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UBC Theses and Dissertations

Canadian civic education, deliberative democracy, and dissent van den Berg, Ryan James 2016

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	   CANADIAN	CIVIC	EDUCATION,		DELIBERATIVE	DEMOCRACY,	AND	DISSENT		 by	 RYAN	JAMES	VAN	DEN	BERG	B.A.,	Mount	Allison	University,	2014		  A	THESIS	SUBMITTED	IN	PARTIAL	FULFILLMENT	OF	THE	REQUIREMENTS	FOR	THE	DEGREE	OF	 MASTER	OF	ARTS		in	THE	FACULTY	OF	GRADUATE	AND	POSTDOCTORAL	STUDIES	(Educational	Studies)	   THE	UNIVERSITY	OF	BRITISH	COLUMBIA	(Vancouver)		  August	2016	 ©	Ryan	James	van	den	Berg,	2016		 ii Abstract		This	thesis	develops	two	normative	standards	for	the	evaluation	of	secondary-level	Canadian	civic	education	curricula,	and	evaluates	British	Columbia	(B.C.)’s	Civic	Studies	11	and	Ontario’s	Civics	(Politics)	curricula	accordingly.	Both	standards	are	concerned	with	the	models	of	democracy	that	inform	each	curriculum	and,	more	specifically,	how	these	models	open	or	close	curricular	spaces	to	prepare	students	to	dissent	in	civic	and	political	life.	These	standards	are	also	sensitive	to	policymakers’	desire	to	increase	Canadian	youths’	civic	engagement.	Chapter	One	outlines	the	author’s	agonist	and	semi-archic	theoretical	framework,	positionality,	research	questions,	and	literature	review.	Chapter	Two	employs	qualitative	thematic	analysis	and	determines	that	deliberative	models	of	democracy	inform	both	curricula.	Chapters	Three	and	Four	use	philosophical	inquiry	to	develop	normative	evaluative	standards	based	on	critiques	of	deliberative	democracy.	Chapter	Three	makes	the	case	that	civics	curricula	should	teach	dissent	as	a	positive	right.	Chapter	Four	argues	that	curricula	should	give	critical	attention	to	the	passionate	demands	of	civic	life,	especially	as	civic	and	political	passions	prepare	students	to	exercise	dissent.	Chapter	Five	applies	these	standards	to	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula,	and	offers	concluding	thoughts.					 	 iii Preface	 This	thesis	is	original,	unpublished,	independent	work	by	the	author,	Ryan	James	van	den	Berg.	                                       	 iv Table	of	Contents		 	Abstract	................................................................................................................................................................	ii	Preface	................................................................................................................................................................	iii	Table	of	Contents	...........................................................................................................................................	iv	Acknowledgements	......................................................................................................................................	vi	Chapter	One:	The	Challenges	of	Civic	Education	..........................................................................	1	Introduction	....................................................................................................................................................................	1	Research	Questions	.....................................................................................................................................................	8	Methodology	and	Theoretical	Perspectives	...................................................................................................	10	Literature	Review	......................................................................................................................................................	18	Chapter	Structure	and	Research	Significance	...............................................................................................	32	Chapter	Two:	Analyzing	the	Democratic	Underpinnings	of	Two	Civics	Curricula.37	Qualitative	Thematic	Analysis	.............................................................................................................................	38	Documents	....................................................................................................................................................................	39	Conceptual	Framework:	Major	Models	of	Democracy	..............................................................................	41	Method	and	Theme	Selection	...............................................................................................................................	49	Discussion	.....................................................................................................................................................................	52	Conclusion	....................................................................................................................................................................	65	Chapter	Three:	Educating	for	Political	Dissent	as	a	Positive	Right	................................	69	Defining	Political	Dissent	.......................................................................................................................................	70	The	Productive	Nature	of	Political	Dissent	....................................................................................................	75	Dissent	as	a	Negative	Right	to	Foster	Engagement	....................................................................................	81	The	External	Curriculum	........................................................................................................................................	82	Exclusionary	Limitations	of	a	Negative	Right	to	Dissent	.........................................................................	84	When,	and	Why,	and	How	to	Dissent	................................................................................................................	89	Dissent	as	a	Positive	Right	to	Foster	Engagement	......................................................................................	91	The	Risks	and	Limitations	of	Teaching	Dissent	as	a	Positive	Right	.....................................................	95	Conclusion	..................................................................................................................................................................	103	Chapter	Four:	The	Passionate	Demands	of	Democratic	Citizenship	...........................	105	Political	Passion	.......................................................................................................................................................	106	Inspiring	Engagement	Through	Passion	.......................................................................................................	112	Toward	an	Impassioned	Consciousness	for	Dissent	................................................................................	116	Circumscribing	Decision-Making	Through	Deliberation	.......................................................................	121	Teaching	for	Resistance	to	Manipulations	of	Passions	...........................................................................	139	Conclusion	..................................................................................................................................................................	146	Chapter	Five:	Evaluating	B.C.’s	and	Ontario's	Civics	Curricula	......................................	147	Normative	Standards	for	Curricular	Evaluation	........................................................................................	149	Evaluation	...................................................................................................................................................................	151	Conclusion	..................................................................................................................................................................	170	References	....................................................................................................................................................	181	Appendices	...................................................................................................................................................	201		 v Appendix	A	-	Themes	for	Qualitative	Thematic	Analysis	.......................................................................	201	Appendix	B	-	Frequency	of	Preference	Formation	Terms	in	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	Civics	Curricula	......................................................................................................................................................................	203	Appendix	C	-	Frequency	of	Rationality	and	Passion	Terms	in	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	Civics	Curricula	......................................................................................................................................................................	205	Appendix	D	-	Frequency	of	Terms	Related	to	Inclusion	and	Political	Equality	in	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	Civics	Curricula	.....................................................................................................................................	206	Appendix	E	-	Frequency	of	Terms	Related	to	Consensus	and	Conflict	in	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	Civics	Curricula	.........................................................................................................................................................	208			 									  	 vi Acknowledgements		 I	would	like	to	give	my	sincerest	thanks	to	everyone	who	made	this	thesis	possible.	I	am	forever	grateful	to	my	supervisor,	Dr.	Claudia	Ruitenberg,	for	her	careful,	patient,	generous,	and	hospitable	guidance	throughout	this	process.	Claudia,	thank	you	for	investing	so	much	time	and	thought	in	this	project	and,	more	importantly,	in	my	academic	and	personal	growth.	I	deeply	admire	your	energy	and	dedication;	you	inspire	me	to	apply	the	same	devotion	in	all	of	my	own	endeavours.			 To	Drs.	Deirdre	Kelly	and	Megan	Boler,	thank	you	for	your	all	of	your	insights	and	advice	on	this	project.	Your	expertise	has	been	invaluable	in	shaping	and	refining	this	work,	and	you	have	challenged	me	to	think	more	creatively	and	critically	in	view	of	socially	just	alternatives.	I	am	deeply	indebted	to	my	friends	and	classmates	for	creating	a	convivial	and	supportive	atmosphere	throughout	this	process.	It	has	been	humbling	to	learn	alongside	you,	and	more	importantly,	to	learn	from	you.	Finally,	to	my	family:	thank	you	for	the	love,	encouragement,	and	support	during	my	time	at	U.B.C.	and	in	all	of	my	other	endeavours.	I	look	up	to	each	and	every	one	of	you,	and	words	cannot	express	how	deeply	grateful	I	am	for	everything	you	have	done	for	me.		 This	research	was	supported	by	the	Social	Sciences	and	Humanities	Research	Council	of	Canada.			 1 Chapter	One:	The	Challenges	of	Civic	Education		Strange	women	lying	in	ponds,	distributing	swords	is	no	basis	for	a	system	of	government.	Supreme	executive	power	derives	from	a	mandate	from	the	masses,	not	from	some	farcical	aquatic	ceremony!	—	Dennis,	Monty	Python	and	the	Holy	Grail   Introduction	What	does	it	mean	to	be	a	good	citizen?	What	role	should	citizens	play	in	civic	and	political	life?	How	should	the	public	education	system	foster	good	citizenship,	if	at	all?	There	is	no	single,	best	answer	to	any	of	these	questions	but	for	civic	educators,	the	stakes	are	high.	“Citizenship”	itself	is	a	highly	contested	term,	and	debates	on	the	subject	are	not	limited	to	conceptions	of	what	“good	citizenship”	might	be.	Some	scholars	eschew	the	very	concept	of	citizenship	as	an	exclusionary	and	even	oppressive	idea,	for	example	for	Indigenous	and	transnational	peoples.	Important	to	their	concerns	are	questions	about	who	determines	the	parameters	of	citizenship,	who	benefits	from	citizenship,	which	understanding(s)	of	rights	or	justice	hold	primacy,	what	the	scope	of	citizenship	leaves	out,	and	similarly	critical	questions.1	Other	scholars—particularly	from	the	liberal	tradition—defend	citizenship	as	the	most	appropriate	tool	for	rights-claiming	within	contemporary	nation-states	(e.g.,	Rawls,	2001;	Schudson,	2003).	My	use	of	the	term	“citizen”	throughout	this	thesis	remains	consistent	with	liberal-democratic	assumptions	about	citizenship	as	“a	conception	of	the	relationship	between	an	                                                1	For	further	reading	on	the	exclusionary	or	oppressive	implications	of	(Canadian)	citizenship,	see	Alfred,	2009;	Bottery,	2003;	Fraser,	2009;	Gouthrau,	2007;	Mackey,	1998;	and	Preece,	2002.		2	In	Chapter	5	I	return	to	a	discussion	of	the	limitations	of	the	concept	of	citizenship	and	the	need	for		 2 individual	and	a	political	body”	(Bottery,	2003,	p.	102)	and	a	vehicle	for	rights-claiming,	particularly	because	I	study	Canadian	curricular	texts	that	treat	it	as	such.2		Citizens’	understandings	of	the	civic	world,	the	laws	that	empower	and	bind	them,	the	rights	they	hold	dear,	the	duties	they	are	demanded	to	uphold,	and	the	consequences	of	political	(in)action	are	all	shaped	by	the	world	around	them.	Civic	educators	attempt	to	intervene	meaningfully	in	this	process,	but	each	one	has	a	unique	understanding	of	what	constitutes	the	best	knowledge,	dispositions,	capacities,	and	values	to	foster	among	citizens.		 Academic	investigations	of	civic	education	are	situated	at	the	intersection	between	educational	studies	and	political	science.	Scholars	in	both	fields	dispute	each	step	of	the	civic	education	process,	from	questioning	which	conception	of	“the	good	society”	should	inform	curricula,	up	to	which	finer	points	of	pedagogical	practice	are	required	to	implement	it.	Troublingly,	one	of	the	only	points	of	general	consensus	among	scholars	is	that	civic	education	in	Canada	has	considerable	limitations	in	preparing	students	to	fully	understand	and	participate	in	a	liberal-democratic	society	(Ferguson,	2011;	Kennelly	&	Llewellyn,	2011;	Lévesque,	2003;	Milner	&	Lewis,	2011;	Osborne,	2000;	Peck	et	al.,	2008;	Sykes,	2011).	My	research	speaks	to	the	very	core	of	this	issue,	investigating	underexplored	issues	within	the	conception	of	democracy	that	underpins	formal	civic	education	in	Canada.	This	work	is	a	normative	attempt	at	considering	more	socially	just	and	inclusive	alternatives	when	questioning	what	it	means	to	be	a	citizen	of	a	liberal	democracy.		                                                2	In	Chapter	5	I	return	to	a	discussion	of	the	limitations	of	the	concept	of	citizenship	and	the	need	for	further	research	that	pushes	beyond	this	concept.		 3 I	first	developed	an	interest	in	civic	education	as	a	tour	guide	at	Canada’s	Parliament.	It	was	during	those	two	summers	that	I	became	increasingly	interested	in	Canadian	civic	life	and	grew	more	aware	of	its	influence	on	Canadians’	day-to-day	lives.	At	the	same	time,	it	became	clear	that	many	of	the	Canadians	who	visited	their	Parliament	had	only	a	basic	knowledge	of	its	more	detailed	functions	and	history,	just	as	I	had	had	before	starting	work	there.	In	many	cases,	their	knowledge	of	the	parliamentary	system	appeared	incomplete,	ill	informed,	or	devoid	of	its	historical	roots.	In	other	cases,	visitors	expressed	fervent	patriotism	for	Canada,	seemingly	without	critical	thought	about	its	limitations.	There	were,	of	course,	also	many	visitors	and	colleagues	whose	knowledge	and	criticisms	of	the	various	aspects	of	Canadian	history,	citizenship,	parliamentary	democracy,	or	current	political	affairs	surpassed	my	own.	However,	in	all	cases,	I	began	to	consider	that	there	was	a	need	to	better	educate	Canadians	about	their	own	civic	affairs.	I	became	increasingly	interested	in	how	this	was	possible	to	achieve	through	formal,	non-formal,	and	informal	settings.	My	interest	in	civic	education	developed	further	during	my	undergraduate	degree	in	Canadian	Studies.	Many	of	the	topics	covered	were	problem-centered,	and	I	came	to	believe	that	many	issues	the	country	faces	could	be	better	resolved	if	there	were	a	culture	of	critical	public	participation	in	civic	life.	I	determined	that	a	more	comprehensive	and	critical	formal	civic	education—including	the	knowledge,	skills,	and	disposition3	to	engage	in	political	life—would	be	essential	in	fostering	such	a	culture.	Throughout	my	studies,	I	also	learned	that	many	of	the	people	who	choose	not	to	participate	in	political	life	“opt	out”	because	they	feel	that	formal	politics	are	elitist,	                                                3	I	explain	how	dispositions	relate	to	emotion,	affect,	and	passion	in	Chapter	Four.		 4 exclusionary,	or	disconnected	from	the	Canadian	public	(Bastedo	et	al.,	2012).	This	information	helped	explain	the	political	frustration	I	perceived	around	me	at	the	time;	attending	a	predominantly	left-leaning,	liberal	arts	university	while	the	Harper	Conservatives	held	federal	power	was	an	invaluable	political	experience.	While	many	students’	frustration	and	indignation	with	the	status	quo	seemed	to	spur	their	political	participation,	others	grew	apathetic	when	their	voices	were	repeatedly	ignored	by	those	in	power.	I	have	thus	grown	to	believe	that	fostering	participation	in	political	life	requires	the	provision	of	channels	for	people	to	express	their	political	emotions	and	exercise	dissent	when	they	perceive	injustices.	I	call	the	culture	of	critical	participation	for	which	I	advocate	“an	impassioned	consciousness	for	dissent,”	and	I	elaborate	on	this	idea	in	Chapters	Three	and	Four.		Before	introducing	the	particulars	of	my	work,	it	is	necessary	to	define	what	I	mean	by	“civic	education.”	I	define	civic	education	quite	broadly	as	any	formal,	non-formal,	or	informal	education	that	prepares	students	for	civic	life	through	direct	involvement	in	the	civil	sphere	or	by	exploring	subjects	related	to	civic	life	such	as	citizenship;	politics;	governance;	social	activism;	law;	intercultural	or	global	affairs;	or	the	like.	I	am	particularly	interested	in	formal	civics	curricula	in	mainstream	public	schools.	Many	“alternative”	schools,	particularly	models	in	which	students	have	a	high	degree	of	democratic	control	over	learning	and	school	affairs	(e.g.,	Summerhill	in	the	United	Kingdom),	offer	inventive	and	arguably	more	effective	means	of	civic	learning.	However,	since	the	majority	of	Canadian	students	attend	public	schools,	I	am	interested	in	how	these	institutions	prepare	students	for	democratic	life.		 5 	Virtually	all	provinces	in	Canada	have	introduced	civic	content	into	their	curricula,	usually	as	part	of	Social	Studies	courses.	As	of	2016,	however,	only	two	provinces	have	developed	secondary-level	courses	focusing	exclusively	on	civic	education.	I	focus	on	these	two	throughout	this	thesis.	In	1999,	worries	about	Ontario’s	“democratic	deficit”	(roughly,	low	levels	of	political	trust	and	engagement—more	on	this	below)	drove	the	province	to	implement	Canada’s	first	formal	civics	course	of	the	post-World	War	Two	era	(Hardwick,	Marcus,	&	Isaak,	2010;	Milner,	2009).	It	introduced	a	compulsory,	half-credit,	Grade	10	Civics	(Politics)	course	and	revised	this	curriculum	most	recently	in	2013.	British	Columbia	(B.C.)	followed	suit	shortly	after,	in	2005,	by	implementing	its	optional	Civics	11	course	(Milner,	2009).	This	is	a	one-credit	course	offered	as	an	alternative	to	Social	Studies	11	or	BC	First	Nations	Studies	12.		With	this	in	mind,	it	is	important	to	make	the	distinction	between	“civic	education,”	“education	for	citizenship”	and	“citizenship	studies,”	which	are	often	conflated	or	ill-defined	in	existing	literature.	I	consider	citizenship	studies	to	be	a	necessary	(but	not	sufficient)	component	of	a	complete	civic	education.4	Citizenship	studies	are	concerned	with	teaching	students	about	citizenship.	