of labour.
Materialism and idealism co-exist and influence each other.
The synthesis of the two coming together forms what is known
as social solidarity.
Durkheim suggested that social solidarity feeds into two
ultimate determinants of suicide - social regulation (the degree
to which the life and actions of an individual are controlled by a
group) and social integration (the level of attachment to a group
by the individual).
As social regulation rises, individuals lose liberties, have
their passions and desires stifled and begin to view suicide as
an escape from the oppression and control governing their lives.
This fatalistic suicide is often the only solution to those facing
extreme over-regulation - such as those in slavery.
Alternatively, a society can suffer from scarce social regulation:
moral and social norms are unclear or not present at all, leading
people to feel unguided and unable to identify with the society
they belong to. Those who cannot adapt to a major cultural or
societal assimilation, for example, may commit anomic suicide
as they lose connection to the society they previously
understood and conformed to.

Imbalanced social integration is another detriment to
individuals, leading to Durkheim’s two other forms of suicide -
altruistic and egoistic. Altruistic suicide is often a ‘sacrifice’,
imposed by a society to support a greater ideal or perceived
benefit to the broader group. This occurs when social
integration is too high and is found within cults and pre-modern
religious groups. On the other hand, social integration can be so
low that individuals receive little to no support from the society
they belong to. This starves the individual of meaning and
purpose within their lives and can ultimately lead to egoistic
suicide as a byproduct of social detachment and isolation.
Fundamentally, Durkheim contended that suicide is not a casual
or idiosyncratic decision - rather that “for each social group
there is a specific tendency to suicide [that] must necessarily
depend upon social causes.” He believed that suicide is driven
largely by the overabundance or scarcity of social regulation
and integration present in the lives of the individual - and that a
balance must be struck in order to create true social and moral
equilibrium.
www.CourageRenewal.org 1
The Heart of a Teacher
Identity and Integrity in Teaching
by Parker J. Palmer
We Teach Who We Are
I am a teacher at heart, and there are moments in the classroom
when I can hardly

hold the joy. When my students and I discover uncharted
territory to explore, when the
pathway out of a thicket opens up before us, when our
experience is illumined by the
lightning-life of the mind—then teaching is the finest work I
know.
But at other moments, the classroom is so lifeless or painful or
confused—and I am so
powerless to do anything about it that my claim to be a teacher
seems a transparent sham.
Then the enemy is everywhere: in those students from some
alien planet, in that subject I
thought I knew, and in the personal pathology that keeps me
earning my living this way.
What a fool I was to imagine that I had mastered this occult
art—harder to divine than tea
leaves and impossible for mortals to do even passably well!
The tangles of teaching have three important sources. The first
two are commonplace,
but the third, and most fundamental, is rarely given its due.
First, the subjects we teach
are as large and complex as life, so our knowledge of them is
always flawed and partial.
No matter how we devote ourselves to reading and research,
teaching requires a
command of content that always eludes our grasp. Second, the
students we teach are
larger than life and even more complex. To see them clearly and
see them whole, and
respond to them wisely in the moment, requires a fusion of
Freud and Solomon that few
of us achieve.
If students and subjects accounted for all the complexities of

teaching, our standard
ways of coping would do—keep up with our fields as best we
can, and learn enough
techniques to stay ahead of the student psyche. But there is
another reason for these
complexities: we teach who we are.
Teaching, like any truly human activity, emerges from one’s
inwardness, for better or
worse. As I teach, I project the condition of my soul onto my
students, my subject, and
our way of being together. The entanglements I experience in
the classroom are often no
more or less than the convolutions of my inner life. Viewed
from this angle, teaching
holds a mirror to the soul. If I am willing to look in that mirror,
and not run from what I
see, I have a chance to gain self-knowledge—and knowing
myself is as crucial to good
teaching as knowing my students and my subject.
In fact, knowing my students and my subject depends heavily on
self-knowledge. When
I do not know myself, I cannot know who my students are. I
will see them through a glass
2 www.CourageRenewal.org
darkly, in the shadows of my unexamined life—and when I
cannot see them clearly I
cannot teach them well. When I do not know myself, I cannot
know my subject—not at
the deepest levels of embodied, personal meaning. I will know
it only abstractly, from a

distance, a congeries of concepts as far removed from the world
as I am from personal
truth.
We need to open a new frontier in our exploration of good
teaching: the inner
landscape of a teacher’s life. To chart that landscape fully, three
important paths must be
taken—intellectual, emotional, and spiritual—and none can be
ignored. Reduce teaching
to intellect and it becomes a cold abstraction; reduce it to
emotions and it becomes
narcissistic; reduce it to the spiritual and it loses its anchor to
the world. Intellect,
emotion, and spirit depend on each other for wholeness. They
are interwoven in the
human self and in education at its best, and we need to
interweave them in our
pedagogical discourse as well.
By intellectual I mean the way we think about teaching and
learning the form and
content of our concepts of how people know and learn, of the
nature of our students and
our subjects. By emotional I mean the way we and our students
feel as we teach and learn
feelings that can either enlarge or diminish the exchange
between us. By spiritual I mean
the diverse ways we answer the heart’s longing to be connected
with the largeness of life—
a longing that animates love and work, especially the work
called teaching.
Teaching Beyond Technique

