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Whatever Happened to Values Clarification

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In the mid-1960s, prompted by a bestselling book among educators called Values and Teaching, an approach called “Values Clarification” spread swiftly among U.S. elementary and secondary school teachers (see Ngram for the frequency of the phrase before and since that decade).

The thrust of the approach was to have students use texts and new instructional materials to identify their values and reflect on them in discussion, writing, and small group work especially when their values came into conflict. In effect, such materials and discussions would help students work through their positions on such values as loyalty, truth, trust, lying, helping others, etc.

Where Did the Idea of Clarifying Values Originate?

Louis Raths, a professor at New York University in the mid-1950s, working with John Dewey’s ideas about the importance of values in education, developed materials and teaching strategies that got his students to think about what they prized in life. He, Sidney Simon, and Merrill Harmin published Values and Teaching: Working with Values in Classrooms in 1966. The book went through subsequent editions and became a staple in university teacher education programs and innovative urban schools.

As one of proselytizers for the teaching strategy, Howard Kirschenbaum said:

Values clarification was arguably the most widespread of the innovative approaches to values and moral education that were popular during this period.

Kirschenbaum said “arguably,” yet tracking how many teachers, schools, and districts adopted  and then implemented the approach is impossible to nail down. In 1972, one of the authors of the best selling book on the topic could only list a few schools that adopted it, but talk, oh so much talk, about the strategy flooded educational publications, staff rooms, and educator conferences.

But “Values Clarification” as a teaching approach was squishy since many teachers interpreted the approach differently. Thus, it varied classroom to classroom as teachers adapted and reshaped it to fit their students. Nonetheless, among many teachers and administrators throughout the 1970s, adopted versions of the teaching strategy.

Yet within two decades the phrase had lost its resonance with teachers. Although many teachers claimed they had integrated the approach into the content and skills they taught, actual numbers of teachers who regularly used the approach was then and is now very hard to document.

What Was Values Clarification?

Here is an exercise that teachers in a junior high school used in their classes in the early 1970s, according to the principal of the school:

A. You are on a Congressional Committee in Washington. D.C. $10 million has been given for three worthy causes. Which would you do first, second, third?

  1. Clean up rivers, garbage, sewage, and pollution.
  2. Train those who do not have jobs.
  3. Divide the money among 10,000 needy families.

B. Which would you find hardest to do?

  1. Drop a bomb on Vietnam?
  2. Electrocute a man who has been judged to die in the electric chair?
  3. Run over someone who is threatening you with harm while you are driving a car?

Louis Raths and his colleagues explained the strategy and what teachers have to do in using the approach.

Valuing involves one’s beliefs and behaviors. Valuing means students engage in seven processes:  

(a) choosing freely; (b) choosing from alternatives; (c) choosing after thoughtful consideration of consequences; (d) prizing and cherishing one’s choices; (e) publicly affirming one’s choices; (f) acting on one’s choices; (g) acting with some pattern incorporating one’s choices.

In using this strategy, teachers must:

*Accept and encourage student answers;

*Expect diversity in student answers and do not assume that there are right or wrong answers for these value questions;

*Respect student’s right to participate or not;

*If student responds, respect student’s answer;

*Encourage each student to answer honestly;

*Listen carefully to student responses;

*Ask clarifying questions of student answers; avoid questions which may limit or threaten student thinking;

*Ask both personal and social questions.

Overall, then, Values Clarification avoided instilling values in students; the approach sought to have students examine the ones they already had.

What Problem Did Values Clarification Intend to Solve?

Emotional needs of young children and youth seldom get dealt with in public schools–what students prize, honor, and feel strongly about. It is those values embedded in emotions, feelings, and ideas that lay behind the choices that students make in and out of school. In most classrooms such clarifying discussions never arise and the value-choices get ignored by both teachers and students.

While textbook content and skills dominate classroom lessons, value-laden choices students have to make in life (e.g., whether to take drugs, engage in sex, report law-breakers to authorities, lie to parents) are often absent from lessons. Such discussions, such clarification of choices students make, need–advocates said–to find a place in academic subjects in elementary and secondary schools.

Did Values Clarification Work?

No evidence beyond a few small studies has shown that Values Clarification improves student decision-making, alters their existing values, changes choices they make in life, or bolsters academic achievement (see here and here).

What Happened to Values Clarification?

The short answer is that it disappeared from the vocabulary of school reformers and teachers by the early 1980s. Poof, gone. Few mentioned the phrase a decade later and now it is a historical curiosity. But its practices remain within the repertoire of many teachers every time they ask a “why” question that probes beliefs that students hold.