For	instance,	they	might	foster	the	critical	skills	necessary	to	question	what	citizenship	means	in	a	given	context	or	teach	about	the	historical	development	of	various	forms	of	citizenship,	but	they	do	not	promote	any	particular	model	of	citizenship.	“Education	for	citizenship,”	by	contrast,	promotes	a	specific	and	normative	conception	of	“good”	citizenship.	For	instance,	in	promoting	“informed”	and	“active”	conceptions	of	citizenship,	Ontario’s	                                                4	In	addition,	education	can	be	deemed	“civic”	even	if	it	is	not	formally	presented	as	such.	For	example,	while	History	or	Social	Studies	courses	may	not	state	outright	their	intention	to	foster	civic	capacities,	they	might	teach	vital	elements	of	civic	education	(such	as	citizenship	studies	or	democracy	studies).		 6 civics	curriculum	gives	education	for	citizenship	more	prominence	than	citizenship	studies.	Education	for	citizenship	is	not	a	necessary	component	of	civic	education.	I	make	a	similar	distinction	between	“democracy	studies,”	“education	for	democracy,”	and	“democratic	education.”	Democracy	studies	teach	students	about	the	concept(s)	of	democracy,	and	they	are	a	fundamental	part	of	civic	education.	An	“education	for	democracy”	teaches	students	that	one	particular	conception	of	democracy	is	desirable.5	“Democratic	education”	refers	to	a	democratic	pedagogy	that	ensures	students	have	a	high	degree	of	“democratic”	control	over	their	own	learning	by,	for	example,	minimizing	teacher-student	hierarchies.	I	argue	that	democracy	studies	are	a	vital	part	of	civic	education	but	that	neither	education	for	democracy	nor	democratic	education	are	necessary—even	though	the	latter	can	certainly	be	valuable.	However,	teacher-student	hierarchies	may	continue	to	exist	and	students	may	have	little	to	no	control	over	what	or	how	they	learn,	but	education	for/about	democracy	is	still	possible	in	this	context	(though	many	others	disagree;	see	Biesta,	2011;	Lenzi,	Vieno,	Sharkey,	Mayworm,	Scacchi,	Pastore,	&	Santinello,	2014).	I	also	agree	with	Chantal	Mouffe	(1999)	that	the	structure	of	modern,	western	democracy—and	by	extension,	democracy	studies	and	education	for	democracy—must	be	that	of	a	liberal-democratic	regime	in	which	liberty	and	equality	constitute	fundamental	“ethico-political	principles”	(p.	155).6	This	is	because	it	is	only	in	the	                                                5	Common	usage	may	consider	“education	for	democracy”	to	be	a	form	of	education	actively	favouring	democratic	modes	of	governance	over	non-democratic	ones.	I	define	it	here	as	advocating	for	one	particular	model	of	democracy	since	I	am	interested	in	civic	studies	within	a	Canadian,	liberal-democratic	order.	6	Mouffe	nuances	this	view	in	her	later	work,	especially	On	the	Political	(2005)	and	“Which	World	Order?”	(2008),	in	which	she	discusses	how	some	regimes	are	capable	of	respecting	human	dignities	despite	not	 	 7 context	of	liberal	democracies	that	students	have	the	freedoms	to	consider	one	another	as	free	and	equal	political	subjects	in	their	inevitable	disagreements	over	their	interpretations	of	these	core	principles.	When	compared	to	more	minimalist	variants	of	democracy	(e.g.,	electoral	democracy),	liberal	democracies	ensure	the	greatest	level	of	human	rights	protections,	the	most	extensive	freedoms	to	exercise	rights,	and	the	strongest	commitments	to	checking	the	power	of	elected	governments	(Diamond,	1999).	Thus,	when	I	refer	to	“civic	education,”	I	am	referring	only	to	civic	education	within	a	Canadian,	liberal-democratic	context.	Citizenship	studies	and	democracy	studies	are	both	vital	components	of	civic	education	within	this	framework.	Liberal	democracy	is	compatible	with	the	first-order	theory	of	liberalism	and	its	commitments	to	individual	rights,	especially	liberty	and	equality.	First-order	theories	require	ontological	commitments	to	principles	or	values	that,	by	definition,	reject	other	first-order	theories	(Gutmann	&	Thompson,	2004,	p.	13).	For	instance,	liberalism	rejects	communitarianism	and	other	competing	theories	of	justice.	Since	I	have	established	my	commitment	to	the	first-order	theory	of	liberal	democracy,	my	concern	is	with	“second-order”	theories	of	democracy,	specifically	within	a	Canadian	educational	context.	Second-order	theories	adjudicate	between	competing	first-order	theories.	Thus,	second-order	theories	must	have	a	procedural	component	in	addition	to	any	substantive	component(s)	they	purport	to	have.	For	example,	deliberative	models	of	democracy	are	second-order	theories	because	they	advocate	the	procedure	of	deliberation	to	adjudicate	between	opposing	political	preferences.	I	explain	the	                                                                                                                                                  being	liberal	democracies.	I	nevertheless	cite	her	earlier	work	here	because	Canada	operates	through	the	western	liberal-democratic,	ethico-political	values	she	champions.		 8 similarities	and	differences	between	deliberative	models	and	other	second-order	models	below.		 Research	Questions	The	purpose	of	this	study	is	to	develop	two	interrelated,	social	justice-oriented,	and	underexplored	criticisms	of	deliberative	models	of	democracy	as	they	relate	to	Canadian	students’	civic	education	and	(dis)engagement	with/from	civic	life	in	liberal-democratic	societies.	More	specifically,	I	critique	deliberative	models’	capacity	to	prepare	students	to	exercise	dissent,	including	“everyday”	disagreement	between	political	subjects	as	well	as	deep	disagreement	in	favour	of	counter-hegemonic	alternatives.	Thus,	the	primary	question	I	seek	to	answer	is,	“Insofar	as	they	are	informed	by	deliberative	models	of	democracy,	how	might	civics	curricula	in	Ontario	and	B.C.	foster	or	limit	students’	ability	to	engage	in	dissent?”		I	focus	my	critique	on	deliberative	models	of	democracy	because,	as	we	will	see	in	Chapter	Two,	these	models	tend	to	underpin	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula.	Since	deliberative	models	tend	to	be	consensus-oriented,	a	major	part	of	this	project	explores	the	limitations	of	teaching	for	consensus	in	political	life.	It	may	be	the	case	that	consensus-based	citizenship	is	more	appropriate	for	Canadian	liberal	democracy	because	it	contributes	to	good	order	and	highlights	shared	national	ideals.	However,	my	desire	to	explore	this	topic	is	largely	born	out	of	the	conviction	that	consensus-based	models	of	deliberative-democratic	citizenship	may	not	invite	all	students	equally	to	critically	examine	and	respond	to	the	socio-political	orders	in	which	they	live.	It	is	irresponsible	to	examine	dissent	without	also	addressing	its	affective,	emotional,	or	passionate	components	(I	make	the	distinction	between	these	three	terms		 9 in	Chapter	Four).	Deliberative	models	of	democracy,	like	western	philosophies	in	general,	have	valued	rationality	over	emotion	in	the	public	sphere	(Abowitz	&	Harnish,	2006;	Boler,	1999)	and	so	affect	remains	an	underexplored	topic	in	political	theory.	Because	rational	modes	of	thought	have	also	positioned	neutrality	and	objectivity7	as	the	only	valid	means	of	determining	what	constitutes	“truth,”	some	students—particularly	those	espousing	non-masculinist,	non-European	worldviews	deemed	“unreasonable”	or	worse,	“irrational”—may	not	be	inclined	to	engage	in	a	political	climate	that	excludes	their	views	(Pinto	&	Portelli,	2012).	The	role	of	affect	in	civic	education	is	highly	relevant	to	classroom	discussions	of	activism	and	dissent	(Brown	&	Pickerill,	2009;	Wilkinson,	2009;	Zembylas,	2009a,	2009b,	2013).	In	this	context,	there	is	much	room	for	debate	about	whether—and,	if	so,	which—emotions	are	dangerous	or	productive,	and	whether	they	have	a	place	in	the	political	sphere.	I	also	recognize	that	ostensibly	rational	and	reasoned	responses	to	difference	are	emotionally	charged,	which	is	not	always	clear	in	deliberative	models.	I	do	not	intend	to	delve	into	pedagogical	questions	of	how	to	teach	for	political	affect.	However,	it	is	necessary	to	ensure	that	the	political	relevance	of	affect	and	emotion	are	made	explicit	in	civics	curricula	in	order	for	students	to	explore	how	emotion	is	constructed	and	to	what	ends	it	might	be	mobilized.	To	summarize:	my	main	research	question	is	“Insofar	as	they	are	informed	by	deliberative	models	of	democracy,	how	might	civics	curricula	in	Ontario	and	B.C.	foster	                                                7	Defined	as	the	ability	to	give	due	consideration	to	the	various	sides	of	the	issue	while	the	standards	of	evaluation	remain	unchallenged.	One	can	only	be	neutral	and	objective	if	the	standards	used	to	determine	validity	are	clearly	agreed	upon	and	immune	from	challenge,	which	is	rare	in	political	life.		 10 or	limit	students’	ability	to	engage	in	dissent?”	In	order	to	answer	this	question,	I	will	ask	the	following	sub-questions:	1. To	what	extent	and	in	what	ways	are	the	curricular	documents	of	Ontario’s	and	B.C.’s	civics	courses	informed	by	deliberative	models	of	democracy?	Which	features	of	deliberative	models	of	democracy	are	particularly	prominent	in	these	curricular	documents?		2. Why	should	civics	curricula	teach	for	dissent	in	political	life?	3. Why	should	civics	curricula	help	foster	students’	affective	and	emotional	responses	to	political	issues?	4. How	do	the	conceptions	of	democracy	that	underpin	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula	open	or	close	spaces	for	affective	and	emotional	responses	to	political	issues?	5. How	do	the	conceptions	of	democracy	that	underpin	British	Columbia	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula	open	or	close	spaces	for	dissent?		Methodology	and	Theoretical	Perspectives	Because	I	have	analyzed	existing	curricular	documents	and	evaluated	them	against	normative	claims,	my	research	has	required	both	qualitative	and	philosophical	inquiry.	To	better	understand	how	official	curricular	texts	conceptualize	“democracy”	(thus	creating	or	closing	space	for	dissent	and	emotion),	I	have	conducted	a	qualitative	thematic	analysis	of	the	curriculum	documents	for	Ontario’s	Grade	10	Civics	and	B.C.’s	Civics	11	courses.	This	grounds	my	research	in	existing	curricular	documents	while		 11 providing	clear	conceptualizations	of	democracy	to	form	the	basis	of	the	philosophical	critiques	(established	largely	through	dialectic)	that	follow.		 Thematic	analysis	involves	“identifying	and	describing	both	implicit	and	explicit	[themes]	within	a	text”	(Guest,	MacQueen,	&	Namey,	2012,	p.	13).	As	part	of	this	thematic	analysis,	I	first	needed	to	provide	a	clear	conceptual	understanding	of	the	three	major	streams	of	democracy	I	study	(namely,	aggregative,	deliberative,	and	post-deliberative	streams)	to	determine	how	to	code	instances	of	this	theme.	I	did	not	conduct	a	formal	and	analytic	conceptual	analysis	to	achieve	this,	but	reviewed	the	major	streams	of	democratic	thought	to	find	commonalities	between	them	and	developed	codes	based	on	these	commonalities.	Since	I	wanted	to	make	explicit	the	variants	between	democratic	models,	I	also	determined	more	precisely	which	elements	of	the	various	models	informed	both	curricula.	After	coding	both	provinces’	civics	curricula,	I	compared	code	frequencies	and	co-occurrences	to	determine	the	degree	to	which	each	model	of	democracy	informs	both	curricula.	I	determined	that	they	are	primarily—but	not	exclusively—underpinned	by	deliberative	models.	This	allowed	me	to	evaluate	these	curricula	according	to	normative	standards.		To	develop	these	normative	standards,	my	primary	approach	involved	philosophical	inquiry,	which	has	focused	on	critiquing	the	deliberative	models	of	democracy	insofar	as	they	inform	civics	curricula.	As	Helmut	Heid	(2004)	explains,	a	critique	requires	a	criterion	(or	criteria)	to	evaluate	the	object	of	critique.	He	states	that	“this	criterion	cannot	be	derived	from	the	description	[of	the	object	of	critique];	it	depends	on	a	decision	of	the	critic,	and	it	is	expressed	in	the	evaluative	position	he	[sic]	takes”	(p.	325).	I	have	justified	my	criteria—namely,	the	extent	to	which	the	curricula		 12 acknowledge,	allow	for,	and	encourage	dissent	and	civic	emotions—primarily	by	drawing	on	other	scholars’	work	(see	below).	Often,	this	has	required	me	to	engage	these	ideas	in	dialectic	with	one	another,	though	I	have	recognized	and	adopted	some	theories	wholesale.	I	have	also	justified	my	criteria	by	grounding	them	in	a	Canadian	socio-political	context.	In	so	doing,	I	theorized	how	civics	courses	can	help	foster	students’	civic	and	political	engagement	by	attending	to	dissent	and	emotion.	Only	after	justifying	these	criteria	did	I	begin	the	evaluative	work	involved	in	critique.	This	means	I	exposed	concrete	spaces	where	deliberative	models	in	both	curricula	open	or	close	possibilities	for	teaching	about	dissent	and	civic	emotions.	However,	in	pursuing	this	critique	I	have	avoided	setting	up	a	sharp	binary	between	deliberative	models	of	democracy	and	models	that	focus	on	dissent	and	political	passions.	While	the	objects	of	my	critique	are	consensus	and	rationalist	models	of	democracy,	I	do	not	believe	there	is	as	sharp	an	opposition	between	deliberative	and	more	critical-radical	models	as	sometimes	appears	to	be	the	case.	On	the	contrary,	to	highlight	the	contiguous	relationship	between	deliberative	and	critical-radical	models,	I	use	Claudia	Ruitenberg’s	(personal	correspondence)	framework	and	distinguish	between	more	traditional	“deliberative”	models	(including	both	liberal	and	communitarian	approaches)8	and	more	critical-radical	“post-deliberative”	models	(more	on	this	below).9	The	term	“post-deliberative”	acknowledges	that	there	are	many	                                                8	To	be	clear,	deliberative	models	are	the	product	of	liberal	traditions.	According	to	Abowitz	&	Harnish	(2006),	“civic	republican	discourse	values	the	common	good	of	political	communities,	[while]	political	liberalism	envisions	a	more	limited	political	arena	with	greater	focus	on	procedures	that	would	ensure	fair,	inclusive	deliberation”	(p.	662).		9	Rene	Boomkens	(2010)	uses	the	term	“post-deliberative	democracy”	differently,	namely	in	reference	to	more	populist,	media-driven	forms	of	democracy	that	aim	to	influence	voters	with	personal	attacks	 	 13 hybridized	conceptions	of	democracy	that	grow	out	of	critical	and	agonist	critiques	of	deliberative	models	(Dahlgren,	2006;	Gouthrau,	2007;	Karpowitz,	Raphael,	&	Hammond,	2009;	Kohn,	2000).	Many	of	these	critiques,	my	own	included,	focus	on	the	rationalist	and	consensus-oriented	deliberative	models.	Note	that,	from	this	point	forward,	any	references	to	“deliberative	models”	include	only	these	rationalist,	more	consensus-oriented	forms	and	not	the	post-deliberative	forms—both	of	which	I	outline	below.		Throughout	this	thesis,	I	also	witness	the	deconstruction	of	a	key	binary	that	informs	debates	about	democratic	citizenship.10	Specifically,	I	challenge	the	binary	of	the	“rational”	and	“irrational”	(or	“emotional”)	subject.	The	importance	of	the	spaces	opened	by	this	act	of	witnessing	will	become	clearer	once	I	explain	my	agonistic	and	semi-archic	theoretical	perspectives	below.	Bear	in	mind	that	various	theorists	use	the	terms	“rational,”	“reason,”	and	“reasonable”	differently.	Some	use	these	terms	interchangeably.	To	minimize	confusion,	I	rely	on	the	following	definitions	throughout	this	thesis	unless	noted	otherwise:	“rational”	refers	to	the	capacity	to	recognize	and	advocate	for	one’s	own,	self-interested	position.	Political	theorists	have	traditionally	link	this	self-interest	to	the	cognitive	faculties	of	reason,	although	more	recent	theories	have	troubled	this	assumption	(e.g.,	Mouffe,	2014).	Irrationality	is	thus	the	(perceived)	                                                                                                                                                  rather	than	reasonable	deliberation.	My	use	is	similar	to	Ruitenberg’s	conception	of	the	term	(personal	correspondence).		10	I	recognize	the	tension	here	between	employing	deconstruction	as	a	method,	and	Jacques	Derrida’s	(1983)	assertion	that	“deconstruction	is	not	a	method	and	cannot	be	transformed	into	one”	(p.	3).	I	instead	follow	Gert	Biesta’s	(2009)	suggestion	that	deconstruction	happens	and	can	be	“witnessed.”	I	have	focused	on	the	spaces	where	rationality	and	emotion	constitute	one	another.	As	such,	witnessing	deconstruction	may	not	be	a	“method”	so	much	as	a	theoretical	framing	of	my	questions.		 14 misuse	of	one’s	cognitive	faculties,	particularly	where	an	actor	is	understood	incapable	of	recognizing	his	own	interests.11		“Reason”	is	closely	related,	being	a	cognitive	faculty	(or	the	cognitive	faculty,	depending	on	one’s	school	of	thought).12	I	use	the	corresponding	term	“reasoned”	to	describe	a	process	or	outcome	relying	on	the	use	of	reason.	“Reasonableness”	has	a	dual	meaning,	depending	on	its	context:	to	call	people	reasonable	means	they	are	open-minded	and	willing	to	change	their	mind	after	taking	others’	positions	into	account.	However,	reasonable	preferences	are	those	deemed	sufficiently	well-reasoned	that	they	can	be	considered	politically	legitimate	(i.e.	“up	for	discussion”).	I	discuss	how	reason/rationality	relates	to	affect/emotion/passion	in	Chapter	Four.	This	focus	on	emotion	and	passion	will	be	key	to	fostering	an	impassioned	consciousness	for	dissent	among	Canadian	students.		In	addition,	because	my	work	is	largely	philosophical,	I	develop	core	conceptual	and	theoretical	frameworks	throughout	my	thesis.	However,	I	outline	here	the	main	theoretical	perspectives	that	inform	the	critical-radical	approach	I	take	in	this	research.	Throughout	this	project,	I	take	the	standpoints	that	agonistic	and	semi-archic	theories	of	democracy	are	highly	valuable	yet	underexplored	conceptualizations	of	democracy	that	can	open	critical	spaces	in	B.C.	and	Ontario’s	curricula.	Semi-archic	theories	recognize	(but	depart	from)	the	contributions	made	by	anarchic	theories	in	that	their	aim	is	to	avoid	reifying	the	existing	political	order	and	structures.	They	therefore	presume	that	people’s	primary	loyalties	are	not	to	the	established	order	of	the	state,	but	to	the	core	                                                11	The	accusation	of	irrationality	in	politics	is	most	often	a	condescending	insult.	12	Contra	rationalist	traditions,	I	treat	affect,	emotion,	and	passion	as	cognitive	faculties	as	well.		 15 democratic	values	that	liberal-democratic	states	are	supposed	to—yet	sometimes	fail	to—uphold.	However,	while	anarchic	theories	of	democracy	concur	that	students	should	not	learn	for	particular	models	or	structures,	semi-archic	theorists	believe	that	a	certain	measure	of	order	is	necessary	to	uphold	core	political	principles.		I	am	drawn	to	semi-archic	theories	because	I	believe	they	best	expose	the	exclusionary	nature	of	the	archic	political	order	of	democracy.	Semi-archic	theory	holds	that	“when	democratic	politics	is	restricted	to	those	who	already	agree	on	the	basic	rules	of	the	political	game,	[…]	the	process	though	which	such	an	agreement	about	basic	rules	is	achieved	is	left	out	of	the	picture,”	resulting	in	the	“displacement”	of	politics	(Biesta,	2011,	p.	143;	Honig,	1993).	More	practically,	semi-archic	theorists	believe	that	schools	should	not	teach	for	specific	conceptions	of	citizenship	or	democracy,	but	prepare	students	to	engage	with	“always	undetermined	political	processes”	(Biesta,	2011,	p.	141).	For	example,	students	should	learn	to	engage	with	formal,	traditional	structures	(such	as	Canada’s	Parliament)	and	in	more	participatory	fora	(such	as	participatory	budgeting	meetings)	alike.	This	perspective	is	well	suited	to	illuminate	whether	deliberative	democracy	is	capable	of	creating	space	where	political	subjects	can	negotiate,	at	once	rationally	and	emotionally,	their	dissenting	interpretations	of	the	core	liberal-democratic	values	of	liberty	and	equality.	