After three decades of trying to learn my craft, every class
comes down to this: my
students and I, face to face, engaged in an ancient and exacting
exchange called
education. The techniques I have mastered do not disappear, but
neither do they suffice.
Face to face with my students, only one resource is at my
immediate command: my
identity, my selfhood, my sense of this “I” who teaches—
without which I have no sense of
the “Thou” who learns.Here is a secret hidden in plain sight:
good teaching cannot be
reduced to technique; good teaching comes from the identity
and integrity of the teacher. In every
class I teach, my ability to connect with my students, and to
connect them with the
subject, depends less on the methods I use than on the degree to
which I know and trust
my selfhood—and am willing to make it available and
vulnerable in the service of learning.
My evidence for this claim comes, in part, from years of asking
students to tell me
about their good teachers. As I listen to those stories, it
becomes impossible to claim that
all good teachers use similar techniques: some lecture non-stop
and others speak very
little, some stay close to their material and others loose the
imagination, some teach with
the carrot and others with the stick.
But in every story I have heard, good teachers share one trait: a
strong sense of personal
identity infuses their work. “Dr. A is really there when she
teaches,” a student tells me, or

“Mr. B has such enthusiasm for his subject,” or “You can tell
that this is really Prof. C’s
life.”
One student I heard about said she could not describe her good
teachers because they
were so different from each other. But she could describe her
bad teachers because they
were all the same: “Their words float somewhere in front of
their faces, like the balloon
speech in cartoons.” With one remarkable image she said it all.
Bad teachers distance
themselves from the subject they are teaching—and, in the
process, from their students.
Good teachers join self, subject, and students in the fabric of
life because they teach
from an integral and undivided self; they manifest in their own
lives, and evoke in their
students, a “capacity for connectedness.” They are able to
weave a complex web of
connections between themselves, their subjects, and their
students, so that students can
learn to weave a world for themselves. The methods used by
these weavers vary widely:
lectures, Socratic dialogues, laboratory experiments,
collaborative problem-solving,
creative chaos. The connections made by good teachers are held
not in their methods but
in their hearts meaning heart in its ancient sense, the place
where intellect and emotion
and spirit and will converge in the human self.

If good teaching cannot be reduced to technique, I no longer
need suffer the pain of
having my peculiar gift as a teacher crammed into the
Procrustean bed of someone else’s
method and the standards prescribed by it. That pain is felt
throughout education today
as we insist upon the method du jour—leaving people who teach
differently feeling
devalued, forcing them to measure up to norms not their own.
I will never forget one professor who, moments before I was to
start a workshop on
teaching, unloaded years of pent-up workshop animus on me: “I
am an organic chemist.
Are you going to spend the next two days telling me that I am
supposed to teach organic
chemistry through role-playing?” His wry question was not only
related to his distinctive
discipline but also to his distinctive self: we must find an
approach to teaching that
respects the diversity of teachers as well as disciplines, which
methodological
reductionism fails to do.
The capacity for connectedness manifests itself in diverse and
wondrous ways—as many
ways as there are forms of personal identity. Two great teachers
stand out from my own
undergraduate experience. They differed radically from each
other in technique, but both
were gifted at connecting students, teacher, and subject in a
community of learning.
One of those teachers assigned a lot of reading in her course on
methods of social

research and, when we gathered around the seminar table on the
first day, said, “Any
comments or questions?” She had the courage to wait out our
stupefied (and stupefying)
silence, minute after minute after minute, gazing around the
table with a benign look on
her face—and then, after the passage of a small eternity, to rise,
pick up her books, and
say, as she walked toward the door, “Class dismissed.”
This scenario more or less repeated itself a second time, but by
the third time we met,
our high SAT scores had kicked in, and we realized that the big
dollars we were paying for
this education would be wasted if we did not get with the
program. So we started doing
the reading, making comments, asking questions—and our
teacher proved herself to be a
brilliant interlocutor, co-researcher, and guide in the midst of
confusions, a “weaver” of
connectedness in her own interactive and inimitable way.
My other great mentor taught the history of social thought. He
did not know the
meaning of silence and he was awkward at interaction; he
lectured incessantly while we
sat in rows and took notes. Indeed, he became so engaged with
his material that he was
often impatient with our questions. But his classes were
nonetheless permeated with a
sense of connectedness and community.