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Homo crustaceous

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Illustration of a crab using a laptop, captioned “Homo-crustaceous digitalis” on a textured background.

‘Everything becomes crab’ is more than an absurd meme. The crab is a deep symbol of our devil’s bargain with technology

- by Michael Garfield

Read at Aeon

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An Algorithm for a Better Bookshelf

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Drop in at a library, and you’ll likely notice that most shelves aren’t full—librarians leave some empty space on each shelf. That way, when they get new books, they can slot them into place without having to move too many other books.

It’s a simple-enough idea, but one that arises in a host of settings in computer science that involve sorted data, such as an alphabetically ordered census repository, or a list of connections between members of a social network. In such situations, where the entries can number in the hundreds of billions, the strategic positioning of empty spaces takes on great significance.

“Problems are getting bigger and bigger as we get more and more data,” said Helen Xu, an assistant professor in the School of Computational Science and Engineering at the Georgia Institute of Technology (Georgia Tech) in Atlanta. “At these scales, it becomes important to efficiently manage how you add new entries.”

The bookshelf problem (which computer scientists call the “list labeling” problem) is one of the most basic topics in the field of data structures. “It’s the kind of problem you’d teach to freshman or sophomore undergraduates,” said Guy Blelloch, a professor of computer science at Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh.

Yet until recently, there was a wide gap between what computer scientists could achieve algorithmically and what they knew about the theoretical lower limit on how many books you should expect to have to move when a new book arrives. On the algorithmic side, “There was pretty much no progress for 30 years or more,” Blelloch said.

Now, researchers have come up with a new algorithm that comes close to that theoretical lower limit. Blelloch described it as “a very elegant result.”

The new approach will “hopefully open the door to new applications of list labeling in settings where it wasn’t useful before because the cost was infeasible,” said William Kuszmaul, an assistant professor of computer science at Carnegie Mellon University and one of the researchers who came up with the new algorithm.

The list labeling problem starts off with a bookshelf of size n, along with some upper limit—say, 75% or 90%—for how much of the bookshelf you’re allowed to fill. There’s some chosen ordering for books (say, alphabetical by author), and as books arrive, one by one, you choose spots for them that respect the ordering, moving other books as needed. To find book-placing algorithms that are robust under many different conditions, computer scientists imagine that the books are being sent by an adversary who knows the algorithm and is trying to force you to move as many books as possible. (In some versions of the problem, the adversary may also remove books.)

If you were to use the most naïve possible algorithm—the one that places each book as close as possible to the start of the bookshelf—then your adversary could force you to move every book you’ve placed so far, simply by sending you books that precede every book they’ve already sent. As the bookshelf fills up, the cost of accommodating new books becomes proportional to n.

In 1981, computer scientists came up with a much better algorithm, whose average cost for adding a new book is only about log2n. This algorithm starts by dividing the bookshelf into two equal chunks; then it divides each of those chunks in half, and so on. For each different size scale, the algorithm sets a threshold for how full the chunks of that size are allowed to be, with small chunks allowed to be fuller than large chunks. Once the books start arriving, if a new book pushes some chunk over its density threshold, the algorithm spreads out the books in the next larger chunk so they are evenly spaced, easing the pressure on the smaller chunk.

In the years that followed, researchers came up with variations on the theme of spreading books out evenly—“smooth” algorithms, as they’re called. However, no one could beat the log2n cost of the 1981 algorithm. In 1990, computer scientists proved that no smooth algorithm can do better than log2n. Still, it didn’t seem to make sense to switch to a non-smooth algorithm—after all, if your algorithm intentionally creates spots that are denser than average, your adversary can target those spots and force you to move a lot of books.

“The running belief seemed to become that log2n should be optimal, and that what we should be doing as a community is trying to prove it,” said Kuszmaul.

The focus shifted from looking for new algorithms to proving lower bounds for wider and wider classes of algorithms. In 2012, researchers proved that no deterministic algorithm can improve on log2n. “It’s amazing how strong and robust that bound is,” said Michael Bender, of Stony Brook University, one of the authors of the new paper.

Combined with the earlier results, “This meant that to beat log2n, you had to be both randomized and non-smooth, and you had to do both things in a meaningful way,” Kuszmaul said.

The first glimmer of how to achieve this came from an unexpected direction: privacy research. In 2016, Bender and other researchers astonished computer scientists by showing that it is possible to create a bookshelf algorithm with a property called “history independence” without worsening the log2n cost. An algorithm is history-independent if the current state of the bookshelf reveals nothing about the prior history of insertions and deletions, apart from showing which books are currently on the shelf.