To	further	ground	this	theory	in	the	context	of	my	own	research,	civic	education	must	ensure	students	understand	not	only	who	is	excluded	from	the	political	order,	but	how	and	why,	and	what	avenues	may	exist	or	be	created	to	contest	such	exclusions.	Because	semi-archic	theories	of	democracy	have	borrowed	heavily	from	anarchism,	and	because	my	work	focuses	on	dissent,	I	also	include	some	strands		 16 of	anarchic	thought	in	my	work,	particularly	as	espoused	by	Jacques	Rancière	(1999;	2010).	A	related	theoretical	perspective	I	take	is	agonism,	which	holds	that	difference	and	conflict	between	political	subjects	is	inevitable	and	even	desirable	for	democratic	life.	This	does	not	mean	that	differences	justify	inequality;	agonists	maintain	that	conflict	can	be	channeled	productively.13	Particularly	influential	in	my	research	is	Mouffe’s	(1999)	concept	of	agonistic	pluralism,	which	argues	that	the	aim	of	democratic	politics	is	to	transform	antagonism,	through	agonism,	into	political	legitimation	for	excluded	subjects.	A	crucial	portion	of	my	thesis	argues	that	students	should	learn	to	channel	their	dissent	in	ways	that	do	not	isolate	their	fellow	political	subjects	(or	themselves)	from	a	commitment	to	liberty	or	equality.	I	explain	this	position	further	in	my	literature	review.	This	model	is	appropriate	for	my	work	because	it	offers	direct	criticisms	of	deliberative	democracy’s	consensus-based	nature	(particularly,	that	consensus	is	necessarily	provisional	and	hegemonic),	understands	that	political	identities	are	constituted	by	both	the	passionate	and	the	rational,	and	maintains	that	“a	pluralist	democracy	needs	to	make	room	for	dissent”	(Mouffe,	1999,	pp.	755-756).		One	of	Mouffe’s	(2005)	aims	is	to	open	avenues	for	political	dissent	that	do	not	lead	to	political	violence.	I	have	chosen	to	focus	on	non-violent	dissent	throughout	this	thesis	simply	because	I	do	not	believe	I	can	do	justice	to	the	nuance	and	breadth	of	this	                                                13	Throughout	this	thesis,	I	use	term	“productive”	to	refer	to	forms	of	engagement	that	can	feasibly	help	people	achieve	their	political	ends	while	remaining	in	line	with	the	core	ethico-political	principles	of	liberal	democracies	(namely,	liberty	and	equality).	I	recognize	that	“productive”	is	a	slippery	term,	particularly	as	it	relates	to	neoliberal	conceptions	of	responsibility	and	accountability	for	work	produced.	However,	I	have	in	mind	the	more	critical-radical	connotations	of	productivity:	acts	of	engagement	may	be	“productive”	if	they	contribute	something	new	to	the	discursive	field	or	bring	new	identities	into	being	(see	my	discussion	of	subjectification	below).	Note,	however,	that	these	outcomes	are	not	necessary	for	engagement	to	be	deemed	productive.		 17 topic	within	the	scope	of	this	thesis.	I	recognize	that	there	are	many	situations	in	which	violent	dissent—including,	for	example,	property	damage	or	physical	violence—can	be	considered	legitimate,	even	within	liberal	democracies	(see	Fanon,	1961/1963;	Freire,	1970/2000,	pp.	54-56;	Humphrey	&	Stears,	2006;	O’Boyle,	2002;	Young,	2001).	I	recognize,	especially,	that	calls	for	non-violence	have	been	used	as	tools	of	oppression	and	have	vastly	different	implications	for	marginalized	groups	(Fanon,	1961/1963;	Freire,	1970/2000).	However,	this	question	is	highly	contested	and	has	extremely	high	stakes,	and	so	discussions	thereof	require	particular	finesse	in	the	educational	sphere.	In	addition,	it	raises	deep	questions	for	my	project	about	how	one	can	be	violent	and	still	respect	the	core	ethico-political	principles	of	liberty	and	equality,	and	I	do	not	have	the	space	to	address	all	these	questions	here.	Thus,	while	I	focus	on	non-violent	forms	of	dissent,	I	keep	the	door	open	to	the	possibility	of	teaching	about	political	violence	in	secondary	civics	courses.	Together,	these	perspectives	form	my	critical-radical	framework.	They	are	radical	insofar	as	they	challenge	the	deep	archic	and	consensus-oriented	roots	(radix	in	Latin,	which	is	also	the	origin	for	the	term,	“radical”)	of	liberal	democracy.	I	employ	the	radically	democratic	perspectives	of	semi-archism	and	agonism	as	means	to	advocate	for	what	might	be	considered	critical	outcomes.	My	work	is	critical	in	that	it	conceives	of	schools	as	inherently	political	institutions,	one	of	whose	roles	is	to	“identify	and	criticize	systemic	inequities…	by	focusing	on…	critical	democracy”	in	order	to	mitigate	injustices	(Portelli	&	Menashy,	2011).	It	counters	dominant	discourses	about	the	political	order,	which	tend	to	silence	other,	so-called	“irrational”	voices	from		 18 participating	as	equals,	and	encourages	students	to	challenge	these	discourses	by	demanding	their	critical	examinations	of	the	world	around	them.	 Literature	Review	Despite	the	broad	range	of	studies	about	the	strengths	and	limitations	of	deliberative	models	of	democracy,	I	have	limited	this	literature	review	to	four	areas	of	interest	that	I	deem	most	percipient	for	evaluating	the	conceptions	of	democracy	that	currently	underlie	Canadian	civics	curricula.	First,	I	situate	my	project	in	the	body	of	work	that	ties	civic	and	political	engagement	to	civic	education.	Second,	more	procedurally,	I	distinguish	deliberative	models	from	what	I	believe	to	be	the	other	dominant	conceptions	of	democracy,	namely	aggregative	and	post-deliberative	models.	The	last	two	topics	are	tied	together	by	a	common	commitment	to	social	justice	and	political	engagement,	and	I	explore	them	in	greater	detail	in	the	subsequent	chapters	of	this	thesis.	One	strand	examines	consensus	and	dissent	in	civic	education,	and	the	other,	rationality	and	emotion	in	civic	education.	Taken	together,	these	topics	expose	and	critique	invisible	structures	that	weaken	certain	individuals’	or	groups’	political	voices.	In	other	words,	they	are	designed	to	inform	more	critical	and	radical	conceptions	of	democracy	that	might	resonate	with	the	many	students	whose	voices	may	not	have	found	their	way	into	formal	civics	curricula.	Civic	and	Political	Engagement.	Much	of	the	available	research	on	civic	education	links	the	success	of	civics	curricula	to	their	ability	to	improve	youths’	civic	engagement	(Ménard,	2010;	Milner	&	Lewis,	2011;	Straughn	&	Andriot,	2011;	Ten	Dam	et	al.,	2011).	Recent	research	concludes	that	young	Canadians	are	increasingly		 19 disengaged	from	formal	politics,14	although	they	are	becoming	more	active	over	time	in	non-traditional	political	activities15	and	in	civic	life16	more	generally	(Howe,	2010;	Turcotte,	2015).	Still,	there	is	a	small	but	growing	group	of	young	Canadians	who	are	more	disengaged	from	both	civic	and	political	life	than	their	peers	and	elders	alike.	Marginalized	Canadians,	particularly	those	with	low	income	levels	and	especially	with	low	levels	of	formal	education,	are	strongly	overrepresented	in	this	group	(Howe,	2010).		These	self-identified	“political	outsiders”	report	becoming	disenchanted	with	politics	for	the	same	reason:	when	their	everyday	avenues	for	bringing	about	change	consistently	prove	fruitless,	they	conclude	that	their	voices	are	systematically	or	deliberately	ignored	by	the	“insiders”	in	power	(Bastedo	et.	al,	2011).	Similarly,	political	trust	has	declined	in	Canada,	particularly	among	people	with	less	social	or	economic	capital	(Martin,	2012).	Given	these	assertions,	it	appears	that	the	Canadian	political	system,	as	it	currently	exists,	is	failing	to	respond	to	marginalized	youth—not	the	other	way	around.	My	critiques	of	existing	civics	courses	reflect	my	desire	to	open	more	inviting,	and	perhaps	more	effective,	political	channels	for	youth.	I	believe	these	channels	will	be	especially	inviting	for	students	who	are	disengaged	from	or	marginalized	within	Canada’s	existing	democratic	structure.	                                                14	This	includes	actions	such	as	voting,	joining	political	parties,	and	volunteering	in	an	election.	15	This	study	conceives	of	political	engagement	as	participating	in	a	protest	or	demonstration,	expressing	political	views	online,	signing	a	petition,	wearing	a	political	badge	or	T-shirt,	and	supporting	or	opposing	a	political	or	social	cause	(Turcotte,	2015).	16	This	study	conceives	of	civic	engagement	as	volunteering	for	(non-political)	causes	as	well	as	memberships	in	cultural,	educational	or	hobby	organizations	(such	as	theatre	groups,	book	clubs	and	bridge	clubs);	religious-affiliated	groups	(such	as	church	groups	or	choirs);	school	groups,	or	neighbourhood,	civic	or	community	associations	(such	as	PTA,	alumni,	Block	Parents	or	Neighbourhood	Watch);	and	service	clubs	(such	as	Kiwanis,	Knights	of	Columbus	or	the	Legion)	(Ménard,	2010;	Turcotte,	2015).	There	is	often	no	clear	divide	between	distinctly	political	and	apolitical,	civic	engagement.		 20 As	exemplified	by	the	curricula	I	analyze	in	Chapter	Two,	civics	courses	tend	to	encourage	students	to	participate	in	civil	society	according	to	pre-written	“scripts,”	but	do	little	to	teach	students	to	challenge	the	scripts	themselves	(Isin,	2008,	2009).	These	scripts	may	come	in	a	variety	of	forms,	from	civics	curricula	themselves	to	the	parliamentary	Speech	from	the	Throne.	Civic	and	political	scripts	tend	to	dictate	that	desirable	engagement	includes	behaviours	that	maintain	and	enrich	the	existing	civic	order	and	its	conventions,	such	as	informed	voting,	volunteering,	and	even	protest—if	the	protest	is	orderly	and	legal.	However,	these	same	scripts	risk	the	exclusion	of	other	forms	of	non-violent	dissent	that	create	spaces	for	productive	disorder	or	that	are	not	strictly	speaking	legal,	including	civil	disobedience.	Recent	Canadian	examples	of	this	latter	category	include	Brigette	DePape’s	2011	disruption	of	the	Speech	from	the	Throne	with	a	“Stop	Harper”	sign	and	Idle	No	More’s	highway	roadblocks.		While	these	are	clearly	forms	of	engagement	in	the	political	sphere,	recent	literature	on	youth	political	engagement	tends	to	ignore	these	forms	of	dissent	or	subsume	them	under	the	label	of	“protest”	(see,	for	example,	Samara,	2013).	It	is	problematic	to	consider	engagement	simply	as	manifesting	itself	in	the	political	obligations	or	responsibilities	that	citizens	exercise	to	uphold	their	rights.	It	must	also	include	a	sense	of	personal	agency	(Straughn	&	Andriot,	2011),	political	efficacy	(Hahn,	1998),	and,	I	will	argue,	a	critical	disposition.	In	failing	to	recognize	this,	much	of	the	related	literature	fails	to	critique	the	forces	that	“write”	these	scripts	and	thus	legitimize	only	more	established	forms	of	civic	or	political	activity,	which	may	in	turn	delegitimize	other	means	of	political	engagement.	I	am	particularly	interested	in	teaching	the	skills	and	dispositions	necessary	to	engage	in	both	deliberative	and	non-	 21 deliberative	dissent	(terms	I	describe	below),	in	part	because	I	believe	those	who	find	traditional	and	formal	politics	unresponsive	or	anemic	would	benefit	most.	Since	there	are	countless	factors	contributing	to	civic	and	political	engagement,	the	task	of	establishing	direct,	causal	links	between	civic	education	courses	and	youth	engagement	is	a	daunting	one.17	It	is	not	my	aim	to	do	so	here;	my	work	draws	on—yet	departs	from—qualitative	and	quantitative	studies	that	detail	who	is	engaged	in	the	civic	sphere,	to	what	degree,	and	in	which	fields.	My	work	can	instead	be	situated	in	the	more	theoretical	vein	of	research	that	explores	and	critiques	the	frames	through	which	civic	education	prepares	students	for	liberal-democratic	life.18	If	civics	curricula	are	to	be	evaluated	for	their	ability	to	engage	citizens	in	liberal-democratic	life,	it	is	first	necessary	to	critique	their	theoretical	foundations,	which	shape	how	engagement	is	conceived.	Some	scholars	focus	on	the	models	of	citizenship	that	inform	the	courses	(e.g.,	Kennelly,	2009;	Westheimer,	2003).	Instead,	I	focus	here	on	the	curricula’s	democratic	underpinnings.	There	is	very	little	work	investigating	civic	education	that	also	draws	links	between	the	specific	models	of	democracy	that	underpin	formal	civic	education	courses	and	politically	(dis)engaged	Canadians.	Both	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	commitments	to	the	first-order	theory	of	liberal	democracy	provide	insights	into	their	intentions,	but	the	second-order	theories	that	inform	them	reveal	more	for	the	                                                17	Formal	education	can	have	quite	a	significant	influence	on	civic	and	political	engagement	(see	Schugurensky	&	Myers,	2003),	but	civics	courses	cannot	be	understood	as	the	only	(nor	likely	even	the	primary)	factor	influencing	youths’	engagement.	18	This	practically	oriented	theoretical	work	(rightly)	tends	to	be	limited	to	analyses	of	one	or	two	important	features	of	existing	curricula	or	courses.	Many	scholars	in	this	vein	apply	their	frameworks	to	existing	curricula	or	courses,	evaluating	whether	they	include	sufficient	critical	emphasis	on	a	given	perspective	or	skill	(Ferguson,	2011;	Kennelly	&	Llewellyn,	2011;	Orlowski,	2008;	Osborne,	2000;	Peck	et	al.,	2008;	Stitzlein,	2014;	Sykes,	2011).	These	frameworks	relate	broadly	to	topics	like	gender	and	sexual	equality;	the	role	of	affect	or	emotion;	conceptions	of	the	public	sphere;	the	capacity	for	dissent	or	disobedience;	multiculturalism;	and	service	learning,	among	others.		 22 purposes	of	this	study.	As	we	will	see	in	Chapter	Two,	both	curricula	predominantly	(but	not	exclusively)	favour	deliberative	second-order	conceptions	of	democracy.	Aggregative,	Deliberative,	and	Post-Deliberative	Models	of	Democracy.	My	understanding	of	what	constitutes	these	three	models	of	democracy	is	strongly	influenced	by	Iris	Marion	Young’s	(2000)	and	Joshua	Cohen’s	(1997)	frameworks.	I	discuss	these	distinctions	further	in	the	subsequent	chapter,	and	they	are	summarized	in	Appendix	A.	Recall	that,	like	Ruitenberg	(personal	communication),	I	believe	that	these	models	fall	on	a	spectrum	and	are	thus	contiguous.	Aggregative	models	such	as	those	espoused	by	Joseph	Schumpeter	(1976/2003)	and	Anthony	Downs	(1957)	are	centered	on	representative	governance	where	citizens’	primary	democratic	responsibility	is	to	vote.	Unlike	deliberative	models	and	post-deliberative	models,	which	demand	that	participants	justify	and	refine	their	ideas	publicly,	aggregative	models	treat	voters’	preference	formation	as	exogenous	to	the	political	process.			 Traditional	deliberative	models	aim	to	achieve	consensus	in	line	with	the	common	good.	While	deliberative	thinkers	like	Jürgen	Habermas	(1984,	1986,	2001)	and	especially	John	Rawls	(1996,	2001)	grapple	to	develop	pragmatic	forms	of	liberalism	that	are	underpinned	by	thin	conceptions	of	the	common	good,	post-deliberative	thinker	Young	(2000,	2001)	points	out	that	they	still	rely	quite	heavily	on	substantive	ideas	and	values.	Thus,	deliberative	conceptions	of	the	common	good	are	actually	fairly	thick.	In	contrast,	post-deliberative	theories	believe	in	a	much	thinner	conception	of	the	common	good,	one	more	sensitive	to	deep	differences	and	to	the	ways	in	which	power	inequalities	pre-determine	or	influence	outcomes	(Fraser,	2009;	Young,	2001).	All	models	of	deliberative	democracy	trace	their	roots	to	the	Aristotelian		 23 position	that	rational	deliberation	leading	to	majority	consensus	is	the	best	way	to	ensure	legitimacy	of	decision-making	(Wilson,	2011).	Deliberative	models	attempt	to	refine	participants’	reasoning	of	how	best	to	reach	the	common	good	through	universalizing	conceptions	of	reason	(Mouffe,	2005),	whereas	post-deliberative	models	treat	reason	and	reasonableness	as	socio-historically	constructed	phenomena	that	exclude	some	groups	in	practice	(Young,	2001).		Related	to	this,	deliberative	models	favour	calm	and	objective	forms	of	rational	discussion	over	more	passionate	forms	of	discourse.	They	do	not	reject	impassioned	means	of	deliberation	nor	“less	deliberative”	discourse	like	boycotts	or	demonstrations,	but	they	frame	these	as	last	resorts	if	reasoned	and	reasonable	deliberation	should	fail,	or	as	merely	strategies	leading	to	better	deliberation	down	the	road	(Gutmann	&	Thompson,	1996).	Post-deliberative	models	consider	passionate	and	less	deliberative	forms	of	discourse	as	equally	valid	means	of	influencing	decision-making,	and	often	as	more	valid	because	they	question	power	inequalities	and	act	as	inclusive	means	of	public	discourse	(Young,	2001).	In	more	radical	post-deliberative	models,	especially	in	their	deliberative	forms,	passions	are	important	because	they	provide	channels	through	which	to	express	positions	on	political	questions	with	no	rational	solution	(Mouffe,	2014).	Consensus	and	Dissent	in	Civic	Education.	Tomas	Englund	(2011)	favours	a	Habermasian	conception	of	schools	as	weak	public	spheres19	that	encourage	rational	deliberation	to	find	common	ground.	He	argues	this	creation	of	mutual	trust	will	                                                19	Weak	public	spheres	are	arenas	where	“deliberative	practice	consists	exclusively	in	opinion	formation	and	does	not	also	encompass	decision	making,”	whereas	strong	public	spheres	involve	both	(Fraser,	1997,	p.	90).		 24 develop	students’	moral	and	procedural	capacities	to	participate	in	cosmopolitan	politics.	Many	others	also	argue	that	teaching	dissent	is	valuable,	although	they	diverge	on	their	justifications	for	encouraging	it,	and	on	what	education	for	dissent	would	look	like.	Sue	Winton	(2007),	for	example,	examines	southern	Ontario’s	emphasis	on	character	education	in	civics	courses,	analyzing	181	educational	documents’	commitment	to	knowledge,	active	participation,	and	pluralism.	She	concludes	that	the	character	education	policy	is	assimilationist	in	that	it	“promotes	an	undemocratic	notion	of	social	cohesion	and	the	status	quo”	and	that	it	values	only	a	narrow	conception	of	difference	(p.	18).	As	such,	character	education	helps	silence	dissent,	which	Winton	argues	is	a	necessary	component	of	citizenship.	While	certain	forms	of	character	education	are	more	associated	with	communitarian	approaches	(i.e.,	the	fostering	of	character	traits	valued	in	particular	communities),	more	traditional	liberal	deliberative	models	also	emphasize	character	traits	required	for	participation	in	rational	deliberation	(see	Callan,	1997).		 Similarly,	Kathy	Bickmore’s	(2006)	document	analysis	of	three	Canadian	provinces’	civic-political	curricula	determines	that	“many	elements	[…]	could	marginalize	conflict	and	dissenters”	(p.	365).	She	is	particularly	concerned	with	their	marginalization	of	non-conforming	opinions	or	events	and	with	the	lack	of	opportunities	to	practice	conflict	resolution.	Both	works	are	valuable	for	their	criticisms	of	current	Canadian	practice,	though	Bickmore’s	justification	for	dissent	as	a	necessary	component	of	citizenship	is	more	fully	developed.	Llewellyn,	Cook	and	Marina	(2010)	draw	many	of	the	same	conclusions,	arguing	that	civic	education	should		 25 be	driven	by	notions	of	social	justice	in	order	to	“envelope	[sic]	students	in	collective	action”	(p.	1).			 Other	research	arguing	in	favour	of	dissent	or	disobedience	is	more	theoretical.	Nancy	Fraser’s	(1990,	2008,	2009)	work	is	consistent	with	Mouffe’s	and	Rancière’s	in	that	it	questions	how	the	current	order—particularly	its	understanding	of	the	public	sphere—limits	who	can	participate	in	public	life	and	how	the	structure	permits	them	to	do	so.	Like	Rancière,	Fraser	(2009)	focuses	on	the	terms	by	which	those	excluded	can	insert	themselves	into	political	processes	to	make	justice	claims.	She	discusses	how	the	political	grammar	of	the	public	sphere	(by	which	she	means	the	terms	by	which	people	can	make	meaningful	justice	claims	in	public)	precludes	some	people’s	participation.	She	perceives	many	competing	political	grammars	(i.e.	justice	as	representation,	as	identity,	and	as	redistribution)	that	contest	the	grammar	of	the	majority,	so	no	single	grammar	can	be	considered	“normal.”	