How did he manage this alchemy? Partly by giving lectures that
went far beyond
presenting the data of social theory into staging the drama of
social thought. He told
stories from the lives of great thinkers as well as explaining
their ideas; we could almost
see Karl Mark, sitting alone in the British Museum Library,
writing Das Kapital. Through
active imagination we were brought into community with the
thinker himself, and with
the personal and social conditions that stimulated his thought.
But the drama of my mentor’s lectures went farther still. He
would make a strong
Marxist statement, and we would transcribe it in our notebooks
as if it were holy writ.
Then a puzzled look would pass over his face. He would pause,
step to one side, turn and
look back at the space he had just exited—and argue with his
own statement from an
Hegelian point of view! This was not an artificial device but a
genuine expression of the
intellectual drama that continually occupied this teacher’s mind
and heart.
“Drama” does not mean histrionics, of course, and remembering
that fact can help us
name a form of connectedness that is palpable and powerful
without being overtly
interactive, or even face to face. When I go to the theater, I
sometimes feel strongly
connected to the action, as if my own life were being portrayed
on stage. But I have no
desire to raise my hand and respond to the line just spoken, or
run up the aisle, jump
onto the stage, and join in the action. Sitting in the audience, I

am already on stage “in
person,” connected in an inward and invisible way that we
rarely credit as the powerful
form of community that it is. With a good drama, I do not need
overt interaction to be
“in community” with those characters and their lives.
I used to wonder how my mentor, who was so awkward in his
face-to-face relations with
students, managed to simulate community so well. Now I
understand: he was in
community without us! Who needs 20-year-olds from the
suburbs when you are hanging
out constantly with the likes of Marx and Hegel, Durkheirn,
Weber and Troeltsch? This
is “community” of the highest sort—this capacity for
connectedness that allows one to
converse with the dead, to speak and listen in an invisible
network of relationships that
enlarges one’s world and enriches one’s life. (We should praise,
not deride, First Ladies
who “talk” with Eleanor Roosevelt; the ability to learn from
wise but long-gone souls is
nothing less than a classic mark of a liberal education!)
Yet my great professor, though he communed more intimately
with the great figures of
social thought than with the people close at hand, cared deeply
about his students. The
passion with which he lectured was not only for his subject, but
for us to know his

subject. He wanted us to meet and learn from the constant
companions of his intellect
and imagination, and he made those introductions in a way that
was deeply integral to his
own nature. He brought us into a form of community that did
not require small numbers
of students sitting in a circle and learning through dialogue.
These two great teachers were polar opposites in substance and
in style. But both
created the connectedness, the community, that is essential to
teaching and learning.
They did so by trusting and teaching from true self, from the
identity and integrity that is
the source of all good work—and by employing quite different
techniques that allowed
them to reveal rather than conceal who they were.
Their genius as teachers, and their profound gifts to me, would
have been diminished
and destroyed had their practice been forced into the
Procrustean bed of the method of
the moment. The proper place for technique is not to subdue
subjectivity, not to mask
and distance the self from the work, but—as one grows in self-
knowledge—to help bring
forth and amplify the gifts of self on which good work depends.
Teaching and True Self
The claim that good teaching comes from the identity and
integrity of the teacher
might sound like a truism, and a pious one at that: good
teaching comes from good
people. But by “identity” and “integrity” I do not mean only our

noble features, or the
good deeds we do, or the brave faces we wear to conceal our
confusions and complexities.
Identity and integrity have as much to do with our shadows and
limits, our wounds and
fears, as with our strengths and potentials.By identity I mean an
evolving nexus where all
the forces that constitute my life converge in the mystery of
self: my genetic makeup, the
nature of the man and woman who gave me life, the culture in
which I was raised, people
who have sustained me and people who have done me harm, the
good and ill I have done
to others, and to myself, the experience of love and suffering—
and much, much more. In
the midst of that complex field, identity is a moving
intersection of the inner and outer
forces that make me who I am, converging in the irreducible
mystery of being human.
By integrity I mean whatever wholeness I am able to find within
that nexus as its vectors
form and re-form the pattern of my life. Integrity requires that I
discern what is integral to
my selfhood, what fits and what does not—and that I choose
life-giving ways of relating to
the forces that converge within me: do I welcome them or fear
them, embrace them or
reject them, move with them or against them? By choosing
integrity, I become more
whole, but wholeness does not mean perfection. It means

becoming more real by
acknowledging the whole of who I am.
Identity and integrity are not the granite from which fictional
heroes are hewn. They
are subtle dimensions of the complex, demanding, and life-long
process of self-discovery.
Identity lies in the intersection of the diverse forces that make
up my life, and integrity
lies in relating to those forces in ways that bring me wholeness
and life rather than
fragmentation and death.
Those are my definitions—but try as I may to refine them, they
always come out too
pat. Identity and integrity can never be fully named or known
by anyone, including the
person who bears them. They constitute that familiar
strangeness we take with us to the
grave, elusive realities that can be caught only occasionally out
of the comer of the eye.
Stories are the best way to portray realities of this sort, so here
is a tale of two teachers—
a tale based on people I have known, whose lives tell me more
about the subtleties of
identity and integrity than any theory could.
Alan and Eric were born into two different families of skilled
craftspeople, rural folk
with little formal schooling but gifted in the manual arts. Both
boys evinced this gift from
childhood onward, and as each grew in the skill at working with
his hands, each
developed a sense of self in which the pride of craft was key.

