Thoughts on New Zealand’s School Decile Funding System

New Zealand’s school decile funding system has hit the news again, with Deputy Prime Minister and Finance Minister Bill English making public his opposition during a visit to Taita School outside of Wellington.

The idea of decile funding is sound. It is an attempt to take a proxy for the average level of socioeconomic need in a given school, and then to target additional school funding above the baseline to those schools with greatest need. It is, at its most fundamental, a recognition of the fact that the hardships of socioeconomic deprivation can affect the educational opportunities of students, and that providing equality of opportunity requires a concerted effort to counter the effects of deprivation.

Targeted Funding for Educational Achievement (TFEA) is the primary means by which additional funding is provided to students. For 2016, for instance, a Decile 1A school (the lowest on the decile measure, indicating severe socioeconomic need) will receive an additional $915 of funding per student above the baseline funding that all schools receive per student.

Again, I believe the decile system and TFEA are sound ideas to counter one of the most critical problems a country can face, and to ensure that everyone has an equal opportunity to make of their life what they wish. And yet, when one delves into how they work in practice, it becomes clear that a good idea does not necessarily solve the problem.

1. Only 45% of students of low socioeconomic status (SES) students attend a low decile school.

This is a critical failure of the use of a proxy to make an assumption about all students in a given school. Deciles are calculated using five socioeconomic measures of the geographic area in which a school is located. But within that area, there will clearly be disparities—some students will be severely deprived, while others may in fact not have great need.

Furthermore, the decile funding system does not correlate to school zoning, meaning that students outside of the area used to calculate a school’s decile may attend a low decile school.

And yet the decile system and TFEA treat all students within a school as of the same decile. The statistics show us that the failure of this proxy is stark: over half of students in a school receiving maximum TFEA do not in fact have the lowest level of socioeconomic need. This also means that there are 55% of students with severe deprivation who attend schools receiving less than maximum TFEA.

Deciles target schools as a whole, but students have their own lives and their own stories. Proxies are necessary tools of policy; but the decile proxy is one that is not working.

2. A decile includes 10% of schools, but only 6.8% of students in New Zealand attend a decile 1 school.

Deciles count the number of schools, but schools do not all take the same number of students. Indeed, higher decile schools have higher numbers of students than low decile school. This means that, as above, fewer students receive the TFEA that they should.

To put this another way, Targeted Funding for Education Achievement should in theory reach 90% of students (all students aside from those in decile 10 schools), and yet in practice it reaches 84%. This is another sign of the failure of the proxy to get resources where they need to be.
Those are two data points that to my mind are all that are necessary to show why deciles aren’t working in practice. And yet, of course, part of the bigger debate over deciles has been the stigmatisation of students because of the decile of the school they attend. It is the sad irony that decile funding doesn’t target individual students, and so much of this funding does not reach the students it’s meant for; and yet the stigmatisation of a decile is very much attached to individual students. This stigmatisation can be as harmful as socioeconomic need itself.

The decile system is at once too transparent in the message it sends of students’ backgrounds, as well as too opaque to work correctly. There are better proxies that could be used, especially with the kinds of data collection possible today. But whatever system is designed, it needs to ensure accurate targeting of funding, and it needs to do so without any stigmatisation being attached to schools or students. Opacity is not necessarily a bad thing in this context; and nor could be eschewing labels entirely, instead simply directing actual resources (especially the best teachers) to schools with the highest levels of need.

This is one of the most important problems, and the decile system has been a serious attempt to solve it. But it’s time to try something new.

A Vision or a Plan?

The National Party of New Zealand presents on its website a “plan” for the country’s future. “We have a clear plan to make New Zealand a stronger, more prosperous country and it’s a plan that’s working”, they say.

National Party has a plan

The Labour Party, by contrast, presents on their homepage a “vision” for the country: “New Zealanders don’t ask a lot, but there are some things that make us who we are and define our place in the world. We call it the Kiwi dream.”

Labour Party has a VisionThese approaches, at least in the political realm, are often mutually exclusive. The Nats makes no mention of a vision for where their plan will take them, and Labour does not describe a plan for achieving their vision.