As	such,	she	emphasizes	that	all	those	subjected	to	a	decision	should	not	only	be	included	in	decision-making	processes,	but	that	these	participants	should	decide	together	which	grammar	should	dictate	claims	(2009).	I	disagree	with	Fraser	that	participants	should	decide	on	a	common	grammar	of	justice	through	the	Habermasian	conception	of	“communicative	rationality”	(p.	42).	Like	Mouffe	(2000),	I	do	not	believe	that	a	common	conception	of	rationality	can	ever	achieve	consensus	on	political	matters.	I	discuss	these	concepts	in	Chapter	Two.			 Stitzlein’s	(2014)	work	is	more	practically	oriented.	She	argues	that	political	dissent	in	the	United	States	should	be	considered	a	positive	right,	and	thus	actively	fostered	in	schools,	by	tracing	its	roots	to	the	United	States’	“Founding	Fathers.”	She	also	argues	that	dissent	is	compatible	with	communitarianism	by	contending	that		 26 progressive-era	Pragmatist	Americans	drew	from	communitarian	thought	to	organize	civil	disobedience.	While	this	book	is	distinctively	American	in	its	focus	on	Pragmatism	and	its	contextualization	of	the	concept	of	dissent,	Stitzlein’s	arguments	about	the	nature	and	importance	of	dissent,	as	well	as	how	to	ensure	its	inclusion	in	curricula,	hold	for	Canada	as	well.	What	is	perhaps	most	provocative	in	Stitzlein’s	work	is	her	assertion	that	dissent	must	channel	anger	only	in	certain	circumstances,	and	that	it	must	be	grounded	in	pragmatist	conceptions	of	hope.		Affect	and	Rationality	in	Civic	Education.	Stitzlein	(2014)	maintains	that	“anger	is	an	important	part	of	sharing	one’s	frustrations	and	rallying	others	around	oneself”	(p.	147),	but	she	cautions	that	anger	cannot	lead	to	narrowed	viewpoints	or	violence.	For	her,	it	is	habitual,	“subversive	and	courageous”	hope	(p.	148)	that	assuages	anger	and	prevents	anarchy	on	the	path	to	a	more	desirable	state	of	affairs.	This	pragmatist	hope	is	realistic	yet	generative	in	that	it	connects	ideals	with	action	toward	particular	ends.	Thus,	she	develops	a	humanities-based	curriculum	for	cultivating	hope	as	a	necessary	component	of	dissent	among	students.	Stitzlein	is	not	the	first	to	suggest	that	emotions	are	a	vital	component	of	dissent,	or	of	political	life.20	Megan	Boler	(1999)	also	explores	how	students	learn	to	express	emotions.	In	Feeling	Power:	Emotions	and	Education,	she	dedicates	Part	2	to	a	discussion	of	“Emotions	as	a	Site	of	Political	Resistance.”	Unlike	Stitzlein,	Boler	examines	emotions	largely	through	a	feminist	lens.	This	means	she	understands	emotions	as	“constructed	psychic	terrain”	(p.	xxi)	that	are	neither	public	nor	private;	that	are	gendered;	and	that	are	controlled	pastorally	by	historically	situated,	socio-cultural	forces.	Particularly	useful	for	work	on	                                                20	Martha	Nussbaum	(1996),	for	example,	argues	for	the	importance	of	compassion	as	a	social	emotion.		 27 citizenship	education	are	her	discussions	of	emotional	learning	and	control	(Chapters	1-3),	of	feminists’	politicization	of	emotion	(Chapter	5),	and	of	the	limits	of	emotion	in	multicultural	education	(Chapter	7).	Ruitenberg	(2009)	adds	to	this	field	by	outlining	how	civic	education	might	enact	Mouffe’s	call	for	an	agonistic	public	sphere.	Among	other	proposals,	she	suggests	that	education	for	political	and	moral	emotions	is	important	not	only	for	the	vibrant	democracy	Mouffe	advocates,	but	for	“understanding	the	cultural	significance	and	significations	of	emotions”	(p.	276).	Like	Boler	and,	to	a	lesser	degree,	Stitzlein,	Ruitenberg	believes	that	anger	is	useful	for	dissent.	She	also	finds	useful	Mouffe’s	distinction	between	moral	and	political	anger,	adding	that	citizens	should	feel	angry	“on	behalf	of	a	political	collective”	(p.	277).	Elsewhere,	Ruitenberg	(2010)	makes	the	case	that	political	identities	are	formed	around	affective	identification	with	a	particular	group	at	the	expense	of	another.	As	such,	students	should	learn	to	recognize	the	significance	of	the	social	imaginary	of	their	own	and	other	social	orders	so	they	can	perceive	those	with	whom	they	disagree	as	adversaries	rather	than	enemies.	Although	anger	and	hope	appear	most	often	in	related	literature	as	necessary	political	emotions,	other	dispositions	such	as	trust,	honesty,	and	courage	also	appear.21		What	is	telling	about	the	recent	literature	on	reason	and	emotion	is	that	female	authors	have	tended	to	champion	justifications	for	emotional	inclusion	in	the	public	sphere,	while	more	traditional,	rationalist	conversations	tend	to	be	male-dominated.	This	trend	hints	at	invisible	gender	processes	within	academia	and	in	dominant	                                                21	Patricia	White	(2010)	provides	a	survey	of	various	works	on	political	emotions	in	making	a	case	for	early	education	of	civic	virtues.		 28 conceptions	of	democracy.	A	curious	exception	to	this	trend	is	that	men	seem	to	dominate	the	literature	on	patriotism	in	education,	itself	an	emotionally	laden	concept	(e.g.,	Blattberg,	2010;	Callan,	1994).	Michalinos	Zembylas’	(2009a,	2009b,	2013)	work	straddles	the	divide	between	these	gendered	areas	of	study.	It	should	be	noted,	however,	that	his	work	owes	much	to	feminist	interventions	into	the	educational	sphere	insofar	as	it	leaves	space	for	emotions	(see	Boler,	1999;	Noddings,	1984).	His	work	elucidates	how	emotions	are	socially	constructed	to	serve	certain	pedagogical	ends,	often	to	reinforce	borders—national	and	imagined—between	students	and	“others.”	In	response,	he	proposes	that	practices	of	critical	citizenship	education	include	analyses	of	how	nation-states	mobilize	affect	and	emotion	(2009a),	teach	against	politics	of	fear	(2009b),	and	teach	for	“critical	emotional	reflexivity”	(2013).	The	latter	of	these	is	particularly	important	for	this	research	and	relates	to	students’	ability	to	reflect	on	how	their	emotions	can	be	mobilized	for	activism.	Alternative	Conceptions	of	Democracy.	I	am	also	sympathetic	to	Rancière’s	radical	and	anarchic	conception	of	democratic	life.	Rancière’s	(1999)	work	is	extremely	valuable	for	its	treatment	of	dissent	/	dissensus	as	the	crux	of	political	interactions.	While	I	believe	he	focuses	too	narrowly	on	politics	through	dissensus	alone	in	this	work,	his	presupposition	of	equality	is	valuable	for	asking	what	new	possibilities	can	emerge	once	people	treat	one	another	as	equals	(1999).	For	him,	it	is	only	through	political	subjectification—the	creation	of	new	subject	identities	that	contest	the	“police	order”—that	people	can	claim	full	recognition	of	their	right	to	equality	as	citizens.	I	share	Biesta’s	(2011)	concern	that	Rancière	leaves	little	space	for	politics	within	the	police	order,	and	I	am	suspicious	of	his	assertion	that	the	“police	order”	cannot	work		 29 toward	establishing	core	political	values	through	institutions.	I	am	more	sympathetic	to	Mouffe’s	semi-archic	understanding	of	how	core	democratic	values	must	be	upheld	via	institutions.	While	Mouffe	recognizes	that	neither	equality	nor	liberty	can	ever	be	fully	realized,	these	values	are	still	a	common	good	toward	which	people	must	work	(1992,	p.	30).		These	disagreements	notwithstanding,	Rancière’s	conception	of	dissensus	is	highly	valuable	since	it	helps	demonstrate	how	conflict	creates	the	conditions	for	a	more	just	social	order	through	the	process	of	political	subjectification.	His	work	also	clarifies	how	conflict	acts	as	a	claim	for	substantive	recognitions	of	people’s	equality.	Rancière’s	nuanced	understanding	of	the	power	of	“policing”	(in	the	sense	of	maintaining	a	current	social	order)	is	valuable	for	showing	that	dissent	is	integral	to	political	life	(for	exposing	the	limitations	of	the	established	order	in	its	ability	to	respect	rights	or	core	ethico-political	values),	and	for	illuminating	creative	ways	for	humans	to	interact	more	inclusively.	As	we	will	see	in	later	chapters,	Rancière’s	(2000/2004)	emphasis	on	art	is	valuable	for	showing	how	creative	works	and	acts	of	dissent	extend	the	field	of	what	can	be	considered	sensible	instead	of	merely	noise.	Michel	Tremblay’s	(1973)	play	Hosanna	is	a	good	example	of	this,	since	it	reveals	how	gay	and	trans*	identities	are	marginalized,	through	straight	policing,	to	exist	only	as	theatrical	representations	of	themselves	since	they	are	not	otherwise	sensible	to	the	majority.	Moreover,	the	play	helps	educate	its	audience	about	queer	struggles	and	thus	itself	extends	the	field	of	what	can	be	considered	sensible	within	the	police	order.	Mouffe’s	(1992)	conference	paper,	“Citizenship	and	Political	Identity,”	also	lays	foundations	for	investigating	alternative	notions	of	political	identities.	Presupposing	the		 30 existence	of	a	fluid,	non-essentialist	political	identity,	Mouffe	argues	that	political	subjects	are	different	but	equivalent.	What	binds	subjects	together	is	a	common	discourse	of	res	publica	(roughly,	“public	affairs”),	which	obligates	citizens	to	work	toward	the	goods	of	universal	liberty	and	equality.	Mouffe’s	implicit	understanding	of	the	public	sphere	presumes	that	any	theoretical	model	of	the	political	subject	must	justify	what	connects	(or	does	not	connect)	citizens.	This	discussion	is	useful	because	it	presents	an	alternative	to	the	essentialist,	deliberative	model	of	the	public	sphere	that	underpins	so	many	existing	civic	education	curricula,	although	Mouffe’s	model	does	not	require	an	archic	society;	rather,	her	work	suggests	a	semi-archic	alternative	to	deliberative	democratic	models.	This	work	is	particularly	important	for	conceiving	of	agents	as	fluid	beings	free	of	the	constraints	that	rationality	and	consensus-orientation	pose	for	their	political	subjectification.	Mouffe’s	later	works	build	on	her	agonistic	conception	of	democracy,	growing	into	an	increasingly	poignant	criticism	of	deliberative	models.	In	The	Democratic	Paradox	(2000),	she	agrees	with	deliberative	democrats	that	aggregative	models	such	as	those	outlined	by	Schumpeter	(1976/2003)	and	Downs	(1957)	are	deeply	flawed	because	they	rely	too	heavily	on	instrumentalism	over	citizens’	active	involvement	in	political	life.	Instead,	she	believes	that	citizens’	commitments	to	democracy	must	be	strengthened	by	multiplying	the	“institutions,	the	discourses,	the	forms	of	life	that	foster	identification	with	democratic	values”	(Mouffe,	2000,	p.	96).	However,	she	is	heavily	suspicious	that	the	deliberative	alternative	of	rational	consensus	can	be	achieved.	These	practices	should	be	cognizant	of	the	antagonism	inherent	to	the	political,		 31 particularly	as	constituted	by	hegemonic	power	relations.	As	such,	politics	should	be	a	practice	of	“domesticating	hostility	and	…	trying	to	defuse	the	potential	antagonism	that	exists	in	human	relations”	by	transforming	political	enemies	(“us”	v.	“them”)	into	adversaries	who	share	a	common	commitment	to	the	core	ethico-political	values	of	liberty	and	equality	(p.	101).	Mouffe	elaborates	further	on	the	dangers	of	post-political	modes	of	being—that	is,	those	that	fail	to	recognize	how	power	constructs	objectivity—in	her	monograph,	On	the	Political	(2005).	For	her,	post-political	relations,	including	rationalist	and	consensus-oriented	models	of	democracy,	are	perilous	because	they	are	based	on	the	illusion	of	objectivity	that	exclude	deviant,	yet	valid	and	deeply	held	views.	Siding	with	Bonnie	Honig	(1993),	Mouffe	(2005)	contends	that	those	with	greater	power	displace	legitimate	political	avenues	and	increase	the	risk	of	more	violent	political	acts,	such	as	terrorism	(p.	80).	For	another	examination	of	semi-archic	models	of	democracy,	Biesta	(2011)	examines	both	Mouffe’s	and	Rancière’s	ideas	to	find	a	middle	path	in	the	“ignorant	citizen.”	He	determines	that	civic	education	should	not	be	underpinned	by	any	particular	notion	of	citizenship	since	students’	subjectification	“is	engendered	through	engagement	in	always	undetermined	political	processes”	(p.	142).	Although	the	notion	of	the	ignorant	citizen	relies	on	a	public	sphere,	Biesta’s	article	critiques	deliberative	models	of	the	rational	public	sphere,	which	assume	that	“the	political/civic	identities	of	those	who	take	part	in	the	deliberation	are	already	shaped	before	the	deliberation	starts”	(p.	147).	In	other	words,	he	suggests	that	students	learn	to	deviate	from	predetermined	“scripts”	that	dictate	acceptable	interactions	with	the	public	sphere.		 32 This	review	of	the	key	literature	on	the	intersection	between	civic	education,	deliberative	democracy,	and	engagement	in	civic	life	reveals	salient	patterns	and	underexplored	trajectories	for	future	research.	First,	it	is	important	to	note	that	there	is	still	heavy	debate	around	the	ability	of	deliberative	models	to	adequately	accommodate	difference	on	equal	and	just	terms.	A	separate	branch	of	literature	reveals	that	the	rational	and	consensus-oriented	nature	of	deliberative	models	may	exclude	certain	worldviews,	particularly	non-masculinist	and	non-European	viewpoints	(Hébert,	2002;	Pateman,	1988;	Walby,	1994).	Much	of	this	research	identifies	similar	exclusions	that	may	contribute	to	students’	disengagement.	These	scholars	often	conclude	that	the	exclusion	of	emotional	responses	to	dissent	has	negative	consequences	for	femininity	and	women’s	issues	in	democracy.	They	tend	to	theorize	passions	as	a	site	of	resistance,	advocating	that	certain	emotions—especially	anger,	courage,	and	hope—can	be	politically	mobilized	in	dissent	(Boler,	1999;	Ruitenberg,	2010;	Sparks,	1997;	Stitzlein,	2014).	This	body	of	work	also	suggests,	contrary	to	Stephen	Elstub’s	(2010)	assertion,	that	deliberative	democracy	has	not	been	capable	of	leveling	inequalities	and	injustices	in	decision-making.	Thus,	students	in	civic	classrooms	may	be	less	inclined	to	engage	with	political	life	that	they	do	not	perceive	is	welcoming	of,	or	relevant	to,	them.			Chapter	Structure	and	Research	Significance	Chapter	Two	uses	qualitative	methodology	to	answer	my	first	set	of	sub-questions,	“To	what	extent	and	in	what	ways	are	the	curricular	documents	of	Ontario	and	B.C.’s	civics	courses	informed	by	deliberative	models	of	democracy?”	and	“Which	features	of	deliberative	models	of	democracy	are	particularly	prominent	in	these		 33 curricular	documents?”	I	employ	qualitative	thematic	analysis	to	determine	which	conception(s)	of	democracy	B.C.	and	Ontario’s	curricula	espouse.	This	lays	the	foundations	for	my	analysis	of	these	models	in	Chapter	Five.	Since	the	available	literature	already	suggests	strongly	that	both	curricula	are	primarily	informed	by	deliberative	models,	this	chapter	also	clarifies	the	relationship	between	the	major	models	of	democracy	and	the	variations	within	them.	Here,	I	situate	both	provinces’	models	within	existing	conceptions	of	deliberative	democracy	based	on	my	thematic	analysis.	Chapter	Three	is	normative	in	nature,	answering	my	second	sub-question,	“Why	should	civics	curricula	teach	for	dissent	in	political	life?”	I	make	the	case	that	civic	education	should	actively	foster	students’	capacity	for,	and	inclination	toward,	political	dissent.	To	make	this	argument,	I	draw	on	an	agonistic	theoretical	perspective	that	emphasizes	the	inevitability	and	desirability	(if	productively	channeled)	of	political	dissent.	Once	this	is	established,	I	contend	that	it	is	not	sufficient	for	schools	to	teach	for	the	negative	right	to	dissent.	Rather,	I	make	the	case	that	civic	education	should	teach	for	the	positive	right	to	engage	in	civic	and	political	dissent.	The	distinction	here	is	that	conceiving	of	political	dissent	as	a	negative	right	only	obligates	schools	to	teach	students	that	certain	forms	of	political	dissent	are	legal	(i.e.,	students	should	be	free	from	interference	in	their	right	to	dissent),	whereas	conceiving	of	it	as	a	positive	right	requires	that	schools	teach	students	that	disagreement	and	dissent	are	actually	desirable	political	activities	for	engaged	citizens	of	a	liberal	democracy.	Considering	dissent	to	be	a	positive	right	obligates	schools	to	teach	when,	how,	and	why	dissent	can	be	appropriate.	While	this	runs	the	risk	of	reproducing	educators’	and	policymakers’		 34 potentially	limited	conceptions	of	what	constitutes	“appropriate”	dissent,	my	semi-archic	perspective	means	that	limitations	will	be	minimalist.	Specifically,	I	argue	for	the	disposition	and	capacity	to	engage	in	forms	of	dissent	that	do	not	isolate	students	or	their	fellow	political	subjects	from	their	commitments	to	core	liberal-democratic	values.	Students	may	also	be	more	inclined	to	engage	in	certain	forms	of	protest	that	are	not	strictly	compatible	with	deliberative	models	of	democracy	(e.g.,	street	theatre,	boycotting,	blocking	highways,	etc.).		 Chapter	Four	also	builds	a	normative	argument,	answering	my	third	sub-question,	“Why	should	civics	curricula	help	foster	students’	affective	and	emotional	responses	to	political	issues?”	It	argues	that	civic	education	should	include	critical	attention	to	the	affective/passionate	demands	of	democratic	citizenship	instead	of	its	cognitive/rational	aspects	alone	in	order	to	engage	more	students	in	civic	and	political	life.	While	I	do	not	make	the	case	that	schools	should	teach	for	any	particular	emotions,	I	draw	on	the	literature	that	does	advocate	teaching	for	specific	emotions.	This	argument	relies	in	part	on	elucidating	how	the	exclusively	rationalist	elements	of	deliberative	models	of	democracy	fail	to	engage	all	students	equally.	In	particular,	I	argue	that	more	impassioned	responses	to	dissent	may	encourage	students’	engagement	by	teaching	them	how	affect	and	emotion	might	be	channeled	productively.	I	also	argue	that	the	emphasis	on	rationality	in	deliberative	models	has	developed	largely	through	European,	masculinist	epistemological	traditions	and	thus	helps	maintain	hegemonic	power	inequalities	in	political	decision-making	processes.	Key	to	this	project	is	a	feminist	focus	on	the	collective	(as	opposed	to	private)	nature	of	passions.		 35 	 Chapter	Five	examines	how	well	B.C.	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula	measure	up	to	the	normative	standards	delineated	in	Chapters	Three	and	Four.	As	such,	it	answers	my	fourth	and	fifth	sub-questions,	“How	do	the	conceptions	of	democracy	that	underpin	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula	open	or	close	spaces	for	affective	and	emotional	responses	to	political	issues?”	and	“How	do	the	conceptions	of	democracy	that	underpin	British	Columbia	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula	open	or	close	spaces	for	dissent?”	In	so	doing,	this	chapter	also	answers	my	primary	research	question,	which	asks	how	the	conceptions	of	democracy	that	inform	civics	curricula	in	Ontario	and	B.C.	might	foster	or	limit	students’	ability	to	engage	in	forms	of	dissent.	As	in	Chapter	One,	I	rely	here	less	on	theoretical	methodologies	and	more	on	thematic	analysis	to	answer	this	question.	I	situate	this	investigation	in	other	scholars’	problematizations	of	deliberative	models	of	democracy	as	they	pertain	to	secondary-level	youths’	civic	and	political	engagement.		This	thesis	contributes	to	a	larger	project	aiming	to	expose	and	evaluate	the	strengths	and	limitations	of	actually	existing	Canadian	civic	education	courses.	Because	it	finds	a	middle	ground	between	purely	theoretical	and	practically	oriented	work	on	civic	education,	other	researchers	might	build	on	the	criticisms	I	elucidate	here	in	other	contexts.	This	project	is	also	important	because	it	demands	critical	questions	about	the	sweeping,	“common	sense”	assumptions	that	inform	how	democracy	in	Canada	has	been	taught.	Investigating	the	roots	of	these	issues	helps	identify	areas	for	improvement	that	may	not	be	addressed	in	more	practically	grounded	research.	To	educate	for	liberal-democratic	life	necessitates	theoretical	underpinnings	that	ensure	all	students’	equality	and	freedoms	are	upheld.			 