The two shared another gift as well: both excelled in school and
became the first in
their working-class families to go to college. Both did well as
undergraduates, both were
admitted to graduate school, both earned doctorates, and both
chose academic careers.
But here their paths diverged. Though the gift of craft was
central in both men’s sense
of self, Alan was able to weave that gift into his academic
vocation, while the fabric of
Eric’s life unraveled early on.
Catapulted from his rural community into an elite private
college at age 18, Eric
suffered severe culture shock—and never overcame it. He was
insecure with fellow
students and, later, with academic colleagues who came from
backgrounds he saw as more
“cultured” than his own. He learned to speak and act like an
intellectual, but he always
felt fraudulent among people who were, in his eyes, to the
manor born.
But insecurity neither altered Eric’s course nor drew him into
self-reflection. Instead,
he bullied his way into professional life on the theory that the
best defense is a good
offense. He made pronouncements rather than probes. He
listened for weaknesses rather
than strengths in what other people said. He argued with anyone
about anything—and
responded with veiled contempt to whatever was said in return.
In the classroom, Eric was critical and judgmental, quick to put
down the “stupid

question,” adept at trapping students with trick questions of his
own, then merciless in
mocking wrong answers. He seemed driven by a need to inflict
upon his students the
same wound that academic life had inflicted upon him—the
wound of being embarrassed
by some essential part of one’s self.
But when Eric went home to his workbench and lost himself in
craft, he found himself
as well. He became warm and welcoming, at home in the world
and glad to extend
hospitality to others. Reconnected with his roots, centered in his
true self, he was able to
reclaim a quiet and confident core—which he quickly lost as
soon as he returned to
campus.
Alan’s is a different story. His leap from countryside to campus
did not induce culture
shock, in part because he attended a land-grant university where
many students had
backgrounds much like his own. He was not driven to hide his
gift, but was able to honor
and transform it by turning it toward things academic: he
brought to his study, and later
to his teaching and research, the same sense of craft that his
ancestors had brought to
their work with metal and wood.
Watching Alan teach, you felt that you were watching a

craftsman at work—and if you
knew his history, you understood that this feeling was more
than metaphor. In his
lectures, every move Alan made was informed by attention to
detail and respect for the
materials at hand; he connected ideas with the precision of
dovetail joinery and finished
the job with a polished summary.
But the power of Alan’s teaching went well beyond crafted
performance. His students
knew that Alan would extend himself with great generosity to
any of them who wanted to
become an apprentice in his field, just as the elders in his own
family had extended
themselves to help young Alan grow in his original craft.
Alan taught from an undivided self—the integral state of being
that is central to good
teaching. In the undivided self, every major thread of one’s life
experience is honored,
creating a weave of such coherence and strength that it can hold
students and subject as
well as self. Such a self, inwardly integrated, is able to make
the outward connections on
which good teaching depends.
But Eric failed to weave the central strand of his identity into
his academic vocation.
His was a self divided, engaged in a civil war. He projected that
inner warfare onto the
outer world, and his teaching devolved into combat instead of
craft. The divided self will
always distance itself from others, and may even try to destroy
them, to defend its fragile
identity.

If Eric had not been alienated as an undergraduate—or if his
alienation had led to self-
reflection instead of self-defense—it is possible that he, like
Alan, could have found
integrity in his academic vocation, could have woven the major
strands of his identity into
his work. But part of the mystery of selfhood is the fact that one
size does not fit all: what
is integral to one person lacks integrity for another. Throughout
his life, there were
persistent clues that academia was not a life-giving choice for
Eric, not a context in which
his true self could emerge healthy and whole, not a vocation
integral to his unique
nature.
The self is not infinitely elastic—it has potentials and it has
limits. If the work we do
lacks integrity for us, then we, the work, and the people we do
it with will suffer. Alan’s
self was enlarged by his academic vocation, and the work he did
was a joy to behold.
Eric’s self was diminished by his encounter with academia, and
choosing a different
vocation might have been his only way to recover integrity lost.
When Teachers Lose Heart
As good teachers weave the fabric that joins them with students