Bender and his colleagues had created their history-independent algorithm for the sake of its security properties, but they gradually realized that history independence could also offer algorithmic advantages. With a history-independent algorithm, an adversary can’t use some clever ordering of insertions to influence where dense hotspots will appear—no matter the ordering, the bookshelf will end up looking the same. This feature simplifies the collection of potential dangers against which the algorithm must guard.

In 2022, Bender, Kuszmaul, and colleagues figured out how to make a history-independent algorithm that incurs a cost per book of only log1.5n, breaking the four-decades-long dry spell. Their algorithm modified the 2016 algorithm to make it more “lazy,” as Kuszmaul put it—the algorithm doesn’t rush to smooth out vulnerable dense spots. Next, the researchers added a layer of randomness to the shelving process to hide the location of these dense spots, so the adversary can’t target them.

The researchers also proved their result was sharp: no history-independent algorithm can do better than log1.5n. Many computer scientists guessed, therefore, that this new algorithm was the final answer to the bookshelf problem. “We thought it was probably the end of the road,” Kuszmaul said.

Yet laziness is only one of two desirable properties for a bookshelf algorithm. There’s a second property that is fundamentally incompatible with history independence: the ability to proactively respond to an adversary’s strategy.

If the adversary is targeting a particular region, you’d like to quickly move free spots to that area to accommodate incoming books. Yet “If you just do that naively, you are dead in the water,” Kuszmaul said. “The adversary will figure out what you’re doing, and change their behavior to screw you up.”

Now, in a paper posted online in May 2024, Bender, Kuszmaul, and five colleagues have managed to combine the laziness benefits of history independence with a more proactive response to an adversary’s strategy. Their new algorithm adapts to an adversary’s strategy, but on time scales that it picks randomly. “It’s unpredictable enough that the adversary can’t exploit it,” Kuszmaul said. The algorithm “gets the best of both worlds—it behaves morally like a history-independent algorithm, except in the one way it’s being strategically adaptive.”

The new algorithm has an expected cost of logn × (log(logn))2 per insertion, a huge improvement on log1.5n. For large values of n, the logn factor dwarfs the (log(logn))2 factor, meaning that the cost is only slightly greater than logn, which computer scientists have long known is a theoretical lower limit for any bookshelf algorithm.

The improved cost might make the new algorithm—or a simplified version of it—valuable in new data applications, Xu said. Even though many real-world data settings are not adversarial, situations without an adversary can still sometimes involve sudden floods of data to targeted spots, she noted. For instance, in a social network, a famous person may swiftly gain followers after some newsworthy event.

“It’s my belief that the algorithm will lead to performance advantages in real-world situations,” Bender said. However, the researchers cautioned, as with any theoretical advance, making the new algorithm into something that performs well in practice will require serious work.

The recent improvements, Blelloch predicted, are likely to draw more researchers to the bookshelf problem, with a view not just to practical implementations, but also to further theoretical advances. The burning question now is, can researchers get all the way to logn?

If they can—in a way that can be implemented in the real world—then bookshelf algorithms might offer serious competition to binary search trees, which are currently the most widely used data structure for sorted data. Then, Kuszmaul said, “You would actually have a data structure that would change the world.”

There are, he warned, “a bunch of seemingly impossible hurdles between here and there.”

Then again, the new work “opens things up,” Blelloch said. “Who knows what’s the best we can do? Maybe we can get to logn.”

Further Reading

  • Bender, M. et al.
    Anti-persistence on persistent storage: History-independent sparse tables and dictionaries. In Proc. 35th ACM SIGMOD-SIGACT-SIGART Symposium on Principles of Database Systems (PODS), pages 289-302, June 2016.
  • Bender, M. et al.
    Online list labeling: breaking the log2n barrier. IEEE 63rd Annual Symposium on Foundations of Computer Science (FOCS), pages 980-990, 2022.
  • Bender, M. et al.
    Nearly optimal list labeling. May 1, 2024 https://arxiv.org/abs/2405.00807
  • Bulánek, J. et al.
    Tight lower bounds for the online labeling problem. In Proc. 44th annual ACM Symposium on Theory of Computing (STOC), pages 1185-1198, 2012.
  • Bulánek, J. et al.
    On randomized online labeling with polynomially many labels. In Proc. International Colloquium on Autamata, Languages, and Programming (ICALP), volume 7965 of Lecture Notes in Computer Science, pages 291-203, Springer, 2013.
  • Dietz, P. and Zhang, J.
    Lower bounds for monotonic list labeling. In Scandinavian Workshop on Algorithm Theory, volume 447 of Lecture Notes in Computer Science, pages 173-180, Springer, 1990.
  • Dietz, P. et al.
    A tight lower bound for online monotonic list labeling. SIAM Journal on Discrete Mathematics, 18 (3):626-637, 2004.
  • Itai, A. et al.
    “A sparse table implementation of priority queues.” In Proc. 8th International Colloquium on Automata, Languages and Programming (ICALP), volume 115 of Lecture Notes in Computer Science, pages 417-431, Springer, 1981.
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imposter syndrome is the price of showing up