36 Little	research	in	this	field	employs	agonistic	and	semi-archic	theoretical	lenses,	which	helps	propose	productive	avenues	for	addressing	the	inevitable	occurrence	of	civic	and	political	dissent.	Moreover,	the	critical-radical	nature	of	this	study	promises	to	illuminate,	if	not	suggest	alternatives	to,	exclusionary	frameworks	and	systemic	barriers	in	civic	education.	These	investigations	show	potential	to	empower	students	for	political	engagement	outside	the	demarcated	confines	that	western	philosophies	have	traditionally	reinforced. Together,	these	criticisms	may	help	policymakers	and	researchers	to	rethink	curricular	practices.	By	critiquing	the	very	roots	of	Canada’s	formal	educational	commitments	to	create	a	thicker	liberal	democracy,22	this	thesis	contributes	to	critical	and	radical	work	envisioning	a	more	socially	just	and	equitable	society.	 	                                                22	I	use	the	term	“thick”	here	in	line	with	Fernández	and	Sundström’s	(2011)	distinction	between	thick	and	thin	ethical	dimensions	of	citizenship	education.	Ethical	thickness	refers	to	a	“dense	education	that	trains	young	boys	and	girls	to	become	citizens	of	a	certain	(good)	kind”	and	a	thin	education	as	“non-ethical	education	that	reduces	preparation	for	citizenship	to	morally	neutral	knowledge	of	the	home	country	and	the	world”	(p.	369).		 37 Chapter	Two:	Analyzing	the	Democratic	Underpinnings	of	Two	Civics	Curricula		It	has	been	said	that	democracy	is	the	worst	form	of	government,	except	all	those	other	forms	that	have	been	tried.	(Churchill,	1947,	cc.	208-209)	 			 Before	critically	evaluating	the	models	of	democracy	that	underpin	Ontario	and	British	Columbia’s	(B.C.’s)	civics	courses,	it	is	necessary	to	determine	what	those	models	actually	are.	In	this	chapter,	I	use	qualitative	thematic	analysis	to	determine	which	conception(s)	of	democracy	inform	both	provinces’	civics	curricula.	I	am	particularly	concerned	with	identifying	their	second-order	theories	of	democracy.	Second-order	theories	determine	to	a	greater	extent	than	first-order	or	procedural	conceptions	whether	and	how	actors	might	exercise	dissent.	As	Any	Gutmann	and	Dennis	Thompson	(2009)	explain,		First-order	theories	seek	to	resolve	moral	disagreement	by	demonstrating	that	alternative	theories	and	principles	should	be	rejected.	[Examples	include]	libertarianism,	utilitarianism,	[and]	liberal	egalitarianism…	Second-order	theories	are	about	other	theories	in	the	sense	that	they	provide	ways	of	dealing	with	the	claims	of	conflicting	first-order	theories.	They	make	room	for	continuing	moral	conflict	that	first-order	theories	purport	to	eliminate.	(p.	13,	emphasis	in	original)		In	other	words,	second-order	theories	of	democracy	adjudicate	between	competing	first-order	theories.	Thus,	second-order	theories	must	have	a	procedural	component	in	addition	to	any	substantive	component(s)	they	purport	to	have.	Among	the	most	familiar	second-order	theories	of	democracy	are	aggregative	models,	deliberative		 38 models,	and	what	might	be	referred	to	as	“post-deliberative”	models	(Ruitenberg,	personal	communication).	 	Qualitative	Thematic	Analysis		 The	points	around	which	these	models	converge	or	diverge	(discussed	below)	acted	as	themes	for	my	qualitative	thematic	analysis.	Thematic	analysis	involves	“identifying	and	describing	both	implicit	and	explicit	[themes]	within	a	text”	to	identify	with	precision	how	that	text	treats	an	object	of	study	(Guest,	MacQueen,	&	Namey,	2012,	p.	13).	After	coding	both	texts,	I	supplemented	my	analysis	by	comparing	code	frequencies	and	conducting	Key	Word	in	Context	(KWIC)	analysis	to	determine	which	models	of	democracy	inform	each	curriculum.	The	texts	I	have	analyzed	here	are	the	curricular	documents	from	B.C.	and	Ontario’s	civics	courses.		These	curricula	do	not	explicitly	support	any	particular	model	of	democracy.23	Because	these	courses	cater	to	Grade	10	and	11	students,	and	because	these	are	the	most	fundamental	courses	dealing	explicitly	with	civic	education	in	Ontario’s	and	B.C.’s	respective	secondary	curricula,	their	content	is	intended	to	provide	an	introductory-level	analysis	of	democratic	issues.	For	instance,	they	do	not	explicitly	avow	a	commitment	to	Rawlsian	understandings	of	justice	or	to	Habermasian	ideals	about	deliberative	speech	conditions.	Still,	elements	of	each	democratic	model	are	present	in	both	curricula,	and	I	determine	here	where,	generally,	to	situate	each	curriculum	in	terms	of	these	models.	As	we	will	see,	although	they	do	not	“fit”	perfectly	within	any	                                                23	British	Columbia’s	curriculum	repeatedly	makes	explicit	its	commitment	to	“deliberative	democracy”	but,	since	it	has	not	made	the	same	distinction	I	do	between	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	models,	it	was	not	immediately	obvious	which	(if	either)	of	these	models	it	espouses. 	 39 model,	both	curricula	appear	most	committed	to	deliberative	models.	In	the	subsequent	two	chapters	of	my	thesis,	I	will	outline	two	normative	standards	for	Canadian	civics	curricula,	based	on	critiques	of	deliberative	democracy.	I	will	then	measure	Ontario	and	B.C.’s	civics	curricula	against	these	normative	standards,	and	so	the	purpose	of	the	analysis	in	this	chapter	is	to	make	clear	why	the	normative	standards	I	will	set	out	are	critiques	of	certain	tenets	of	deliberative	models	of	democracy	in	particular.			Documents	The	curricular	documents	I	analyze	here	are	the	primary,	official	documents	(or	“full	curriculum”)	for	each	province’s	civics	course,	and	they	do	not	include	textbooks	or	cross-curricular	resources.	Prior	to	my	analysis,	I	removed	sections	of	each	curriculum	irrelevant	to	this	research,	such	as	the	sections	of	the	Ontario	curriculum	focusing	on	the	Geography	and	History	courses.	This	helps	ensure	that	the	analysis	accurately	reflects	the	aims	of	the	civics	curricula	when	coding	for	keyword	frequencies.	British	Columbia’s	full	curriculum	(2005)	is	called	the	Civic	Studies	11:	Integrated	Resource	Package	2005.	This	document	contains	a	rationale	for	teaching	Civic	Studies	11	in	B.C.	schools,	the	curriculum	goals	and	prescribed	learning	outcomes,	“various	considerations	for	program	delivery,”	classroom	assessment	models,	additional	learning	resources,	and	a	glossary.	These	sections	comprise	roughly	38,000	words	total.	Since	2005,	it	has	not	been	revised.	The	document	is	generally	prescriptive;	while	there	are	many	sections	of	the	text	that	ask	students	to	reflect	on	which	courses	of	action	are	favourable	to	them,	the	choices	tend	to	be	circumscribed	by	a	wide,	albeit	limited,	list	of	options.	The	document	is	“open”	about	its	democratic	underpinning,	explicitly	avowing		 40 a	commitment	to	deliberative	democracy.	However,	this	is	not	particularly	helpful	for	our	purposes	because	I	make	the	distinction	between	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	models,	whereas	many	theorists	subsume	the	latter	under	“deliberative”	as	well.24	The	curriculum	has	multiple	authors,	but	is	generally	coherent	in	that	its	prescriptions	do	not	contradict	one	another.	Ontario’s	“full	curriculum”	(2013)	for	Civics	and	Citizenship	is	grouped	together	with	its	Grade	9	and	10	Geography	and	History	courses	in	a	document	called	The	Ontario	Curriculum,	Grades	9	and	10:	Canadian	and	World	Studies,	2013.25	Insofar	as	is	relevant	for	my	purposes,	this	document	contains	the	rationale	for	the	Canadian	and	World	Studies	courses,	the	introduction	to	the	Civics	10	Course,	information	about	the	three	“strands”	into	which	Civics	10	is	divided,	an	overview	of	the	“Concepts	of	Political	Thinking,”	an	overview	of	the	“Political	Inquiry	Process,”	the	learning	outcomes	of	each	strand,	an	appendix	about	the	“Citizenship	Education	Framework,”	and	a	glossary.	These	sections	are	roughly	32,000	words.	Aside	from	being	about	6,000	words	shorter	than	the	B.C.	curriculum,	this	version	of	Ontario	curriculum	is	also	more	recent.	Ontario	initially	implemented	a	civics	course	in	2000,	revising	it	in	2005	and	again	in	2013.	Ontario’s	is	also	more	opaque	about	its	commitment	to	a	particular	model	of	democracy	so	this	information	must	be	inferred	from	an	analysis	of	various	themes.	Moreover,	it	is	                                                24	The	critical,	but	less	radical	post-deliberative	theorists	such	as	Young	(1996)	and	Fraser	(2008)	might	be	characterized	as	deliberative,	but	more	radical	post-deliberative	theorists	like	Mouffe	(2014)	are	virtually	never	described	as	deliberative.	Despite	these	similarities,	I	make	the	deliberative/post-deliberative	distinction	to	highlight	the	salient	differences	between	deliberative	theorists	and	the	less	radical	post-deliberative	theorists.	See	my	explanation	for	this	in	Chapter	One. 25	Although	Ontario’s	Canadian	and	World	Studies	curriculum	includes	both	Geography	and	History	courses	in	addition	to	Civics,	I	have	removed	both	of	the	former	from	this	analysis.	For	example,	even	when	the	sections	of	the	curriculum	dealing	exclusively	with	the	History	course	discuss	a	protest	movement	or	public	deliberation,	this	will	not	find	its	way	into	my	analysis. 	 41 less	prescriptive	than	B.C.’s	in	its	learning	outcomes,	focusing	on	skill	development	and	asking	questions	of	students	to	encourage	discussion.	However,	the	types	of	questions	asked	and	examples	of	potential	responses	provide	insight	into	its	more	prescriptive	elements.	Like	B.C.,	the	document	has	multiple	authors	and	contributors	but	its	message	remains	consistent	throughout.		Conceptual	Framework:	Major	Models	of	Democracy	A	breakdown	of	the	distinctions	between	the	models	for	which	I	am	coding	can	be	found	in	Appendix	A.	All	deliberative	models	have	in	common	that	they	legitimize	decision-making	by	demanding	that	free	and	equal	opponents	justify	and	refine	their	positions	publicly,	through	deliberation.	This	is	the	most	important	way	that	deliberative	models	differ	from	aggregative	models.	Most	aggregative	models	aim	to	enshrine	the	majority	position	and	view	the	process	of	forming	preferences	as	extraneous	to	the	political	process.	On	the	other	hand,	deliberative	models	value	deliberation	as	endogenous	to	democratic	procedure	because	it	helps	substantively	refine	preferences.	All	democratic	models,	including	aggregative	ones,	see	discussion	as	important,	even	if	only	to	pool	information.	But	aggregative	models	do	not	share	the	deliberative-democratic	belief	in	the	importance	of	forming	a	“public”	conducive	to	deliberation,	where	participants	aim	to	modify	others’	positions.		Since	deliberative	theories	aim	to	create	a	political	public	whose	interests	and	preferences	are	subject	to	change,	discussions	of	inclusion	figure	prominently.	This	does	not	mean	that	all	participants’	input	will	be	reflected	in	the	final	outcome	of	decision-making,	but	deliberation	must	ensure	that	all	participants	can	participate	equally.		 42 Political	equality	here	refers	to	participants’	equal	opportunity	to	provide	input	and	criticize	other	positions,	all	with	freedom	from	domination	(Young,	2000).26	Post-deliberative	models	take	this	a	step	further,	aiming	for	what	Fraser	(2008)	calls	“participatory	parity.”	This	means	that	deliberations	are	not	only	formally	inclusive	of	all	with	freedom	from	domination,	but	also	that	social,	economic,	and	cultural	barriers	to	participation	are	minimized.	Moreover,	the	scope	of	deliberation	should	ensure	that	all	who	are	subjected	to	a	policy	are	included,	even	across	state	boundaries	(Fraser,	2009).	Aggregative	views	also	favour	inclusion	insofar	as	they	believe	all	participants	should	have	an	equal	voice	(expressed	most	importantly	as	a	vote).	Some	aggregative	models	guarantee	a	degree	of	political	equality	in	that	they	recognize	that	collective	choices	may	depend	on	discriminatory	views.	Still,	there	must	be	heavy	evidence	of	discrimination	in	order	to	override	unjust	outcomes	(Cohen,	1997,	pp.	411-412).	For	Schumpeter	(1976/2003),	a	proponent	of	aggregative	models,	the	“masses”	lack	the	sense	of	volition	and	responsibility	required	for	political	life,	so	ruling	is	best	left	to	their	elected	delegates	(p.	263).	Citizens’	primary	responsibility	is	thus	to	vote	for	their	own	interests.	Because	deliberative	democrats	contest	these	pessimistic	assertions,	a	key	feature	of	deliberative	models	is	reasonableness	(or	open-mindedness)	rather	than	simply	discussion	to	pool	options.	Aggregative	models	see	people’s	preferences	as	rational	because	they	consider	adults	to	be	“the	best	judges	and	most	vigilant	defenders	of	their	own	interests”	(Cohen,	1997,	p.	411).	Rationality,	in	this	context,	refers	to	actors’	ability	to	recognize	what	their	own	interests	are	and	to	                                                26	I	maintain	that	most	deliberative	models	have	a	fairly	narrow,	formal	interpretation	of	political	equality,	but	that	post-deliberative	models	have	a	more	substantive	view	that	better	resembles	equity.		 43 advocate	for	them	publicly.	While	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	theorists	define	rationality	this	way	as	well,	we	will	see	that	post-deliberative	theorists	recognize	the	broadest	range	of	mental	faculties	as	“rational”	and	“reasoned”	(compared	to	the	more	aggregative	and	deliberative	tendency	to	dismiss	some	as	irrational).		Aggregative	theorists	such	as	Downs	(1957)	argue	that	people’s	rational	self-interest	can	and	should	dictate	political	outcomes	since	this	is	highly	efficient.	In	contrast,	reason	giving	(as	opposed	to	more	impassioned	or	embodied	forms	of	persuasion)	is	the	most	common	and	legitimate	form	of	justification	according	to	most	deliberative	theorists.	Still,	deliberative	models	assume	that	the	citizenry	is	at	least	minimally	rational	in	order	to	take	part	in	this	deliberative	process	(Minch,	2009,	p.	161).	For	most	deliberative	theorists,	reasonableness	is	linked	to	rationality	because	the	former	reflects	actors’	ability	to	recognize	that	other	participants	are	advocating	rationally	for	their	respective	interests	(Habermas,	1984).	The	deliberative	demand	that	all	participants	be	reasonable	is	inseparable	from	its	aim	of	enshrining	or	creating	consensus	in	decision-making	(Habermas,	1984,	p.	19).	As	Young	(2000)	puts	it,	“while	actually	reaching	consensus	is	not	a	requirement	of	deliberative	reason,	participants	in	discussion	must	be	aiming	to	reach	agreement	to	enter	the	discussion	at	all”	(p.	24).	Moreover,	deliberative	theorists	debate	amongst	themselves	whether	(i)	deliberation	can	only	occur	amongst	those	who	already	agree	on	common	principles,	(ii)	the	aim	of	deliberation	should	be	to	enshrine	agreement,	or	(iii)	both	(pp.	40-41).	Post-deliberative	models,	on	the	other	hand,	are	more	sceptical	about	the	possibility	and	desirability	of	consensus.		 44 This	consensus-oriented	nature	is	virtually	always	tied	to	theorists’	faith	in	reasonable	participants	and	well-enshrined	procedures	to	bring	about	agreement	or	compromise	by	presenting	rational,	mutually	acceptable	reasons.	Rawls	(1995,	2001),	for	instance,	suggests	that	participants	in	deliberation	appeal	to	a	common,	primary	conception	of	political	justice—accessible	in	the	“original	position”	through	reason—to	adjudicate	between	competing	“comprehensive	doctrines”	(religions,	ideologies,	etc.).	In	so	doing,	deliberation	will	ideally	result	in	increasingly	reasoned	outcomes	and	thus	bring	participants	closer	to	total	consensus,	rather	than	result	in	an	impasse.		Habermas	(2001;	2003,	p.	248)	aims	to	achieve	consensus	on	moral	rightness	through	communicative	rationality,	which	he	views	as	teleological	and	which	is	mobilized	in	pursuit	of	truth.	In	this	model,	participants	are	presumed	to	be	reasonable	insofar	as	their	positions	reflect	their	own	rational	capacities,	and	if	they	recognize	opponents’	positions	as	reasoned,	as	well	(1998).	Gutmann	and	Thompson	(1996)	highlight	the	principle	of	reciprocity,27	which	“regulate[s]	public	reason”	by	creating	the	“terms	in	which	citizens	justify	…	their	claims”	(p.	55).	These	terms	are	procedurally	fair,	they	claim,	because	they	are	created	through	deliberation.	Post-deliberative	thinkers,	on	the	other	hand,	are	critical	of	the	idea	that	either	“reason”	or	“reasonableness”	will	always	lead	to	consensus,	particularly	since	they	do	not	believe	in	the	universality	of	reason.		Post-deliberative	thinker	Young	(1996)	is	careful	to	note	that	policies	should	be	decided	in	a	rational	way	but	that	western	institutions	have	constructed	“universal”	                                                27	Alongside	the	other	key	principles	of	accountability,	publicity,	basic	liberty,	basic	opportunity,	and	fair	opportunity.		 45 reason	in	culturally	specific	ways	(pp.	121-123).	Western	philosophies	have	monopolized	reason,	drawing	on	Eurocentric	and	masculinist	conceptions	of	neutrality,	objectivity,	and	calm	communication	as	the	only	paths	to	truth	(Hébert,	2002;	Pateman,	1988;	Pinto	&	Portelli,	2012;	Walby,	1994).	Mouffe	(2000)	contests	deliberative	conceptions	of	universal	reason	more	strongly,	explaining	that	the	ideal,	neutral	conditions	necessary	for	fair	deliberation	on	rational	grounds	can	never	exist.	Moreover,	she	proposes	(2014)	that	there	are	simply	some	questions	to	which	there	is	no	rational	solution	acceptable	to	all,	and	passions	inevitably	play	a	role	in	the	articulation	of	preferences.	While	Gutmann	and	Thompson	(2004)	argue	that	agreement	is	usually	desirable	because	it	leads	to	stability,	they	also	recognize	that	expecting	consensus	on	every	issue	is	unrealistic	in	pluralist	societies.	Thus,	they	acknowledge	that	deliberation’s	requirement	for	mutually	accessible	reason-giving	is	not	morally	neutral,	and	that	“no	standard	of	reasoning	could	be”	(1996,	p.	51).	Accordingly,	the	standards	of	reciprocal	public	reason	can	sometimes	be	rejected	justifiably.	Dissenting	minorities	can	overcome	the	moral	biases	favouring	status	quo	reasoning	through	deliberative	strategies	by	“economizing	on	moral	disagreements”	(2004,	p.	28).	Economizing	is	deliberative	and	consensus-oriented	since	it	entails	an	effort	to	find	mutually	acceptable	moral	ground	through	deliberation.	Where	economizing	is	not	possible	and	unfair	deliberation	results	in	egregious,	unjust	outcomes	(e.g.,	racial	segregation),	these	outcomes	should	be	challenged	even	if	this	polarization	disrupts	the	political	stability	of	convergence	(p.	55).	Non-violent	civil	disobedience	can,	then,	be	acceptable	if	it	results	in	improved	deliberation	(Smith,	2013,	p.	10).	Notwithstanding,	deliberative		 46 disagreements	are	provisional,	but	should	never	be	so	deep	as	to	disrupt	the	shared	grounds	of	justice	or	the	good	of	democracy	(p.	8).	In	response,	Young	(1996)	explains	how	notions	of	the	common	good,	or	even	what	constitutes	common	ground,	are	often	predicated	on	assumptions	about	what	the	most	powerful	deem	reasonable.	Thus,	most	post-deliberative	thinkers	view	any	thick	conception	of	the	common	good	as	exclusionary.	The	idea	of	the	common	good	is	thus	not	conducive	to	the	transformation	of	participants’	opinions	(as	deliberation	aims	to	do).	Young	proposes	instead	a	minimalist	conception	of	unity,	where	participants	reframe	difference	as	a	resource	rather	than	something	to	be	overcome,	and	where	they	grasp	that	they	cannot	understand	one	another’s	experiences	fully	enough	to	reduce	them	to	the	common	good	(1996,	pp.	126-127).	Similarly,	Fraser’s	(2008)	post-deliberative	work	on	abnormal	justice	explains	how	the	presumption	that	all	participants	share	a	common	understanding	of	“normal”	justice	jeopardizes	the	more	fundamental	principle	of	participatory	parity	within	deliberation	(p.	406).	For	her,	“justice	discourse	is	normal	just	as	long	as	public	dissent	from	and	disobedience	to	its	constitutive	assumptions	remain	contained”	(p.	394).	She	perceives	dissent	and	civil	disobedience	as	means	for	the	subaltern	to	voice	counter-hegemonic	concerns	authoritatively	and	to	reveal	the	moral	outrage	of	contemporary	injustices.	