In politics that might simply be a function of where each party expects to gain support. For the governing party, a plan is really all that matters; they’ve been elected on a vision, and now all people are about is whether they have a plan to govern effectively. Results are now what count. By contrast, the opposition requires a sweeping vision for an alternative future for those who believe the incumbent’s plan is not working. They need not worry about a plan until elected, when the narratives might be expected to switch between the parties.

In the non-zero-sum worlds that are our lives, a vision is only worth describing if backed by a plan; and a plan is only relevant if one has a vision for where that plan might take them. Visions and plans are not mutually exclusive, but too often—whether in a hangover of the political world, where we encounter them most often, or in some failure of nature—people seem still to swing one way or the other. Too often it is vision without a plan or a plan without a vision.

This can explain the failure of many startups. Some have brilliant execution, but no one cares because they don’t inspire. Others have a grand vision to mobilise people, but then can’t back that up with a plan to achieve anything.

And it can explain the failure of many people to achieve aims and goals they’ve set for themselves, even those that deal with lives as a whole. We often oscillate between the extremes of visions and plans without finding the middle ground where they meet, which is the only place that truly matters.

Political narratives can box our minds in, encouraging us subconsciously to mimic in our lives the approaches taken on the campaign trail. But when it comes to visions and plans, the difference between the zero-sum world of politics and the positive nature of our lives means we need to be aware of those narratives and take pains to grasp at both sides of the picture.

There’s only point having a vision if backed by a plan, and a plan is only worthwhile if it serves some vision. Perhaps, ultimately, what politics really needs is a party willing to risk putting the two together—at the same time.

The Future of Social Networks

Note: I wrote this article in 2011, looking at how social networks could more accurately mimic real life societies. It ended up being the single most-read and most-commented-on piece on my blog. I was sixteen at the time, so excuse the writing. Interesting to see both how the numbers have changed since 2011 (600 million users! One and a half years!), as well as how Facebook has and has not moved closer to the vision I outlined.


So Facebook has 600 million users. Many people are saying that Facebook will now be here for ever, and the entire planet will eventually be on Facebook. The same people are saying it will grow to be the biggest company in history, and that it’ll make a killing for investors. I disagree. This article explains why I disagree, and discusses what social networks should look like to succeed.

Social networks are still in early days. I don’t think they’ve really matured in any way, because they are still built on false assumptions that were made beginning with the first few mainstream social networks. The system of “friending” is completely broken, and yet many people don’t realize it because they don’t stop to ask why it is that way.

Facebook says that all my friends and contacts are of equal importance to me. They know this isn’t true, but there is no way for me to distinguish between friends I am truly close with or contacts that I met at a conference and felt obliged to accept on Facebook. In real life, we rank our connections in order of how important they are to us and how close we are with them. But on Facebook, this system has gone out the window because that functionality is not built into the social network.

But there is more about Facebook that is broken. Facebook is a “one-size-fits-all” social network. In other words, it thinks that everyone will find use in Facebook as long as they are on it with their friends. They believe that the higher the number of users they have, the more likely it is that people will keep joining. But this view goes against societal laws.

We live in societies in real life because we surround ourselves with people who share similar values, beliefs, and interests. Sure, the fact that I support one political party over another says that I have slightly different values to the person next to me, but fundamentally our values and beliefs are very similar. And living in a society allows me to know that anybody I meet will have fundamentally the same mindset as me. People who share similar religions live in the same societies, because they understand each other. This means that I can meet new people, and be social with a group outside of my existing close friends, with the knowledge that anybody I meet will be essentially similar to me.

Think about the term social network for a moment. When we hear it, we think of online social networks, like Facebook, with a system of “friending” and where we only communicate with our existing contacts. But social network is a broad term. Actually, it kind of describes how we relate to our contacts in real life. We have our own social network in real life, and you know what? It works. It’s called our society, and it’s been around for decades, if not centuries.

My question is: why aren’t online social networks built like physical societies?

Imagine this model as three circles, one inside of the other. The inner circle has your core group of friends and family – you share everything with them. There may only be 25 people in there, but these are the people who you would call to tell them something important that has just happened. They mean a lot to you. You’ll connect with these people by “friending” them – ie. mutual designation.