and subjects, the heart
is the loom on which the threads are tied: the tension is held,
the shuttle flies, and the
fabric is stretched tight. Small wonder, then, that teaching tugs
at the heart, opens the
heart, even breaks the heart—and the more one loves teaching,
the more heartbreaking it
can be.We became teachers for reasons of the heart, animated
by a passion for some
subject and for helping people to learn. But many of us lose
heart as the years of teaching
go by. How can we take heart in teaching once more, so we can
do what good teachers
always do—give heart to our students? The COURAGE TO
TEACH® is the courage to
keep one’s heart open in those very moments when the heart is
asked to hold more than
it is able, so that teacher and students and subject can be woven
into the fabric of
community that learning, and living, require.
There are no techniques for reclaiming our hearts, for keeping
our hearts open.
Indeed, the heart does not seek “fixes” but insight and
understanding. When we lose
heart, we need an understanding of our condition that will
liberate us from that
condition, a diagnosis that will lead us toward new ways of
being in the classroom simply
by telling the truth about who, and how, we are. Truth, not
technique, is what heals and
empowers the heart.
We lose heart, in part, because teaching is a daily exercise in
vulnerability. I need not
reveal personal secrets to feel naked in front of a class. I need

only parse a sentence or
work a proof on the board while my students doze off or pass
notes. No matter how
technical or abstract my subject may be, the things I teach are
things I care about—and
what I care about helps define my selfhood.
Unlike many professions, teaching is always done at the
dangerous intersection of
personal and public life. A good therapist must work in a
personal way, but never
publicly: the therapist who reveals as much as a client’s name is
derelict. A good trial
lawyer must work in a public forum, but unswayed by personal
opinion: the lawyer who
allows his or her feelings about a client’s guilt to weaken the
client’s defense is guilty of
malpractice.
But a good teacher must stand where personal ‘ and public meet,
dealing with the
thundering flow of traffic at an intersection where “weaving a
web of connectedness” feels
more like crossing a freeway on foot. As we try to connect
ourselves and our subjects with
our students, we make ourselves, as well as our subjects,
vulnerable to indifference,
judgment, ridicule.
To reduce our vulnerability, we disconnect from students, from
subjects, and even
from ourselves. We build a wall between inner truth and outer

performance, and we play-
act the teacher’s part. Our words, spoken at remove from our
hearts, become “the balloon
speech in cartoons,” and we become caricatures of ourselves.
We distance ourselves from
students and subject to minimize the danger—forgetting that
distance makes life more
dangerous still by isolating the self.
This self-protective split of personhood from practice is
encouraged by an academic
culture that distrusts personal truth. Though the academy claims
to value multiple modes
of knowing, it honors only one—an “objective” way of knowing
that takes us into the
“real” world by taking us “out of ourselves.”
In this culture, objective facts are regarded as pure while
subjective feelings are suspect
and sullied. In this culture, the self is not a source to be tapped
but a danger to be
suppressed, not a potential to be fulfilled but an obstacle to be
overcome. In this culture,
the pathology of speech disconnected from self is regarded, and
rewarded, as a virtue.
If my sketch of the academic bias against selfhood seems
overdone, here is a story from
my own teaching experience. I assigned my students a series of
brief analytical essays
involving themes in the texts we were going to be reading. Then
I assigned a parallel series
of autobiographical sketches, related to those themes, so my
students could see
connections between the textbook concepts and their own lives.

After the first class, a student spoke to me: “In those
autobiographical essays you asked
us to write, is it okay to use the word ‘I’?”
I did not know whether to laugh or cry—but I knew that my
response would have
considerable impact on a young man who had just opened
himself to ridicule. I told him
that not only could he use the word “I”, but I hoped he would
use it freely and often.
Then I asked what had led to his question.
“I’m a history major,” he said, “and each time I use ‘I’ in a
paper, they knock off half a
grade.”
The academic bias against subjectivity not only forces our
students to write poorly (“It
is believed…,” instead of, “I believe… “), it deforms their
thinking about themselves and
their world. In a single stroke, we delude our students into
believing that bad prose turns
opinions into facts and we alienate them from their own inner
lives.
Faculty often complain that students have no regard for the gifts
of insight and
understanding that are the true payoff of education—they care
only about short-term
outcomes in the “real” world: “Will this major get me a job?”
“How will this assignment

be useful in ‘real’ life?”
But those are not the questions deep in our students’ hearts.
They are merely the
questions they have been taught to ask, not only by tuition-
paying parents who want their
children to be employable, but by an academic culture that
distrusts and devalues inner
reality. Of course our students are cynical about the inner
outcomes of education: we
teach them that the subjective self is irrelevant and even unreal.
The foundation of any culture lies in the way it answers the
question, “Where do
reality and power reside?” For some cultures the answer is the
gods; for some it is nature;
for some it is tradition. In our culture, the answer is clear:
reality and power reside in the
external world of objects and events, and in the sciences that
study that world, while the
inner realm of “heart” is a romantic fantasy—an escape from
harsh realities perhaps, but
surely not a source of leverage over “the real world.”
We are obsessed with manipulating externals because we
believe that they will give us
some power over reality and win us some freedom from its
constraints. Mesmerized by a
technology that seems to do just that, we dismiss the inward
world. We turn every
question we face into an objective problem to be solved-and we
believe that for every
objective problem there is some sort of technical fix.
That is why we train doctors to repair the body but not to honor
the spirit; clergy to be