Mouffe’s	(2000)	concern	that	there	can	be	no	universal	conception	of	the	common	good	is	premised	on	her	assertion	that	there	is	no	universal	conception	of	reason.	The	rationally	oriented	nature	of	contemporary	politics,	she	argues,	masks	the	hegemonic	nature	of	political	terrain.	However,	those	with	fundamentally	different	positions	still	share	a	common	ground,	albeit	a	thin	one:	both	recognize	the	legitimacy		 47 of	their	adversaries’	positions	as	long	as	they	are	grounded	in	interpretations	of	the	core	ethico-political	principles	of	liberal	democracies,	namely	liberty	and	equality.	Her	focus,	then,	is	not	on	displacing	adversaries	within	the	same	hegemonic	terrain,	but	rather	on	advancing	the	possibility	for	counter-hegemonic	alternatives.	As	such,	it	is	necessary	to	recognize	the	temporary	and	provisional	nature	of	any	political	compromise,	which	remains	open	to	contestation.	Moreover,	it	is	important	to	provide	channels	for	the	expression	of	political	passions	for	issues	on	which	there	is	no	rational	solution.		Habermas	attempts	to	avoid	these	pitfalls	in	his	deliberative	theory.	He	recognizes	that	consensus	may	be	difficult	to	achieve	on	all	“epistemic”	questions	in	modern	pluralist	societies	(Habermas,	1996,	pp.	394-414),	so	he	aims	to	bring	about	the	“ideal	speech	conditions”	under	which	rational	discussion	can	bring	about	maximal	sincerity,	rightness,	and	truth	(1971/2001).	Where	these	are	not	possible,	weaker	forms	of	communicative	action	or	even	rational,	strategic	action	may	be	preferable	(Bohman	&	Rehg,	2014,	3.1,	par.	12).	Similarly,	Gutmann	and	Thompson	(2004)	emphasize	that	deliberation	is	procedurally	fair	because	deliberative	strategies	can	encompass	many	forms	of	discourse,	including	passionate	rhetoric—not	just	calm	logic	and	rational	argumentation	(pp.	50-51).	Even	“non-deliberative”	or	“direct	action”	forms	(e.g.,	sit-ins	and	anti-war	demonstrations)	often	lead	to	more	deliberation	(p.	51).	In	their	view,	all	decisions	must	be	deliberated	at	some	point	to	be	legitimate	(p.	56).	In	short,	Gutmann	and	Thompson	defend	deliberative	democracy	by	pointing	out	its	“self-correcting	capacity…	and	malleable	and	expansive	character	[which,	they	claim,]	allows	it	to	respond	to	all	such	criticisms”	(Minch,	2009,	p.	215).			 48 Post-deliberative	thinkers	throw	into	doubt	that	ideal	speech	conditions	can	ever	be	met,	particularly	since	they	perceive	Habermasian	(1998)	presumptions	of	communication	or	language	free	of	domination	as	unrealistic	(Kohn,	2000).	Communication,	for	them,	can	never	be	as	neutral,	transparent,	or	universal	as	Habermas	or	Gutmann	and	Thompson	envision.	Young	(1996,	2000)	asserts	that	the	deliberative	emphasis	on	critical	argumentation	is	culturally	biased	and	thus	leads	to	exclusions	in	practice.	In	particular,	she	is	weary	of	traditional	deliberative	assumptions	that	deliberation	brackets	inequalities	for	communicative	purposes	(p.	122).	As	such,	power	re-enters	the	deliberative	arena	unevenly	through	supposedly	neutral	forms	of	communication.	She	suggests	that	democracies	should	make	space	for	other	forms	of	communication	that	are	not	grounded	in	dialogical	reason,	such	as	greeting,	rhetoric,	and	storytelling.		However,	Young	(2001)	also	notes	that	these	deliberative	forms	may	harbour	a	mechanic	of	exclusion	because	participants	are	likely	to	have	different	group-based	cultures	with	varying	levels	of	symbolic	or	material	privilege.	Thus,	many	activists	eschew	deliberation	in	favour	of	non-deliberative	discourse	(e.g.,	street	theatre,	boycotts,	picketing,	etc.).	Violence,	according	to	Young,	is	not	acceptable	(except	in	self-defence),	but	minor	property	damage	is	“not	to	be	condemned”	(p.	674),	especially	if	this	damage	advances	fairer	terms	for	deliberation	(Humphrey	&	Stears,	2006).	Unlike	in	Gutmann	and	Thompson’s	theory,	these	non-deliberative	forms	do	not	aim	only	for	fairer	deliberation;	they	offer	“reasonable	appeals	to	justice”	while	also	exposing	structural	and	hegemonic	inequalities	(Young,	2001,	p.	688).	 	 49 Method	and	Theme	Selection	Because	I	am	conducting	a	top-down,	“theoretical”	style	of	qualitative	thematic	analysis	(Braun	&	Clarke,	2006,	p.	84),	I	have	identified	themes	based	on	the	theoretical	discrepancies	between	the	democratic	models	above,	rather	than	drawing	them	inductively	from	the	texts	themselves.	Thus,	I	selected	terms	related	to	each	theme	before	coding	began,	and	added	additional,	related	terms	as	they	appeared	in	the	text	during	the	coding	phase.	The	first	theme	I	code	for	is	preference	formation	(see	Appendix	B),	which	identifies	how	the	curricula	presume	people	form	preferences,	opinions,	and	positions	on	civic	issues.	The	most	effective	way	of	determining	how	curricula	attend	to	preference	formation	is	by	identifying	the	types	of	skills	and	capacities	students	are	meant	to	develop.	Coding	for	frequency	is	helpful	here	because	repetition	reflects	the	importance	of	skills	students	are	meant	to	learn.	This	theme	take	into	account	the	skills	and	attitudes	students	are	meant	to	learn	to	determine	whether	preference	formation	is	treated	as	endogenous	or	exogenous	to	the	political	process,	and	how	preferences	are	shared	with	others	(if	at	all).		The	second	theme	is	rationality	and	passion	(see	Appendix	C).	This	theme	is	best	measured	by	coding	for	both	frequency	and	Key	Word	In	Context	(KWIC)	analysis,	since	references	to	its	sub-themes	will	likely	be	present	in	both	curricula	but	treated	differently	depending	on	the	democratic	models	that	inform	them.	References	to	this	theme	in	the	curricula	are	scant,	and	as	such	are	of	limited	use	for	this	project.	Still,	the	absences	of	rationality	and	passion	in	certain	spaces	are	telling.	The	sub-theme	of	rationality	can	best	be	determined	by	examining	whether	the	standards	of	rationality		 50 and	reason	are	presented	as	objective	and	universalizing;	agreed	upon	within	communities;	or	entirely	constructed	based	on	power	relations.	It	thus	considers	whether	or	not	refined	reasoning	will	always	lead	to	better	solutions.	Furthermore,	it	asks	whether	passions	are	given	space	in	curricula,	whether	these	passions	are	mobilized	politically,	and	whether	they	are	connected	to	political	partisanship.	Closely	related	is	the	third	theme	for	which	I	code,	means	of	participation	and	communication.	This	theme	identifies	how	participants	are	expected	to	present	ideas	in	order	for	them	to	be	considered	valid	and	legitimate.	The	various	models	place	differing	emphases	on	the	various	means	of	civic	participation	(such	as	voting,	deliberation,	or	demonstrations).	Depending	on	the	model,	communication	might	be	considered	valid	if	it	is	deemed	rational	(argumentation,	formal	language,	clear	flow	of	logic,	etc.)	or	if	it	is	relatively	impassioned	(rhetoric,	storytelling,	embodied	communication,	etc.).	This	theme	can	also	be	measured	by	determining	the	types	of	skills	and	dispositions	the	curricula	aim	to	inculcate.	Moreover,	it	addresses	the	degree	to	which	curricula	support	participation	in	view	of	countering	the	current	hegemony.	Determining	whether	curricula	discuss	civil	disobedience	or	violent	forms	of	participation	is	particularly	helpful	for	distinguishing	between	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	models.	The	fourth	theme	is	inclusion	and	political	equality	(see	Appendix	D),	which	identifies	who	is	to	be	included	in	the	democratic	process,	to	what	degree,	and	whether	political	equality	is	formal	(all	participants	are	presumed	to	have	equal	voice	in	process)	or	substantive	(measures	must	be	put	in	place	to	even	out	power	imbalances	and	hegemonic	forces).	This	theme	is	designed	to	capture	the	degree	to	which	the		 51 curricula	espouse	commitments	to	formal	or	substantive	equality	of	political	participation	so	references	to	this	theme	are	scattered	across	the	curricula.	It	is	expected	that	all	models	(particularly	in	a	Canadian	context)	discuss	equality	and	inclusion	but	that	the	way	they	frame	these	issues	may	differ	heavily	(with	aggregative	models	on	the	one	hand,	and	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	models	in	the	other).	As	such,	code	frequency	must	be	coupled	with	KWIC.	Finally,	this	theme	considers	whether	difference	and	disagreement	are	treated	as	resources,	facts	of	political	life,	or	problems	to	be	solved.		The	fifth	and	final	theme,	consensus	and	conflict	(see	Appendix	E),	determines	the	standards	by	which	decisions	are	considered	legitimate.	The	democratic	models	diverge	on	whether	standards	such	as	majority	rule,	consensus,	and	compromise	ensure	legitimacy.	This	theme	also	considers	the	thickness	of	each	model’s	notion	of	the	common	good.	I	use	the	term	“thick”	here	in	line	with	Fernández	and	Sundström’s	(2011)	distinction	between	thick	and	thin	ethical	dimensions	of	citizenship	education.	Ethical	thickness	refers	to	a	“dense	education	that	trains	[students]	to	become	citizens	of	a	certain	(good)	kind”	and	a	thin	education	as	“non-ethical	education	that	reduces	preparation	for	citizenship	to	morally	neutral	knowledge	of	the	home	country	and	the	world”	(p.	369).	This	theme	is	perhaps	the	most	helpful	for	differentiating	between	democratic	models	because	the	models	have	clearly	distinct	positions	on	this	topic.	It	is	best	determined	by	coding	for	terms	related	to	majority	rule,	consensus,	conflict,	and	the	common	good,	which	are	scattered	throughout	the	documents.	While	measuring	code	frequency	is	important	here,	supplementing	this	with	KWIC	analysis	is	necessary	to	understand	how	consensus	and	conflict	are	treated.			 52 Discussion	Theme	one:	Preference	formation	(see	Appendix	B).	There	is	insufficient	information	to	determine	precisely	which	of	the	three	models	of	democracy	either	B.C.	or	Ontario’s	curriculum	espouses	in	terms	of	political	preference	formation.	The	available	information	does,	however,	provide	strong	evidence	that	the	curricula	go	beyond	aggregative	conceptions	of	democracy.	This	is	because	both	curricula	emphasize	the	sorts	of	skills,	capacities,	and	dispositions	that	would	only	be	important	if	preference	formation	were	considered	endogenous	to	the	political	process.	Said	differently,	the	curricula	presume	that	citizens	will	form,	justify,	and	refine	political	positions	and	opinions	through	public28	discourse	and	emphasize	that	citizens	should	be	open	to	modifying	or	changing	their	views	based	on	others’	input.		Both	curricula	aim	to	inculcate	certain	skills	necessary	in	all	liberal	democracies,	in	their	aggregative	as	well	as	their	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	forms.	For	example,	they	teach	the	skills	necessary	to	be	critically	informed	and	critically	literate,	including	the	ability	to	research,	assess,	evaluate,	judge,	detect	bias	in,	and	reflect	upon	politically	relevant	information	from	a	variety	of	sources.	These	skills	are	largely	helpful	for	developing	one’s	own	preferences.	However,	the	curricula	are	also	highly	concerned	with	students’	ability	to	communicate,	argue,29	consider	and	reconsider,	debate,	defend,30	justify,	refine,	and	reassess	their	own	positions,	as	well	as	listen	actively	and	                                                28	It	is	unclear	if	the	curricula	conceive	of	the	“public	sphere”	as	a	singular	entity,	or	as	many	public	spheres. 29	B.C.’s	curriculum	references	the	capacity	to	argue	60	times,	compared	to	Ontario’s	2	times. 30	B.C.’s	curriculum	references	the	capacity	to	defend	views	18	times,	while	Ontario’s	never	does. 	 53 respond	to	others’	views.	This	public-mindedness	is	characteristic	of	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	models	alike.		Nevertheless,	it	is	difficult	to	specify	further	which	of	these	models	the	curricula	espouse	insofar	as	they	are	concerned	with	the	theme	of	preference	formation.	Deliberative	models	and	post-deliberative	models	do	not	differ	significantly	from	one	another	in	this	regard.	Because	the	curricula	do	not	provide	much	insight	on	this	distinction,	other	themes	are	better	suited	to	help	situate	the	curricula’s	democratic	positions.	Theme	two:	Rationality	and	passion	(see	Appendix	C).	As	we	have	seen	in	the	preceding	theme,	the	curricula	emphasize	predominantly	rational	skills	and	capacities.	However,	as	with	the	previous	theme,	it	is	difficult	to	determine	precisely	how	the	curricula	treat	reason	and	passion	and	thus	which	model	of	democracy	they	best	align	with.	This	is	unsurprising;	secondary-level	curricula	should	not	be	expected	to	differentiate	explicitly	between	sophisticated	political	theories	of	reason	or	passion.	Similarly,	neither	curriculum	discusses	whether	nor	how	reason	and	rationality	are	constructed,	which	is	a	key	difference	between	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	models.		Nevertheless,	both	provinces’	treatments	of	emotion	and	passion	are	easier	to	identify,	and	both	are	highly	consistent	with	deliberative	thinking.	For	a	list	of	the	frequencies	of	rationality	and	passion	terms,	see	Appendix	C.	The	front	matter	of	both	curricula	(Ontario’s	Preface	and	B.C.’s	Prescribed	Learning	Outcomes)	frame	affect	and	emotion	as	important	parts	of	students’	overall	well-being	and	personal	growth.	Only	B.C.	gives	these	issues	substantial	consideration	in	the	main	body	of	the	text.	The	B.C.		 54 curriculum	(2005)	is	concerned	with	the	“affective	domain”	of	learning,	which	“concerns	attitudes,	beliefs,	and	the	spectrum	of	values	and	value	systems”	(p.	21).	For	our	purposes,	the	attitudes	that	B.C.	attempts	to	inculcate	most	closely	match	what	I	call	civic	and	political	dispositions	(see	Chapter	Four). These include narrow	conceptions	of	“ethical	behaviour”	(including	honesty,	fairness,	and	reliability),	along	with	open-mindedness,	respect	for	diversity,	empathy,	questioning	and	promoting	discussion,	tolerance	for	ambiguity,	collective	responsibility,	remaining	informed	over	time,	advocating	productively	for	their	own	and	others’	rights,	reconciling	conflicting	rights	and	responsibilities	(e.g.,	individual	vs.	group),	ongoing	re-examination	and	assessment	of	own	beliefs,	and	willingness	to	participate	(p.	34).	These	attitudes	are	notably	deliberative	in	their	focus	since	they	place	particular	emphasis	on	the	reasonable	reassessment	of	civic	positions.	The	B.C.	glossary	defines	“beliefs	and	values”	as	“those	viewpoints	and	perspectives	that	guide	decision	making	(e.g.,	fairness,	reliability,	logic,	empathy,	objectivity,	honesty,	respectfulness,	expediency,	economy,	public	perception,	collective	responsibility,	tolerance	for	ambiguity,	willingness	to	participate,	altruism,	efficacy)”	(p.	169).	Values	and	beliefs,	so	conceived,	are	dissimilar	to	the	sorts	of	values	and	beliefs	that	inform	Mouffe’s	post-deliberative	conception	of	partisan	political	identities.	They	emphasize	instead	procedural	virtues	over	libidinal	attachments	to	particular	signifiers	and	identities.	Moreover,	the	specific	examples	of	values	provided	in	this	glossary	definition	(especially	objectivity	and	collective	responsibility)	are	consistent	with	relatively	communitarian	conceptions	of	democratic	processes	and	are	thus	more	consistent	with	deliberative	models.			 55 Despite	these	commitments,	B.C.’s	commitment	to	the	passionate	demands	of	civic	education	is	questionable.	In	terms	of	more	specific	passions,	the	main	text	of	B.C.’s	curriculum	refers	to	emotions	only	as	part	of	an	evaluation	scheme	for	students’	mock	trial,	in	which	participants	are	graded	based	on	how	realistic	their	emotional	responses	to	the	issue	are	(British	Columbia	Ministry	of	Education,	2005,	p.	110).	Moreover,	when	emotion	and	affect	are	referenced	in	the	front	matter,	they	are	framed	as	symptoms	of	unease.	One	instance	warns	educators	about	passions	when	discussing	current	events:	“Be	aware	that	such	issues	may	involve	highly	emotional	debates,”	the	text	advises.	Another	reads:	“Discussion	related	to	some	of	the	topics	in	Civic	Studies	11	may	evoke	an	emotional	response	from	individual	students.	Inform	an	administrator	or	counsellor	when	any	concern	arises”	(p.	15).	Aside	from	the	more	communitarian	(or	at	least,	traditional	liberal)	beliefs	and	values	mentioned	above,	passions	are	never	framed	as	desirable	phenomena	or	as	more	equitable	channels	of	expression	for	subaltern	groups,	as	post-deliberative	theorists	would	maintain.	I	explain	why	this	is	important	in	Chapter	Four.	Ontario’s	(2013)	main	text	references	a	few,	select	passions	it	considers	healthy	for	civic	life,	each	related	to	the	common	good.	These	are	limited	to	caring,	dignity,	empathy,	and	trust.	Aside	from	these	specific	passions	and	affective	dispositions,	the	curriculum’s	avowed	commitment	to	emotional	health	has	no	backing	in	the	main	text.	For	example,	Ontario	makes	only	one	reference	in	its	glossary	to	emotion:	“Social	welfare	programs”	are	defined	as	“government	programs	designed	to	help	meet	the	personal,	economic,	emotional,	and/or	physical	needs	of	citizens”	(p.	182,	emphasis	added).	Furthermore,	its	focus	on	emotional	development	is	predicated	on	the	narrow		 56 development	of	passion	as	empathy	and	motivation,	and	more	tellingly	for	our	purposes,	as	“emotional	regulation”	(p.	4).	The	lack	of	attention	to	passion	in	the	curriculum	overall	is	indicative	of	deliberative	tendencies	in	Ontario’s	curriculum.		However,	Ontario	is	quite	concerned	with	the	development	of	students’	identities.	Identity	formation	is	framed	as	a	passionate	phenomenon	insofar	as	it	involves	inculcating	a	sense	of	connectedness	with	others	in	students’	local,	national,	and	global	communities.	Identities	are	also	treated	here	as	personal	yet	fluid.	Overall,	identity	formation	is	understood	as	synonymous	with	developing	a	“sense”	of	being	part	of	a	community.	This	tends	toward,	but	does	not	fit	neatly	within	post-deliberative	conceptions	of	civic	and	political	identity.	The	attention	to	passions	in	identity	formation	is	a	very	post-deliberative	concern,	but	Ontario’s	curriculum	is	more	concerned	with	a	sense	of	shared	belonging	than	a	sense	of	shared	antagonisms.	In	this	regard,	it	appears	as	though	identity	is	a	political	tool	insofar	as	it	aims	to	help	students	develop	a	sense	of	empathy	for,	and	understanding	of	others’	political	perspectives	and	ethics.	Identity	formation	thus	appears	to	be	a	consensus-oriented	process,	one	that	is	predominantly	passionate.	Therefore,	this	straddles	the	boundary	between	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	models	of	democracy.	Theme	three:	Means	of	communication	and	participation.		 Means	of	communication.	Both	curricula	favour	predominantly	rational	modes	of	communication	over	embodied	and	passionate	ones,	a	characteristic	consistent	with	deliberative	models,	and	formal	schooling	in	Canada	more	generally.	The	wide	variety	of	proposed	means	of	civic	participation	(see	below)	underline	this	further.	The	sorts	of	communication	skills	the	curricula	espouse	are	largely	limited	to	cognitive	and		 57 metacognitive	skills,	including	argumentation,	debate,	and	the	logical	articulation	of	a	rationale	to	support	“reasoned	decisions.”	More	embodied	and	passionate	forms	of	communication	as	espoused	by	post-deliberative	models,	which	might	include	storytelling,	rhetoric,	and	artwork,	are	seldom	mentioned.	Both	curricula	do,	however,	suggest	that	more	impassioned	forms	of	participation	are	helpful.		 Means	of	participation.	Both	curricula	clearly	extend	beyond	aggregative	means	of	civic	participation	in	this	regard.	Rather	than	emphasizing	discussion	and	voting,	both	present	a	wide	variety	of	means	of	publicly	presenting,	justifying,	and	refining	positions.	These	include	entering	into	debate	or	deliberation;	undertaking	litigation;	blogging;	making	posters,	artwork,	or	a	webpage;	buying	fair	trade;	getting	involved	with	city	council;	taking	part	in	a	lobby	group,	political	party,	or	interest	group;	petitioning	or	making	a	presentation	to	a	commission	of	inquiry	or	town	hall	meeting;	communicating	with	an	ombudsperson;	and	engaging	in	civil	disobedience	or	non-violent	protest.	