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Watching the essay you “just shipped” go live.

I'm sitting here with my fingers hovering over the keyboard, wondering if I have any business writing about imposter syndrome when I'm experiencing it in real-time. The irony isn't lost on me—here I am, about to explore the very phenomenon that's making me question whether I'm qualified to explore it at all. But maybe that's exactly the point. Maybe the best way to understand something is to be drowning in it while you're trying to map its depths.

The term "imposter syndrome" was coined in 1978 by psychologists Pauline Clance and Suzanne Imes to describe high-achieving individuals who couldn't internalize their success—originally observed in women, though we now know it spans all genders. They called it "imposter phenomenon" then, documenting how accomplished people attributed their achievements to luck, timing, or deception rather than competence. What strikes me about their original research is how they documented something that felt deeply personal to so many people, yet had remained largely unnamed and unexamined. Modern research suggests this feeling is far from rare. Studies consistently find that ~ 70% of people experience imposter syndrome at some point in their lives, making it less an aberration than a nearly universal human experience.

But I've been thinking about this differently lately, especially as I've been wrestling with my own creative paralysis. There's this mantra I've adopted over the years: "just ship." It sounds almost brutally simple. Just get your work out there. Just let it exist in the world. Just press publish, submit the proposal, send the email, show up.

The phrase has Silicon Valley DNA, and its evolution tells a story. Steve Jobs lit the fuse in 1983 with "real artists ship"—a mantra he wielded to push the Macintosh into existence, according to engineer Andy Hertzfeld's memoir. Later, 37signals turned it into "just ship it!" in their widely-read Getting Real ebook, spreading it through early Ruby-on-Rails circles in the mid-2000s. Seth Godin's books (Linchpin, The Practice) and blog posts then mainstreamed "just ship" as broader creative gospel, while startup culture blasted it into meme-hood with Facebook's "done is better than perfect" and countless TechCrunch pieces echoing the ship-early ethos.

But the more I sit with this idea, the more I realize it's not about productivity or hustle culture or any of that relentless optimization thinking that's colonized our relationship with creativity.

It's about contact with reality.


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See, I think imposter syndrome thrives in the space between our private worlds and the public sphere. It feeds on the gap between what we think we know and what we're willing to test against the world. It's the voice that says, "You're not ready," or "Someone else has already said this better," or my personal favorite, "Who are you to think this matters?" These aren't just thoughts—they're protective mechanisms, evolved responses to the very real social risks of being seen, judged, and potentially rejected.

The thing is, our brains are ancient machines trying to navigate a modern world. When I feel that familiar tightness in my chest before sharing something I've written, I'm experiencing the same neural pathways that kept my ancestors alive by maintaining their standing in small tribal groups. Being cast out meant death. Being wrong meant losing status, which meant losing access to resources, mates, safety. The stakes felt existential because they were.

But here's what I've started to understand about the "just ship" philosophy: it's not about ignoring these fears or powering through them with toxic positivity. It's about recognizing that our ideas—and by extension, ourselves—can only grow through contact with reality. They need friction. They need to bump up against other minds, other experiences, other ways of seeing. They need to be tested, challenged, refined, or sometimes discarded entirely.

I think about the writers I admire most, and they all seem to share this quality of being willing to be wrong in public. Joan Didion didn't wait until she had everything figured out before she started writing about what it meant to be a woman in America. James Baldwin didn't wait for perfect prose before he began exploring the complexities of race and sexuality and belonging. They shipped their uncertainty, their questions, their half-formed thoughts, and in doing so, they gave us permission to do the same.

The imposter syndrome whispers: "You don't know enough yet." But knowing enough is a moving target. There's always another book to read, another expert to consult, another angle to consider. At some point, the pursuit of readiness becomes a sophisticated form of procrastination. We convince ourselves we're being responsible, thorough, professional, when really we're just scared.