The next circle, which is quite a few times larger than the inner circle, is made up of your connections. These are the people who you’ve met at conferences, or know from school – you’re not close with them, but you’d talk to them if you saw them on the street. To connect with these people, you just have to specify them as a connection. It’s more like “following” them, only they will see that you have specified them as a connection and they can specify you back.

The third and final circle is made up of outer society. People you don’t know, but who you may meet someday. You cross paths with these people every day, but just haven’t yet taken the time to stop and talk to them. This final circle is huge – many, many times bigger than the previous two – and you have no direct link to them unless you choose to.

What this model allows is for us to differentiate between true “friends”, and mere “connections”. You can have a clear distinction between the two, allowing you to know more clearly who what you are sharing will reach. It gives you the ability to share more with those you really care about, without annoying connections. And, likewise, it allows you to share things with connections that you wouldn’t share with your family. And what about “outer society”? Well, you can interact with them as much or as little as you want.

The beauty of this model is that it allows us to choose how we want to use our social network. If we want to use it like Facebook, we can do that – the choice is entirely up to us.

But there will not be just one social network that looks like this. There will be tens, if not hundreds of them – each with millions of users. The social network that you are a part of will be a representation of who you are as a person. It will signify your values, beliefs, and interests.

When will this shift in model of social networks occur? I believe it will start in a year and a half, and reach the mainstream in about three years from now. That’s time for these new social networks to be built and perfected.

In any case, the battle of the social networks is far from over. Facebook hasn’t won, and there are plenty of genius programmers at colleges around the world. Good luck.

Satisfied Age and Wisdom

When I began university I deleted everything from the blog I had been writing since age 14. Gone were hundreds of articles I’d written, thousands of comments people had made. I was such a different person to who I was when I was fourteen that I was embarrassed to read what I had then thought, and more embarrassed at the thought that others might read it and think that person back then was the same person as I was now.

I had the vague sense that at some point or other I might regret deleting everything. But the concern over the gap between who I had once been and who I was at present meant at that point in time that I simply wanted it all to be gone. I was both worried for myself, reading back over what I’d previously thought, and worried what others might think of me. It wasn’t that anything I’d thought or written was controversial, or anything anyone would find surprising. Rather, it was the mere idea that I now knew more that meant I didn’t like the views I’d previously held.

Of course, I know better now. But back then I also knew better. And I know now that at some point in future I will know I was wrong now, and that I’ll then know better. That sums up intellectual development, it seems to me.

Robert Louis Stevenson wrote in his essay ‘Crabbed Age and Youth’ that

“A man finds he has been wrong at every preceding stage of his career, only to deduce the astonishing conclusion that he is at last entirely right.”

But I don’t quite agree. A young man or woman may deduce the conclusion that he or she is at last entirely right, but someone on the path to any sort of satisfied age and any sort of wisdom must surely have learned the lesson that one’s present views are merely the meeting place of what one was once certain of, and the views that one will come to hold. No knowledge or perspective on life can be final, in this light; and for it to be so, one must have given up on the very intellectual development that led her to that point in her opinions at which she now stands.

For the perspective one holds at any age beyond one’s youth to be considered final, one must have performed some almighty mental contortions. It is, after all, a contradiction: one says one now knows best, while at the same time acknowledging that at every other point one thought one knew best one was, in fact, wrong.

But Louis Stevenson is still here to help. His essay is one I’ve returned to over and over, to the point where after three readings every single page was dog-eared, entirely defeating the purpose of doing so. One passage in particular came as both relief and revelation, showing at once why we need not regret views we once held, and how every view we’ve ever held at any point make an important point.

“You need repent none of your youthful vagaries. They may have been over the score on one side, just as those of age are probably over the score on the other. But they had a point; they not only befitted your age and expressed its attitudes and passions, but they had a relation to what was outside of you, and implied criticisms on the existing state of things, which you need not allow to have been undeserved, because you now see that they were partial. All error, not merely verbal, is a strong way of stating that the current truth is incomplete. The follies of youth have a basis in sound reason, just as much as the embarrassing questions put by babes and sucklings.”