Both	curricula	place	equal	emphasis	on	a	variety	of	inventive	forms	of	civic	engagement,	in	both	reasoned	and	impassioned	forms.	But	particularly	important	is	how	each	province	treats	embodied	forms,	including	art,	protest,	and	civil	disobedience,	since	these	are	the	topics	that	best	differentiate	between	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	models.			 Both	curricula	note	that	artwork,	multimedia,	and	visual	methods	of	communicating	work	can	be	valuable.	However,	B.C.’s	references	to	these	forms	of	communication	are	far	overshadowed	by	more	rational	or	logical	forms	of	communication	such	as	argumentation	and	debate.	Its	curriculum	refers	to	argumentation	30	times,	negotiation	17	times,	and	debate	38	times.	By	comparison,	it		 58 makes	only	nine	references	to	visual	artwork	(including	making	posters	or	collages,	taking	photographs,	etc.)	and	none	to	song,	dance,	rhetoric,	or	storytelling.	Ontario	has	less	disparity	between	purportedly	logical	and	impassioned	forms	of	communication.	It	makes	two	references	to	argumentation,	one	to	negotiation,	and	four	to	debate,	while	making	three	references	to	visual	artwork,	three	to	music,	one	to	gestures,	and	none	to	storytelling	or	dance.31	These	factors	suggest	that	Ontario	leaves	space	for	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	views	of	communication	alike.	The	provinces’	treatment	of	protest	and	civil	disobedience	require	a	separate	analysis	because	these	forms	of	participation	are	uniquely	situated	to	reveal	the	curricula’s	democratic	underpinnings.	While	both	curricula	tend	to	treat	protest	and	civil	disobedience	as	negative	rights	(see	Chapter	Three),	this	is	particularly	true	for	Ontario.	This	is	in	part	because	there	is	more	emphasis	on	developing	individual,	deliberative	skills	such	as	listening	and	debating	than	capacities	related	to	“direct	action,”	such	as	group	organization	or	creative	expression.	This	is	not	to	say	that	the	curricula	condemn	protest;	rather,	they	tend	to	treat	protest	as	one	among	many	options	and	imply	that	it	can	be	effective	in	certain	circumstances.			 Ontario’s	curriculum	mentions	demonstrations	once	and	non-violent	protest	four	times,	each	instance	occurring	as	an	example	in	a	list	of	various	forms	of	acceptable	civic	action.	The	curriculum	frames	protest	as	consistent	with	“fundamental	beliefs	and	values	associated	with	democratic	citizenship	in	Canada”	(2013,	pp.	152)	and	notes	that	                                                31	The	lower	frequency	of	references	to	communication	skills	in	Ontario’s	curriculum	is	partially	explained	by	its	shorter	length	(roughly	32,000	words	compared	to	B.C.’s	38,000)	and	because	a	far	greater	proportion	of	Ontario’s	text	is	dedicated	to	examples	of	prescribed	learning	outcomes	rather	than	explanations	of	what	those	outcomes	mean	(as	B.C.’s	does). 	 59 it	can	contribute	to	the	common	good	if	it	“heighten[s]	awareness	of	an	issue	and	pressure	for	change”	(pp.	156).	It	never	mentions	violent	protest,	civil	disobedience,	or	law	breaking	as	civic	action.	Since	it	treats	protest	as	secondary	to	deliberative	means	of	participation	and	as	a	means	of	contributing	to—rather	than	disrupting—the	common	good,	the	Ontario	curriculum	espouses	a	deliberative	conception	of	appropriate	means	of	participation.	The	B.C.	curriculum,	on	the	other	hand,	references	non-violent	protest	11	times,	civil	disobedience	four	times,	demonstrations	five	times,	and	direct	action	four	times,	including	a	case	study	of	the	Clayoquot	Sound	protests	in	1993	(2005,	p.	95).	There	are	no	mentions	of	violent	protest.	References	to	these	ideas	frame	them	as	viable	means	of	“civic	discourse”	or	“civic	action,”	with	the	exception	of	civil	disobedience.	The	curriculum	takes	a	non-prescriptive	stance	on	the	matter	of	civil	disobedience,	asking	students	to	evaluate	their	moral	beliefs	and	the	power	relations	involved	in	the	decision	to	engage	in	these	forms	of	action.	It	does	not	address	directly	any	strategies	for	protest	or	describe	what	protest	might	look	like	aside	from	mass	demonstrations,	but	it	does	not	close	space	for	these	discussions	either.	Even	if	it	treats	protest	and	civil	disobedience	as	secondary	to	more	deliberative	forms	of	civic	action,	the	B.C.	curriculum	appears	most	consistent	with	a	post-deliberative	stance	on	appropriate	means	of	civic	participation.	Theme	four:	Inclusion	and	political	equality	(see	Appendix	D).	Both	provinces	avow	their	commitment	to	ensuring	that	all	members	of	society	are	equally	included	in	civic	life,	regardless	of	their	backgrounds,	gender,	or	customs.	The	curricula	also	emphasize	the	variety	of	different	perspectives,	interests,	and	views	that	exist	in	a		 60 democracy.	The	high	frequency	of	terms	related	to	inclusion	and	diversity	is	evident	in	Table	4.	This	is	unsurprising,	considering	Canada	a	liberal	democracy	and	an	officially	multicultural	country,	but	also	since	all	models	of	democracy	attend	to	these	differences	(albeit	to	different	degrees).	More	important	for	our	purposes,	then,	is	the	form	that	this	political	equality	takes,	namely	whether	it	is	formal	or	substantive.		Both	curricula	go	beyond	aggregative	conceptions’	formal	understanding	of	political	equality,	since	the	documents	attend	to	the	power	differences	that	permit	some	people	to	influence	civic	change	with	greater	effectiveness	than	others.	One	of	B.C.’s	prescribed	learning	outcomes	(PLOs),	for	instance,	ensures	that	students	are	able	to	“evaluate	the	relative	abilities	of	individuals,	governments,	and	non-governmental	organizations	to	effect	civic	change	in	Canada	and	the	world”	(2005,	pp.	38).	Similarly,	one	of	the	Ontario	curriculum’s	core	“elements”	is	for	students	to	learn	about	“power	and	systems	within	society.”	Both	documents	also	put	considerable	emphasis	on	recognizing	political	inequalities	and,	in	many	cases,	questioning	why	these	inequalities	exist	and	how	to	address	them.	Since	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	models	are	both	concerned	with	mitigating	political	inequality,	this	is	unhelpful	as	a	point	of	distinction.	Moreover,	where	the	curricula	discuss	how	to	contest	uneven	power	relations,	the	prompts	for	teachers	and	suggested	questions	for	students	do	not	circumscribe	answers	to	any	given	framework,	so	they	reveal	little	about	the	underlying	models	of	democracy.		Furthermore,	neither	curriculum	is	explicitly	concerned	with	modifying	underlying	social	structures	to	better	attend	to	power	inequalities	as	post-deliberative	models	might.	Nor	do	they	explicitly	constrain	discussions	to	mitigating	inequalities		 61 through	existing	deliberative	structures.	It	is	tempting	to	glean	from	the	information	above	how	discussion	depth	or	content	might	be	influenced	by	the	content	elsewhere	in	the	curriculum.	For	example,	we	might	decide	that	Ontario’s	emphasis	on	deliberative	means	of	communication	and	participation	would	drive	student	discussion	toward	deliberative	solutions	to	political	inequality.	But	this	would	infer	too	much	from	the	little	information	available.	In	short,	analysis	of	this	theme	leads	to	unsatisfactory	conclusions	due	to	the	non-prescriptive	nature	of	discussions	on	political	inequality.	Theme	five:	Consensus	and	conflict	(see	Appendix	E).	This	theme	is	the	most	helpful	for	differentiating	between	democratic	models	because	the	models	have	clearly	distinct	positions	on	the	topics	of	majority	rule,	consensus,	disagreement,	and	the	common	good.	By	coding	for	frequency	of	“agreement”	and	“disagreement”	terms,	coupled	with	KWIC	analysis,	it	is	possible	to	determine	how	consensus-oriented	each	text	is.	This	can	be	supplemented	with	a	discussion	of	the	common	good,	as	espoused	by	each	text.	Both	documents	frame	consensus	and	conflict	largely	in	deliberative	terms,	but	approach	the	topic	in	different	ways.	British	Columbia’s	is	more	highly	consensus-oriented,	while	Ontario’s	is	underpinned	by	a	thicker	conception	of	the	common	good.	Agreement	terms	include	agree/agreement/mutually	agreeable,	collaborate/collaboration/collaborative,	cooperate/co-operate,	consensus,	constructive,	common,	common	good,	compromise,	fundamental	activities/fundamental	principles,	mediate,	problem-solving/problem	solvers/solve	problems,	reconcile/reconciliation,	resolution/resolve/solution,	similar/similarities,	and	social	cohesion.	Disagreement	terms	include	conflict,	controversy/controversial,	disagree/disagreement,	dispute,	different/differences,	dissent,	oppose/opposition,	and	problem.	Note	that	there	are	14		 62 terms	included	in	the	“agreement”	search	and	only	seven	in	the	“disagreement”	search,	and	that	this	disparity	reflects	all	relevant	terms	in	both	documents.	Note	also	that,	among	the	agreement	terms,	many	presume	some	values	or	principles	must	be	shared	between	participants	prior	to	civic	engagement	(e.g.,	collaborate,	fundamental	activities/principles),	but	that	the	majority	presume	that	the	goal	of	civic	engagement	should	be	to	reflect	the	common	good	(e.g.,	compromise,	reconcile).	The	“thinness”	or	“thickness”	of	a	curriculum’s	references	to	the	common	good	can	indicate	particularly	strongly	which	model	of	democracy	it	is	informed	by.	The	B.C.	curriculum’s	references	to	the	common	good,	while	fairly	numerous,	are	nevertheless	too	vague	to	indicate	much	about	its	underpinning	democratic	model.	Every	reference	to	the	common	good	is	concerned	with	“balancing	the	common	good	with	the	rights	of	individuals,”	but	the	curriculum	does	not	elaborate	on	what	the	common	good	might	be	short	of	identifying	this	balance	as	a	“fundamental	principle	of	democracy.”		Coding	for	frequency	of	“agreement”	terms	in	B.C.’s	curriculum	results	in	112	instances,	with	67	instances	of	“disagreement”	terms.	Of	the	disagreement	terms,	KWIC	analysis	reveals	that	15	are	directly	accompanied	by	a	term	related	to	mitigating	or	resolving	disagreements	(“conflict	resolution,”	“dispute	resolution,”	“solve	problems”).	The	rest	are	largely	vague,	standalone	terms.	By	contrast,	none	of	the	agreement	terms	were	accompanied	by	a	term	that	problematizes	agreement	(e.g.,	the	provisional	or	hegemonic	nature	of	compromise),	as	would	post-deliberative	models.	Thus,	the	text	often	treats	disagreement	as	though	it	is	a	problem	to	be	solved,	as	deliberative	models	might.	It	should	also	be	noted	that,	while	KWIC	analysis	reveals	that	disagreement	is	treated	as	a	fact	of	life,	it	also	reveals	that	the	curriculum	is	fairly	concerned	with		 63 inculcating	the	skills	to	disagree	respectfully	or	resolve	them	procedurally	(e.g.,	through	litigation).		Furthermore,	on	three	occasions,	B.C.’s	curriculum	suggests	that	students	attempt	to	“reach	a	consensus”	amongst	themselves	on	the	ethics	of	curtailing	immigration	(p.	84)	and	international	aid	(p.	106),	and	on	the	effectiveness	of	civil	disobedience	(p.	102).	These	activities	accompany	mock	trials	and	debates	as	the	only	conceptualizations	of	the	classroom	as	a	“strong”	public	sphere	(a	public	with	decision-making	power),	and	all	aim	to	achieve	consensus	or	at	least	compromise.	Thus,	the	greater	number	of	agreement	than	disagreement	terms	and	the	higher	frequency	of	agreement	than	disagreement	terms	in	the	text	are	consistent	in	their	reflection	of	the	B.C.	curriculum	as	consensus	oriented.	Together,	these	factors	indicate	that	B.C.’s	curriculum	is	largely	deliberative	in	terms	of	how	it	treats	consensus	and	conflict.	The	Ontario	curriculum	is	also	quite	strongly	consensus	oriented.	Frequency	coding	results	in	61	agreement	terms	and	39	disagreement	terms.	This	discrepancy	initially	appears	small	until	one	takes	into	account	that	31	out	of	39	references	to	disagreement	terms	are	for	the	word	“different”	(or	“difference”).	KWIC	analysis	suggests	that	the	curriculum	emphasizes	recognizing,	respecting	and	appreciating	differences,	and	ensuring	that	different	people’s	voices	are	equally	valued.	These	references	do	not	suggest	any	link	between	difference	and	deep	disagreement	or	conflict,	nor	do	they	treat	difference	as	a	resource.	Rather,	difference	appears	to	be	merely	a	fact	of	civic	life	that,	in	its	most	challenging	iteration,	“influence[s	people’s]	position	and	actions”	(2013,	p.	14).	This	makes	a	stronger	case	for	the	curriculum’s	espousal	of	a	deliberative	perspective.			 64 Ontario’s	curriculum	is	also	highly	concerned	with	the	common	good.	Its	glossary	defines	the	common	good	as		the	well-being	of	all	or	most	of	the	people	in	a	community	or	society	as	well	as	of	components	of	the	natural	environment.	Factors	such	as	peace,	justice,	economic	fairness,	and	respect	for	human	rights	and	the	environment	contribute	to	the	common	good.	(p.	173)	In	addition,	the	curriculum	explicitly	identifies	a	substantial	number	of	values,	habits	of	mind,	and	character	traits32	that	“healthy”	citizens	share	and	which	are	“associated	with	responsible	citizenship”	(p.	47).	These	include	active	and	informed	citizenship,	anti-discrimination,	caring,	collaboration,	cooperation,	dignity,	equity,	fairness,	inclusiveness,	open-mindedness,	respect,	responsibility,	and	trust.			 The	curriculum	also	attempts	to	inculcate	the	desire	for	equity,	freedom,	and	social	cohesion.	In	isolation,	none	of	these	characteristics	of	healthy	citizens	or	the	common	good	is	defined	prescriptively	(e.g.,	good	citizens	espouse	a	utilitarian	notion	of	economic	fairness).	However,	the	effort	to	inculcate	a	large	number	of	character	traits—all	of	which	have	in	common	that	they	contribute	to	the	stability	of	a	thick	public	sphere—hints	at	a	communitarian	conception	of	citizenship	often	associated	with	traditional	deliberative	conceptions	of	democracy	(Abowitz	&	Harnish,	2006).		                                                32	This	is	not	as	strong	a	focus	on	character	education	as	Winton	(2006)	identifies,	but	I	agree	with	Deirdre	Kelly	(personal	communication)	that	character	education	is	on	the	rise	in	Canadian	schools. 	 65 Conclusion	Both	B.C.	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula	are	most	clearly	aligned	with	deliberative	models	of	democracy	as	compared	with	aggregative	or	post-deliberative	models,	even	if	there	are	some	tendencies	toward	the	latter.	Still,	both	curricula	are	sufficiently	non-prescriptive	as	to	leave	teachers	the	space	to	interpret	the	curriculum	through	either	a	deliberative	or	post-deliberative	lens	(see	Orlowski,	2008).33	However,	I	am	more	concerned	with	reading	the	curricular	documents	as	texts	than	with	how	they	will	be	interpreted	in	the	classroom.	For	my	purposes	in	this	study,	it	is	enough	to	focus	on	how	the	texts	frame	the	various	tenets	of	the	democratic	models,	and	what	they	leave	out.		 The	curricula’s	treatment	of	citizens’	preference	formation	indicates	only	that	they	move	beyond	aggregative	models,	focusing	on	the	skills	and	values	aiming	to	prepare	students	to	refine	and	justify	positions	in	public.	Deliberative	and	post-deliberative	models	do	not	differ	significantly	enough	in	this	regard	to	narrow	down	our	analysis	of	this	point	further.	Similarly,	neither	text	frames	reason	or	rationality	in	a	way	that	might	indicate	which	democratic	model	informs	them	(e.g.,	by	determining	whether	reason	is	universal	or	constructed).	However,	they	tend	to	emphasize	reason	and	rationality	over	passion,	especially	in	the	sorts	of	skills	students	are	meant	to	develop.	While	this	is	the	case	for	both	curricula,	it	is	especially	true	for	B.C.’s.	Furthermore,	where	B.C.	does	address	passion,	emotion,	or	affect,	these	qualities	are	commonly	framed	as	impediments	to	civic	discourse.	This	indicates	a	more	deliberative	approach	to	reason	and	passion.	                                                33	Orlowski’s	argument	is	about	the	B.C.	(2005)	curriculum,	but	I	believe	it	applies	to	Ontario’s	as	well. 	 66 	 The	means	of	communication	and	forms	of	participation	that	inform	each	curriculum	dismantle	any	notions	that	the	curricula	espouse	aggregative	conceptions.	In	B.C.,	rational	forms	of	communication	overshadow	more	impassioned	forms,	which	suggests	a	stronger	deliberative	than	post-deliberative	focus.	Ontario,	however,	gives	relatively	equal	space	to	rational	and	impassioned	forms	of	communication.	This	is	not	particularly	salient	given	the	general	scarcity	of	references	to	communication	throughout	Ontario’s	curriculum,	but	hints	at	more	balanced	thinking.	Still,	both	texts	present	a	wide	range	of	possible	forms	of	civic	engagement	and	participation,	so	they	are	certainly	open	to	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	interpretations	of	civic	engagement	and	communication.	This	is	especially	true	for	B.C.’s	discussion	of	protest	and	civil	disobedience.	Whereas	Ontario’s	curriculum	seems	to	endorse	protest	and	non-violent	disobedience	only	as	secondary	means	of	participation	(and,	it	seems,	only	where	these	activities	would	advance	deliberation),	B.C.	addresses	these	forms	of	engagement	as	effective	for	disrupting	the	status	quo.	Thus,	it	appears	more	consistent	with	post-deliberative	models	when	it	comes	to	citizens’	means	and	forms	of	engagement.	This	is	not	to	say	B.C.	takes	a	radically	post-deliberative	outlook	on	civil	disobedience,	but	it	provides	plenty	of	space	for	educators	to	treat	related	topics	critically.		 Because	each	model	of	democracy	I	discuss	here	is	avows	a	commitment	to	inclusion	and	mitigating	power	inequalities	without	suggesting	means	of	achieving	these	ends,	and	because	the	texts	do	not	provide	in-depth	insights	on	the	specifics	of	what	inequality	looks	like,	there	is	too	little	information	to	determine	which	model	of	democracy	underpins	each	province’s	commitment	to	political	equality.	There	is	plenty		 67 of	space	for	educators	to	interpret	these	questions	as	they	wish,	with	formal	inclusion	and	equality	for	all	citizens	at	minimum,	and	fuller	substantive	equality	for	all	at	best.			 While	unhelpful	for	the	purposes	of	this	particular	study,	this	limitation	holds	an	important	implication	for	future	discourse	analyses	of	course	content:	it	reveals	the	difficulty	of	selecting	themes	from	the	top-down,	that	is,	mapping	pre-existing	models	onto	existing	documents	to	see	which	model	the	texts	best	fit.	Researchers	must	be	aware	that	pre-selected	criteria	may	not	fit	their	data	perfectly.	Thus,	researchers	must	revisit	and	modify	their	themes	to	fit	the	context	of	their	documents	of	study	where	possible,	as	I	have	done,	and	as	is	common	for	qualitative	thematic	analytic	studies.	Moreover,	where	revisiting	themes	is	not	possible	(i.e.,	if	the	themes	in	question	are	immutable),	researchers	should	be	prepared	to	accept	the	limits	of	data	and	work	within	them	rather	than	draw	potentially	inaccurate	conclusions.		 Finally,	references	to	the	common	good	and	a	stronger	focus	on	“agreement”	than	“disagreement”	terms	in	each	curriculum,	including	explicit	references	to	consensus	building	in	each,	indicate	that	these	curricula	are	highly	consensus	oriented.	While	B.C.	focuses	more	on	consensus	building	and	compromise	than	on	thick	notions	of	the	common	good,	the	reverse	is	true	for	Ontario.	Consensus-orientation	is	a	principal	characteristic	of	deliberative	models,	whereas	aggregative	models	are	more	concerned	with	majority	rule.	Post-deliberative	models	either	eschew	political	consensus	or	are	suspicious	of	its	hegemonic	nature.		 All	in	all,	both	curricula	are	fairly	well	aligned	with	deliberative	models	of	democracy.	They	show	virtually	no	preference	for	aggregative	models,	but	both	leave	a	considerable	space	for	post-deliberative	interpretations	with	some	imagination.	Now		 68 that	it	is	clear	which	models	of	democracy	B.C.	and	Ontario’s	curricula	espouse,	we	can	proceed	to	the	development	of	normative	standards	by	which	it	is	possible	to	evaluate	civics	curricula	more	generally.	