I've been thinking about this in the context of creative work especially. There's something uniquely vulnerable about putting your thoughts, your voice, your particular way of seeing into the world. It's not like shipping a product where success can be measured in clear metrics. When you ship an idea, you're shipping a piece of yourself. And if people don't resonate with it, if they ignore it or criticize it or misunderstand it, it can feel like they're rejecting you.

But here's what I've noticed: the work that resonates most deeply with people is often the work that feels most risky to create. The essays that get responses like "I thought I was the only one who felt this way" are the ones where the writer was brave enough to voice something true but uncomfortable. The conversations that change minds are the ones where someone was willing to say something they weren't sure they were qualified to say.

There's a particular kind of imposter syndrome that I think affects people who create things, who have ideas, who want to contribute to conversations larger than themselves. It's the sense that everyone else has figured out some secret knowledge that you're lacking. That there's a council of qualified people somewhere who get to decide who's allowed to have opinions, and you definitely weren't invited to that meeting.

But what if I told you that council doesn't exist? What if qualification is something you earn through engagement rather than credentials? What if the only way to become someone who's allowed to have ideas is to start having them, publicly, imperfectly, with full knowledge that some of them will be wrong or incomplete or naive?

I keep coming back to this word: resonance. When you ship something—a piece of writing, a product, a performance, an idea—you're conducting an experiment in resonance. You're asking: does this thing I've made vibrate at a frequency that harmonizes with something in the world? Does it create some kind of recognition, response, connection?

But you can't test for resonance in your head. You can't workshop your way to knowing whether something will land. You have to let it leave your hands and enter the unpredictable ecosystem of other people's attention, needs, curiosities, and wounds.

The imposter syndrome wants to protect us from the possibility of creating something that doesn't resonate, something that falls flat or reveals our limitations. But I'm starting to think that fear is exactly backwards. The real risk isn't shipping something imperfect—it's never shipping anything at all. It's letting our ideas die in the safe, sterile environment of our own minds, where they can never grow or evolve or find the people who need them.

There's something almost existential about this. If our thoughts and creations never touch reality, do they really exist? If we never test our ideas against the world, are we really thinking, or are we just performing thought for an audience of one?

I've started to see imposter syndrome not as a personal failing but as a natural response to the gap between our interior lives and our exterior presentations. We all contain multitudes—contradictions, uncertainties, half-formed thoughts, questions we're embarrassed to ask. But the versions of ourselves we present to the world are necessarily simplified, edited, curated. The gap between who we are and who we appear to be creates a kind of cognitive dissonance that manifests as the feeling of being a fraud.

But what if instead of trying to eliminate that gap, we got more comfortable with it? What if we shipped our uncertainty alongside our confidence? What if we made our process visible instead of just our conclusions?

I think this is part of why I'm drawn to the essay form, actually. Essays are inherently provisional. The word comes from the French "essayer," meaning to try or attempt. Essays are thoughts in motion, ideas being worked out in real-time. They don't pretend to be definitive or complete. They're just someone trying to make sense of something, in public, with the hope that the attempt itself might be useful to others.

The "just ship" mantra isn't about lowering standards or accepting mediocrity. It's about recognizing that there's a quality of thinking that can only happen in dialogue with the world. Our ideas need room to breathe. They need to be challenged and refined and built upon by other minds. They need to find their people, their context, their purpose.

And maybe that's the real antidote to imposter syndrome: not proving that we belong, but creating the conditions for belonging through the work itself. Not waiting for permission, but shipping our way into the conversations we want to be part of. Not pretending we have all the answers, but offering our questions with enough honesty and care that they become contributions.

I'm still figuring this out, obviously. I still feel the familiar flutter of anxiety every time I'm about to publish something. I still wonder if I'm qualified, if I'm smart enough, if anyone will care. But I'm learning to see those feelings not as stop signs but as information—signals that I'm about to do something vulnerable, something that matters to me, something that might matter to others.

The imposter syndrome voice will probably always be there, whispering its familiar warnings. But maybe the goal isn't to silence it completely. Maybe it's to learn to ship anyway, to let our ideas touch reality despite our fears, to trust that the process of creating and sharing is itself a form of becoming.

After all, we're all imposters in the sense that we're all becoming, all learning, all figuring it out as we go. The only difference is some of us are brave enough to do it in public.

XO, STEPF


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Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal - Dollars

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The Fed says this is a cube of $1M. They're off by half a million

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