CEOs but not spiritual guides; teachers to master techniques but
not to engage their
students’ hearts—or their own. That is why our students are
cynical about the efficacy of
an education that transforms the inner landscape of their lives:
when academic culture
dismisses inner truth and pays homage only to the objective
world, students as well as
teachers lose heart.
Listening to the Teacher Within
Recovering the heart to teach requires us to reclaim our
relationship with the teacher
within. This teacher is one whom we knew when we were
children but lost touch with as
we grew into adulthood, a teacher who continually invites me to
honor my true self—not
my ego or expectations or image or role, but the self I am when
all the externals are
stripped away.By inner teacher, I do not mean “conscience” or
“superego,” moral arbiter
or internalized judge. In fact, conscience, as it is commonly
understood, can get us into
deep vocational trouble. When we listen primarily for what we
“ought” to be doing with
our lives, we may find ourselves hounded by external
expectations that can distort our
identity and integrity. There is much that I “ought” to be doing
by some abstract moral
calculus. But is it my vocation? Am I gifted and called to do it?
Is this particular “ought” a
place of intersection between my inner self and the outer world,
or is it someone else’s
image of how my life should look?

When I follow only the oughts, I may find myself doing work
that is ethically laudable
but that is not mine to do. A vocation that is not mine, no matter
how externally valued,
does violence to the self—in the precise sense that it violates
my identity and integrity on
behalf of some abstract norm. When I violate myself, I
invariably end up violating the
people I work with. How many teachers inflict their own pain
on their students—the pain
that comes from doing a work that never was, or no longer is,
their true work?
The teacher within is not the voice of conscience but of identity
and integrity. It speaks
not of what ought to be, but of what is real for us, of what is
true. It says things like, “This
is what fits you and this is what doesn’t.” This is who you are
and this is who you are
not.” “This is what gives you life and this is what kills your
spirit—or makes you wish you
were dead.” The teacher within stands guard at the gate of
selfhood, warding off whatever
insults our integrity and welcoming whatever affirms it. The
voice of the inward teacher
reminds me of my potentials and limits as I negotiate the force
field of my life.
I realize that the idea of a “teacher within” strikes some
academics as a romantic
fantasy, but I cannot fathom why. If there is no such reality in

our lives, centuries of
Western discourse about the aims of education become so much
lip-flapping. In classical
understanding, education is the attempt to “lead out” from
within the self a core of
wisdom that has the power to resist falsehood and live in the
light of truth, not by
external norms but by reasoned and reflective self-
determination. The inward teacher is
the living core of our lives that is addressed and evoked by any
education worthy of the
name.
Perhaps the idea is unpopular because it compels us to look at
two of the most difficult
truths about teaching. The first is that what we teach will never
“take” unless it connects
with the inward, living core of our students’ lives, with our
students’ inward teachers.
We can, and do, make education an exclusively outward
enterprise, forcing students to
memorize and repeat facts without ever appealing to their inner
truth—and we get
predictable results: many students never want to read a
challenging book or think a
creative thought once they get out of school. The kind of
teaching that transforms people
does not happen if the student’s inward teacher is ignored.
The second truth is even more daunting: we can speak to the
teacher within our
students only when we are on speaking terms with the teacher
within ourselves.
The student who said that her bad teachers spoke like cartoon

characters was
describing teachers who have grown deaf to their Inner guide,
who have so thoroughly
separated inner truth from outer actions that they have lost
touch with a sense of self.
Deep speaks to deep, and when we have not sounded our own
depths, we cannot sound
the depths of our students’ lives.
How does one attend to the voice of the teacher within? I have
no particular methods
to suggest, other than the familiar ones: solitude and silence,
meditative reading and
walking in the woods, keeping a journal, finding a friend who
will simply listen. I merely
propose that we need to learn as many ways as we can of
“talking to ourselves.”
That phrase, of course, is one we normally use to name a
symptom of mental
imbalance—a clear sign of how our culture regards the idea of
an inner voice! But people
who learn to talk to themselves may soon delight in the
discovery that the teacher within
is the sanest conversation partner they have ever had.
We need to find every possible way to listen to that voice and
take its counsel seriously,
not only for the sake of our work, but for the sake of our own
health. If someone in the
outer world is trying to tell us something important and we

ignore his or her presence,
that person either gives up and stops speaking or becomes more
and more violent in
attempting to get our attention.
Similarly, if we do not respond to the voice of the inward
teacher, it will either stop
speaking or become violent: I am convinced that some forms of
depression, of which I
have personal experience, are induced by a long-ignored inner
teacher trying desperately
to get us to listen by threatening to destroy us. When we honor
that voice with simple
attention, it responds by speaking more gently and engaging us
in a life-giving
conversation of the soul.
That conversation does not have to reach conclusions in order to
be of value: we do
not need to emerge from “talking to ourselves” with clear goals,
objectives, and plans.
Measuring the value of inner dialogue by its practical outcomes
is like measuring the
value of a friendship by the number of problems that are solved
when friends get
together.
Conversation among friends has its own rewards: in the
presence of our friends we
have the simple joy of feeling at ease, at home, trusted and able
to trust. We attend to the
inner teacher not to get fixed but to befriend the deeper self, to
cultivate a sense of
identity and integrity that allows us to feel at home wherever we
are.