There is, I think, good reason to chuckle at what I’ve written here. For while explaining my views with a sense of certainty and finality, I’ve at the same time acknowledged that a future me is likely to think everything I’ve written right now is wrong.

To that, I have nothing to say; only that I will not repent, and that I’ll continue to write, day after day, to ensure I never think that once and for all I am at last entirely right. If I ever come close to that end, I’ll have all this to look back on. And perhaps I’ll then know enough not to delete it.

Wisdom and Age, Wisdom and Education

Wisdom has no necessary relationship to age or profession.

That is despite our difficult-to-escape and very banal stereotype of someone who is wise. An aging professor in an esteemed institution’s philosophy department, for instance,  may more often than not be someone whom we would go nowhere near with the word.

For wisdom is only wisdom when it links a deeper view of the world, picking up on subtleties usually missed, with outward action. The philosopher may have bountiful knowledge of wisdom, but that does not mean they are wise.

That deeper, more subtle view of the world is more likely, it is true, to come with age. But it shouldn’t be assumed, as the stereotype pushes us to.

We do not think of education as being about wisdom; but we should. Since one need not be old to be wise, and since wisdom is likely the most important trait in living one’s life (because it affects all else), there seems no larger or nobler purpose of education than gaining a more subtle view of the world and learning how to apply that to life as it is lived.

Wisdom as a single idea cannot be taught, but it seems more possible for those constituent parts to be.

There is an opportunity cost to all that is taught and studied in formal education.  So while there may be nothing wrong with what is taught, it must be weighed against what could be taught. In this light, it is the humanities that make more of a claim through that larger vision of education.

Drivers and Cyclists, Us and Them

I hate the pervasive driver-cyclist antagonism. Too often each group dehumanises the other to the extent that safety is made an even bigger problem.

The reality is most cyclists are also drivers, and most do their best not to hold up drivers and to ride with respect for cars; likewise, most drivers have at some point or other ridden a bike on the road and respect cyclists who do so regularly.

But of course the problem comes when one group gets so far into group mentality that the other becomes “them”—not really people, but a faceless group who get in “my” way. And this can happen on both sides of the equation. I’ve seen groups of cyclists ride as if they were the only people on the road, holding up cars for kilometres of road even when they could’ve let drivers pass. When the cars honked their horns, the cyclists moved out further into the road and rode slower. To them, the cars behind could have been driverless; group mentality made it seem as though it was just the “other” trying to get in their way.

And too often I’ve seen drivers drive recklessly nearby cyclists, especially when passing. Some drivers try to pretend as though there were not any cyclist on the road.

Just the other day I was riding up a hill here in Singapore, sticking as close to the side of the road as possible, when a van drove past me as if I hadn’t existed. I was swiped on the shoulder by the van’s mirror and almost knocked off. When I caught up with the van at the next traffic lights (to the driver’s dismay, since he hadn’t bothered to stop) he smiled maliciously and said, “That’s why you don’t ride your bike on the road.” Never mind that he was my only danger.

It was as though he were not speaking to a human. He had so forgotten that I am someone who also drives a car, who also has a family, who also has years ahead of me that all he could focus on was the fact that I might’ve got in his way. What was stranger than being hit by the mirror (which shook me and bruised but ultimately was not a big deal) was hearing the driver speak to me in tones one might speak to a tree that has fallen across the road.

Like I said, I hate driver-cyclist antagonism. I hate the articles local newspapers come out with once a month or so on the subject, which stir up those antagonisms further. I’m both a driver and a cyclist, just like most drivers at some point ride their bike and most cyclist at some point drive a car. To dehumanise is literally to forget that one is human, and that is the greatest danger of all—it is what leads to a cycle of maliciousness, because all one begins to see are two groups, one of which I’m in and the other which I’m not.

Whether you’re behind the wheel or in the saddle, realise that in an hour’s time the person in your way themselves might be driving a car or riding their bike. We’re all rarely as static as simple labels like to make us out to be. If only that were easier to remember.

And what I thought, after that van sped away from me, was that it is not so far a step from the phoney war between drivers and cyclists and the more real, far more dangerous antagonisms like those across the United States and Europe at present.