Listening to the inner teacher also offers an answer to one of
the most basic questions
teachers face: how can I develop the authority to teach, the
capacity to stand my ground
in the midst of the complex forces of both the classroom and my
own life?
In a culture of objectification and technique we often confuse
authority with power,
but the two are not the same. Power works from the outside in,
but authority works from
the inside out. We are mistaken when we seek “authority”
outside ourselves, in sources
ranging from the subtle skills of group process to that less-than-
subtle method of social
control called grading. This view of teaching turns the teacher
into the cop on the comer,
trying to keep things moving amicably and by consent, but
always having recourse to the
coercive power of the law.
External tools of power have occasional utility in teaching, but
they are no substitute
for authority, the authority that comes from the teacher’s inner
life. The clue is in the
word itself, which has “author” at its core. Authority is granted
to people who are
perceived as “authoring” their own words, their own actions,
their own lives, rather than
playing a scripted role at great remove from their own hearts.
When teachers depend on

the coercive powers of law or technique, they have no authority
at all.
I am painfully aware of the times in my own teaching when I
lose touch with my inner
teacher, and therefore with my own authority. In those times I
try to gain power by
barricading myself behind the podium and my status while
wielding the threat of grades.
But when my teaching is authorized by the teacher within me, I
need neither weapons
nor armor to teach.
Authority comes as I reclaim my identity and integrity,
remembering my selfhood and
my sense of vocation. Then teaching can come from the depths
of my own truth—and the
truth that is within my students has a chance to respond in kind.
Institutions and the Human Heart
My concern for the “inner landscape” of teaching may seem
indulgent, even irrelevant,
at a time when many teachers are struggling simply to survive.
Wouldn’t it be more
practical, I am sometimes asked, to offer tips, tricks, and
techniques for staying alive in
the classroom, things that ordinary teachers can use in everyday
life?I have worked with
countless teachers, and many of them have confirmed my own
experience: as important
as methods may be, the most practical thing we can achieve in
any kind of work is insight
into what is happening inside us as we do it. The more familiar
we are with our inner

terrain, the more sure-footed our teaching—and living—
becomes.
I have heard that in the training of therapists, which involves
much practical
technique, there is a saying: “Technique is what you use until
the therapist arrives.” Good
methods can help a therapist find a way into the client’s
dilemma, but good therapy does
not begin until the real-life therapist joins with the real life of
the client.
Technique is what teachers use until the real teacher arrives,
and we need to find as
many ways as possible to help that teacher show up. But if we
want to develop the identity
and integrity that good teaching requires, we must do something
alien to academic
culture: we must talk to each other about our inner lives—risky
stuff in a profession that
fears the personal and seeks safety in the technical, the distant,
the abstract.
I was reminded of that fear recently as I listened to a group of
faculty argue about what
to do when students share personal experiences in class—
experiences that are related to
the themes of the course, but that some professors regard as
“more suited to a therapy
session than to a college classroom.”
The house soon divided along predictable lines. On one side
were the scholars,
insisting that the subject is primary and must never be
compromised for the sake of the

students’ lives. On the other side were the student-centered
folks, insisting that the lives
of students must always come first even if it means that the
subject gets short-changed.
The more vigorously these camps promoted their polarized
ideas, the more antagonistic
they became—and the less they learned about pedagogy or about
themselves.
The gap between these views seems unbridgeable—until we
understand what creates it.
At bottom, these professors were not debating teaching
techniques. They were revealing
the diversity of identity and integrity among themselves, saying,
in various ways, “Here are
my own limits and potentials when it comes to dealing with the
relation between the
subject and my students’ lives.”
If we stopped lobbing pedagogical points at each other and
spoke about who we are as
teachers, a remarkable thing might happen: identity and
integrity might grow within us
and among us, instead of hardening as they do when we defend
our fixed positions from
the foxholes of the pedagogy wars.
But telling the truth about ourselves with colleagues in the
workplace is an enterprise
fraught with danger, against which we have erected formidable
taboos. We fear making
ourselves vulnerable in the midst of competitive people and

politics that could easily turn
against us, and we claim the inalienable right to separate the
“personal” and the
“professional” into airtight compartments (even though
everyone knows the two are
inseparably intertwined). So we keep the workplace
conversation objective and external,
finding it safer to talk about technique than about selfhood.
Indeed, the story I most often hear from faculty (and other
Professionals) is that the
institutions in which they work are the heart’s worst enemy. In
this story, institutions
continually try to diminish the human heart in order to
consolidate their own power, and
the individual is left with a discouraging choice: to distance
one’s self from the institution
and its mission and sink into deepening cynicism (an
occupational hazard of academic
life), or to maintain eternal vigilance against institutional
invasion and fight for one’s life
when it comes.
Taking the conversation of colleagues into the deep places
where, we might grow in
self-knowledge for the sake of our professional practice will not
be an easy, or popular,
task. But it is a task that leaders of every educational institution
must take up if they wish
to strengthen their institution’s capacity to pursue the
educational mission. How can
schools educate students if they fail to support the teacher’s
inner life? To educate is to
guide students on an inner journey toward more truthful ways of
seeing and being in the
world. How can schools perform their mission without

encouraging the guides to scout
out that inner terrain?
As this century of objectification and manipulation by technique
draws to a close, we
are experiencing an exhaustion of institutional resourcefulness
at the very time when the
problems that our institutions must address grow deeper and
more demanding. Just as
20th-century medicine, famous for its externalized fixes for
disease, has found itself
required to reach deeper for the psychological and spiritual
dimensions of healing, so
20th-century education must open up a new frontier in teaching
and learning the frontier
of the teacher’s inner life.
How this might be done is a subject I have explored in earlier
essays in Change, so I
will not repeat myself here. In “Good Talk About Good
Teaching,” I examined some of
the key elements necessary for an institution to host non-
compulsory, non-invasive
opportunities for faculty to help themselves and each other grow
inwardly as teachers. In
“Divided No More: A Movement Approach to Educational
Reform,” I explored things we
can do on our own when institutions are resistant or hostile to
the inner agenda. (See
box.)

Our task is to create enough safe spaces and trusting
relationships within the academic
workplace—hedged about by appropriate structural
protections—that more of us will be
able to tell the truth about our own struggles and joys as
teachers in ways that befriend
the soul and give it room to grow. Not all spaces can be safe,
not all relationships
trustworthy, but we can surely develop more of them than we
now have so that an
increase of honesty and healing can happen within us and
among us—for our own sake,
the sake of our teaching, and the sake of our students.
Honesty and healing sometimes happen quite simply, thanks to
the alchemical powers
of the human soul. When 1, with 30 years of teaching
experience, speak openly about the
fact that I still approach each new class with trepidation,
younger faculty tell me that this
makes their own fears seem more natural—and thus easier to
transcend—and a rich
dialogue about the teacher’s selfhood often ensues. We do not
discuss techniques for
“fear management,” if such exist. Instead, we meet as fellow
travelers and offer
encouragement to each other in this demanding but deeply
rewarding journey across the
inner landscape of education—calling each other back to the
identity and integrity that
animate all good work, not least the work called teaching.
This essay consists of edited excerpts from the Introduction,
Chapter I, and Chapter V of

Parker J. Palmer’s book, The COURAGE TO TEACH®:
Exploring the Inner Landscape of a
Teacher’s Life (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass Publishers, 1997),
as well as new material written
for Change. The author retains the copyright for this article.
Learn more about Courage & Renewal programs for teachers at
http://www.couragerenewal.org/schools.
About the Author: Parker J. Palmer, founder and Senior Partner
of the Center for
Courage & Renewal, is a world-renowned writer, speaker and
activist. He has reached
millions worldwide through his nine books, including the
bestselling Let Your Life Speak,
The Courage to Teach, A Hidden Wholeness, and Healing the
Heart of Democracy. Parker holds
a Ph.D. in sociology from the University of California at
Berkeley, along with eleven
honorary doctorates, two Distinguished Achievement Awards
from the National
Educational Press Association, and an Award of Excellence
from the Associated Church
Press. In 2010, Palmer was given the William Rainey Harper
Award whose previous
recipients include Margaret Mead, Elie Wiesel, and Paolo
Freire. In 2011, he was named

an Utne Reader Visionary, one of “25 people who are changing
your world.”)
Change Magazine, Vol. 29, Issue #6, pp. 14-21, Nov/Dec 1997.
Reprinted with Permission of the Helen
Dwight Reid Educational Foundation. Published by Heldref
Publications, 1319 18th St. N.W.
Washington, D.C. 20036-1802, 1-800-365-9753, Copyright
1997.
“Good Talk About Good Teaching: Improving Teaching
Through Conversation and Community” appeared
in the November/December 1993 issue of Change. A revised
version appears as Chapter VI in The
COURAGE TO TEACH®.
“Divided No More: A Movement Approach to Educational
Reform” appeared in the March/April 1992
issue of Change.A revised version appears as Chapter VII in
The COURAGE TO TEACH®.

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