Both	curricula’s	rationally-	and	consensus-oriented	natures	are	particularly	demonstrative	of	their	deliberative	underpinnings,	and	I	focus	my	critiques	on	these	two	characteristics	in	the	subsequent	chapters	in	order	to	develop	my	normative,	evaluative	standards. 		 69 Chapter	Three:	Educating	for	Political	Dissent	as	a	Positive	Right		 There	was	no	telling	what	people	might	find	out	when	they	felt	free	to	ask	whatever	questions	they	wanted	to…	The	only	people	who	were	allowed	to	ask	questions	were	those	who	never	did.	Soon	the	only	people	attending	were	those	who	never	asked	questions,	and	the	sessions	were	ended	altogether	since…	it	was	neither	possible	nor	necessary	to	educate	people	who	never	questioned	anything.	 —Joseph	Heller,	Catch	22				 We	have	seen	in	the	previous	chapter	that	Ontario	and	British	Columbia’s	curricula	expect	good	citizens	to	engage	directly	with	their	civic	and	political	environments	to	enact	change	(British	Columbia,	2005;	Ontario,	2013).	However,	the	same	texts	largely	conceive	of	engagement	in	democratic	life	through	deliberative	means	(in	the	more	traditional	liberal	and	communitarian	sense	I	have	outlined);	they	tend	to	treat	non-deliberative	dissent	as	a	means	of	engagement	when	deliberation	fails.	This	may	leave	students	underprepared	to	engage	in	certain	forms	of	dissent	if	and	when	they	perceive	injustices	in	civic	life.	In	this	chapter,	I	discuss	how	a	narrow	focus	on	traditionally	deliberative	forms	of	engagement	may	preclude	certain	avenues	of	political	dissent,	and	I	accordingly	make	a	case	for	the	value	of	teaching	political	dissent	as	a	positive	right.		 I	begin	by	clarifying	what	exactly	I	mean	by	“political	dissent.”	I	then	elaborate	on	my	critical-radical,	agonistic	theoretical	perspective.	Next,	I	elucidate	the	limitations	of	teaching	students	that	dissent	is	a	negative	right—which,	I	contend,	is	how	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula	presently	conceive	of	it,	due	in	part	to	their	deliberative	underpinnings.	The	subsequent	section	explains	how	teaching	dissent	as	a	positive		 70 right	may	increase	youth	political	engagement	and	cultivate	more	vibrant	democratic	practices.	I	finish	by	discussing	the	risks	of	teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right,	and	how	curricula	can	help	to	reduce	these	risks.	Note	that	I	am	not	advocating	for	curricula	that	teach	students	to	dissent;	rather,	I	argue	that	construing	dissent	as	a	positive	right	can	encourage	students	to	consider	when,	why,	and	how	dissent	can	be	productive.			Defining	Political	Dissent		 I	define	dissent	here	as	disagreement	with	an	established	norm	in	which	the	actor	endeavours	to	counter,	disrupt,	or	dismantle	it.	This	definition	is	inseparable	from	my	critical-radical,	semi-archic	theoretical	perspective,	which	I	explain	in	Chapter	One.	For	Engin	Isin	(2008,	2009),	citizens	only	claim	full	rights	by	dissenting	from	the	established	order.	He	considers	the	habits	and	behaviours	that	uphold	the	order	of	these	scripts	to	be	“actions,”	while	“acts”	of	citizenship	purposefully	disrupt	the	established	order.	Isin	claims	that	acts	of	citizenship	create	“activist”	citizens	who	work	creatively	to	re-write	pre-established	“scripts”	of	behaviour,	whereas	those	who	subscribe	to	the	scripts	of	orderly	citizenship	are	merely	“active”	citizens.	He	believes	a	person	must	break	the	habitus	of	citizenship	in	order	to	become	an	activist	citizen.			 Contra	Isin,	my	aim	is	to	normalize	a	consciousness	for	acts	of	dissent	as	a	vital	part	of	democratic	citizenship.	I	draw	on	Sherry	Ortner’s	(2005)	conception	of	subjectivity	as	a	historical	and	cultural	consciousness	that	constrains	“how	people	(try	to)	act	on	the	world	even	as	they	are	acted	upon”	(p.	34).	Consciousness	is	concerned	with	choices	and	life	trajectories	as	they	are	shaped	at	an	individual	and	collective	level	by	both	past	and	present	factors.	At	the	individual,	psychological	level,	it	presumes	that		 71 actors	are	“knowing	subjects”	who	have	some	insight	about	the	factors	that	shape	and	constrain	their	life	choices	(even	if	most	of	these	factors	are	unconscious).	I	prefer	to	discuss	subjectivity	and	dissent	in	terms	of	consciousness	rather	than	other	terms	such	as	the	Bourdieusian	habitus,	since	consciousness	leaves	space	to	theorize	critical	acts	as	sensible	courses	of	action.	Habitus,	instead,	emphasizes	instead	the	“inaccessibility	of	the	underlying	logic	of	[actors’]	practices,”	and	I	fear	it	leaves	insufficient	room	for	actors	to	consciously	deviate	from	the	externally	constructed	logic	of	what	“acceptable”	practices	might	be	(Ortner,	2005,	p.34).			 At	the	collective	level,	then,	consciousness	is	concerned	with	the	“collective	sensibility	of	some	set	of	socially	interrelated	actors”	(p.	34).	Moreover,	despite	common	understandings	of	“consciousness”	as	something	that	only	involves	one’s	mind,	my	focus	on	consciousness	here	understands	actors’	choices	and	practices	as	mental	and	embodied	phenomena	alike.	A	consciousness	for	acts	of	political	dissent	does	not	imply	that	students’	democratic	subjectivities	can	be	reduced	to	their	consciousness	for	dissent.	Rather,	I	use	this	phrase	to	highlight	how	students’	attitudes,	thoughts,	and	feelings	about	dissent,	which	inform	their	dispositions	to	exercise	dissent	(or	not),	are	constructed	at	an	individual	and	collective	level.	A	consciousness	for	acts	of	dissent	differs	from	what	I	perceive	is	the	dominant,	deliberative	consciousness	among	Canadians,	which	conceives	of	non-deliberative	dissent	either	as	either	a	last	resort	or	as	radical.34	It	is	because	I	am	concerned	with	                                                34	My	perception	of	this	deliberative	consciousness	largely	stems	from	my	experiences	with	the	Canadian	public	in	professional	and	community	spaces.	For	example,	while	facilitating	a	recent	set	of	community	discussions	around	civic	engagement,	the	leaders	of	our	organization	asserted	the	strengths	of	deliberative-style,	“peaceful”	and	“cooperative”	discussion	as	part	of	Canadians’	shared	values. 	 72 critical	citizenship	education	that	this	emphasis	on	the	“knowing”	subject	is	vital.	Formal	education	is	only	one	factor	contributing	to	students’	democratic	consciousnesses,	and	I	believe	that	civic	education	is	uniquely	situated	to	foster	the	critical	capacities	to	question	how	students’	attitudes,	thoughts,	and	feelings	about	dissent	are	formed	by	their	circumstances.	It	is	important	for	students	to	normalize	a	consciousness	for	acts	of	political	dissent	so	that	they	do	not	internalize	orderliness	as	normal	and	dissent	as	radical	(a	consciousness	they	might	internalize	through	the	“external	curriculum”).	Students	should	recognize	that	it	is	possible	to	consciously	deviate	from	any	and	all	“scripts”	of	citizenship	they	learn	in	or	outside	of	school.	Thus,	teaching	for	a	consciousness	for	dissent	means	that,	if	students	disagree	with	established	interpretations	of	core	ethico-political	values,	they	will	be	aware	that	both	deliberative	and	non-deliberative	dissent	offer	legitimate	political	channels	through	which	they	can	express	their	own	interpretations.		Complementary	to	my	focus	on	consciousness,	I	share	with	Mouffe	(2005)	and	Biesta	(2011)	a	semi-archic	perspective	on	democratic	modes	of	human	togetherness.	By	this,	I	mean	that	the	suppositions	and	values	that	underlie	the	“script-writing”	processes	of	liberal-democratic	citizenship	are	more	important	than	state	institutions	or	the	scripts	themselves.35	I	presume	here	that	the	task	of	civic	educators	is	to	ensure	that	citizens’	primary	loyalties	are	not	to	established	state	institutions,	but	to	the	core	democratic	values	that	liberal-democratic	institutions	are	supposed	to—but	sometimes	                                                35	In	the	context	of	civic	education,	a	semi-archic	approach	dictates	that	students	be	taught	to	be	“ignorant”	about	what	it	means	to	be	a	“good”	citizen	(Biesta,	2011).	Rather,	by	conceiving	the	arkhe	(roughly,	“origin”)	of	democratic	politics	as	constantly	in	construction,	“the	democratic	citizen	[cannot	be	conceptualized	as]	a	pre-defined	identity	that	can	simply	be	taught	and	learned,	but	emerges	again	and	again	in	new	ways	from	engagement	with	the	experiment	of	democratic	politics”	(p.	152). 	 73 fail	to—uphold.	This	perspective	recognizes	the	contributions	that	anarchist	thinkers	such	as	Rancière	(whose	ideas	I	outline	below)	make	to	democratic	theory	while	also	maintaining	that	core	democratic	values	must	be	inscribed	in	institutions.	This	semi-archic	perspective	aligns	well	with	my	agonistically	informed	definition	of	the	political.	I	agree	with	Mouffe	(2005)	that	the	political	is	constituted	by	the	“antagonism	that	is	inherent	in	human	relations”	(p.	9),	where	conflict	arises	over	citizens’	deeply	rooted	disagreements	in	their	incompatible	interpretations	of	the	core	ethico-political	values	of	liberty	and	equality	(Mouffe,	2000).	Moreover,	all	politics	entails	the	exclusion	of	some	party	from	the	existing	hegemonic	order,	creating	an	inevitable	“we/they”	distinction.	As	I	explain	below,	I	share	Mouffe’s	(2005)	aim	to	transform	these	antagonistic	relationships	into	agonistic	ones—those	in	which	political	opponents	are	treated	as	adversaries	and	not	enemies.	Whereas	enemies	aim	to	destroy	one	another	to	destroy	their	political	associations	(p.	20),	adversaries	perceive	themselves	as	“sharing	a	common	symbolic	space”	while	keeping	alive	their	political	associations.	The	consequences	of	destroying	political	associations,	for	agonists,	are	at	best	to	“displace”	politics—to	sweep	conflict	under	the	proverbial	rug	(Honig,	1993)—or	at	worst,	to	transform	opposition	into	violence	and	terrorism	(Mouffe,	2005,	pp.	72-87).		 	Despite	(or	perhaps	because	of)	Mouffe’s	radical	position,	this	is	a	pragmatic	premise.	Agonists	hold	that	the	homogeneity	of	values	necessary	for	consensus	cannot	be	expected	in	today’s	pluralistic	democracies.	By	defining	the	political	as	the	sites	of	inevitable	conflict	over	values,	it	follows	that	a	vibrant	pluralistic	democracy	requires	its	citizens	to	channel	dissent	productively	and	to	take	opposition	seriously.	Recall	that		 74 I	use	term	“productive”	to	refer	to	forms	of	engagement	that	can	feasibly	help	people	achieve	their	political	ends	while	remaining	in	line	with	the	core	ethico-political	principles	of	liberal	democracies.	Engagement	may	contribute	something	new	to	the	discursive	field	or	bring	new	identities	into	being	(more	on	this	below),	but	neither	is	necessary	for	engagement	to	be	deemed	productive.	However,	this	definition	of	the	political	will	cause	concern	for	those	committed	to	more	consensus-oriented	forms	of	deliberation.	Such	deliberative	democratic	theories	treat	disagreement	as	a	problem	to	be	solved,	often	through	rational,	communicative	channels.	Whereas	many	deliberative	models	aim	for	consensus,	the	critical-radical	models	I	outline	above	stress	that	consensus	is	not	always	possible	in	pluralistic	contexts.	Deliberative	thinkers	may	nevertheless	find	comfort	in	my	argument	that	political	dissent,	while	inevitable,	is	also	productive	and	desirable.	Fraser’s	(1990)	critique	of	the	bourgeois	public	sphere	is	also	useful	for	troubling	basic	assumptions	about	liberal-democratic	politics	and,	accordingly,	the	forms	of	dissent	considered	legitimate	within	this	framework.	Fraser	demonstrates	how	the	dominant,	Habermasian	conception	of	the	public	sphere	as	a	unitary	and	bourgeois	entity	limits	who	counts	as	a	citizen,	and	thus	who	has	a	legitimate	voice.	This	public	sphere’s	understandings	of	discourse,	she	argues,	carries	marks	of	distinction	that	tend	to	privilege	middle-	and	upper-class,	articulate	men.	Since	I	am	concerned	with	ensuring	that	all	political	subjects	have	equal	voice,	I	extend	my	understanding	of	engagement	beyond	traditional	deliberative	means	alone.	These	traditional	means	tend	to	be	dialogic,	rationalist,	and	masculinist.	Other,	more		 75 inclusionary	forms	of	engagement	are	also	valuable,	particularly	for	the	avenues	they	open	for	dissent.		Fraser’s	work	helps	justify	the	legitimacy	of	non-dialogic	forms	of	dissent	with	her	expanded,	multiplied	understanding	of	the	public	spheres,	especially	as	they	create	space	for	counterpublics.	Fraser	(1990)	defines	counterpublics	as	“parallel	discursive	arenas	where	members	of	subordinated	social	groups	invent	and	circulate	counterdiscourses,	which	in	turn	permit	them	to	formulate	oppositional	interpretations	of	their	identities,	interests,	and	needs”	(p.	67).	I	conceive	of	dissent,	then,	not	only	through	the	traditional	deliberative	lens	that	characterizes	discourse	in	the	bourgeois	public	sphere,	but	as	potentially	more	embodied,	creative,	and	passionate.	Dissent,	so	conceived,	must	not	necessarily	be	dialogic	in	nature,	nor	directed	at	nor	channelled	through	the	traditional	political	structures	and	institutions	that	dominate	the	comprehensive	public	sphere.36			The	Productive	Nature	of	Political	Dissent		 At	its	roots,	political	dissent	is	a	tool	to	challenge	an	established	order’s	encroachments	on	the	core	ethico-political	principles	of	a	liberal	democracy,	or	to	express	political	subjects’	disagreements	over	the	interpretation	of	these	values.	As	such,	many	scholars	(Bickmore,	2006;	Bond,	2011;	Hörschelmann	&	El	Refaie,	2014)	implicitly	treat	dissent	as	a	fundamental	good	in	democracies.	Mouffe	(2005)	and	Rancière	both	make	strong	arguments	for	conflict’s	productive	nature,	particularly	as	it	                                                36	The	comprehensive	public	sphere	is	the	“the	structured	setting	where	cultural	and	ideological	contest	or	negotiation	among	a	variety	of	publics	takes	place”	(Eley,	as	cited	in	Fraser,	1990,	p.	68). 	 76 relates	to	subjectification,	or	the	creation	of	political	subjectivities.37	For	Mouffe	(2014),	subject	positions	are	fluid	and	non-essentialist	(i.e.	not	based	on	immutable	qualities).	They	are	created	when	people,	moved	by	affections	(roughly,	driving	emotions),	insert	themselves	into	discursive	signifying	practices.	This	insertion	requires	the	“articulation”	of	their	political	identities	in	two	senses	of	the	word.	Subject	positions	are	articulated	through	the	strategic	articulation	(linking)	of	political	identities,	which	happens	by	articulating	(voicing	and	embodying)	demands	with	others	with	whom	one	shares	antagonisms.	This	process	modifies—but	does	not	erase—existing	political	identities	and	creates	a	shared	signifier	under	which	subjects	can	unite.			 The	emergence	of	the	term	“Person/People	of	Colour”	(P.O.C.)	represents	one	instance	of	political	subjectification	as	Mouffe	describes	the	term	(see	the	Colours	of	Resistance	Archive,	n.d.).	The	term	refers	to	non-White	people	and	can	be	mobilized	politically	to	highlight	shared	antagonisms	(most	often	related	to	being	non-White	in	a	predominantly	White	society).	While	Black	and	Hispanic	identities	(for	example)	are	clearly	differentiable,	both	groups	can	unite	under	the	P.O.C.	banner	to	highlight	the	shared	barriers	they	face.	Thus,	while	being	Black	or	Hispanic	may	be	an	immutable	quality,	identifying	as	a	P.O.C.	strategically	highlights	the	constructed	binary	between	(privileged)	Whites,	on	the	one	hand,	and	“everyone	else,”	on	the	other.	I	agree	with	Mouffe	that	dissent	in	this	sense	is	productive	for	making	possible	the	transformation	                                                37	Note	that	subjectification,	political	subjectivities,	and	subject	positions,	here,	are	not	to	be	confused	with	the	discussion	of	consciousness	as	subjectivity	above.	The	former	three	terms	relate	roughly	to	people’s	fluid,	political	identities,	while	consciousness	as	subjectivity	refers	to	(the	construction	of)	people’s	life	trajectories,	life	choices,	and	agency	to	make	those	choices. 	 77 and	mobilization	of	counter-hegemonic	subjectivities,	and	thus	creates	space	for	clearly	differentiated	political	alternatives.		 Like	Mouffe,	Rancière	(1995/1999;	2000/2004)	considers	conflict	to	be	the	primary	site	of	democratic	politics.	He	speaks	of	subjectification	in	terms	of	a	specific	form	of	productive	disagreement	he	calls	dissensus.	However,	Rancière	and	Mouffe	disagree	on	the	role	of	equality	in	society;	Mouffe	(1992,	p.	30)	considers	it	a	principle	to	which	citizens	should	aspire	(though	it	is	impossible	to	reach),	while	Rancière	(1995/1999)	presupposes	equality	as	a	starting	point	(p.	33).	Rancière	nevertheless	recognizes	that	many	citizens	do	not	regard	one	another	as	equal,	so	he	theorizes	democratic	societies	as	a	“police	order.”	The	police	order	designates	what	is	doable	and	sayable	and	thus	what	is	sensible38	(understandable	as	discourse)	and	what	is	not	(incomprehensible	as	noise).	Anyone	who	presupposes	a	configuration	that	breaks	with	established	ways	of	doing,	being,	and	saying	is	not	ejected	from	the	police	order.	Rather,	they	are	designated	“the	part	of	those	who	have	no	part”	(p.	30).		 Rancière	conceives	of	politics	quite	narrowly	a	tool	for	those	who	have	no	discernible	role	in	the	police	order	to	make	claims	for	equality.	They	do	so	through	a	multiplicity	of	acts	that,	together,	constitute	dissensus.	Dissensus	breaks	with	the	established	order	to	create	space	for	new	forms	of	collective	enunciation	within	the	police	order,	and	transforms	what	the	police	order	considers	“noise”	into	meaningful	discourse	(Rancière,	1995/1999,	pp.	29-30).	In	so	doing,	it	transforms	the	ordering	that	treats	equal	people	unequally,	and	thus	extends	the	field	of	what	the	police	order	                                                38	Rancière	is	concerned	with	sensibility	in	quite	a	literal	sense;	those	who	are	considered	sensible	are	those	who	understand	sensory	data	through	a	similar	frame	of	experience	(2010,	p.	152).	This	has	consequences	for	the	aesthetic	and	political	realms	alike. 	 78 considers	sensible	and	thus	equal.	Dissensus	is,	at	its	core,	“a	decision	inserted	in	‘common	sense’:	a	dispute	over	what	is	given	and	about	the	frame	within	which	we	see	something	as	given”	(Rancière,	2010,	p.	69).	Political	subjectification	is	vital	for	dissensus.	Subjectification	creates,	alongside	a	new	subjectivity,	an	intelligible	and	thus	sensible	signifier	under	which	people	can	unite	to	claim	rights.	Ruitenberg	(2010a)	uses	the	example	of	queer	politics	as	a	claim	to	equal	rights	through	the	Rancièrean	conception	of	political	subjectification.	Identifying	as	“gay”	or	“homosexual”	is,	in	western	culture,	often	sufficiently	commonplace	that	these	identities	do	not	challenge	the	police	order	in	claiming	equality	(p.	622).	The	gay	community	in	Canada	certainly	does	not	enjoy	full	equality	as	does	the	straight	community,	but	the	former’s	rights	claims	have	at	least	formally	been	recognized	as	sensible.	But	for	people	whose	gender	or	sexual	identities	the	police	order	still	does	not	recognize	as	sensible,	“queer”	becomes	a	viable	subjectivity	for	rights	claiming.	To	speak	as	queer	is	to	take	up	a	subject	position	rather	than	claim	an	identity	because	it	provides	a	vehicle	for	rights-claiming	(sufficient	to	be	an	identity)	while	also	extending	the	field	of	the	police	order	(necessary	for	being	a	subject	position).		 I	am	by	and	large	sympathetic	to	Rancière’s	radical	conception	of	democratic	life,	and	his	work	is	extremely	valuable	for	its	treatment	of	dissent	/	dissensus	as	the	crux	of	political	interactions.	However,	I	disagree	with	him	on	two	points.	First,	Rancière	focuses	too	narrowly	on	politics	through	dissensus	alone.	He	presupposes	equality		 79 among	all	people,39	but	argues	that	the	police	order	introduces	inequalities	between	citizens	and	exclusions	of	some	people	from	citizenship.	His	presupposition	of	equality	is	valuable	for	asking	what	it	means	to	recognize	one	another	as	equals.	Thus,	it	is	only	through	subjectification	that	people	can	claim	full	recognition	of	their	right	to	equality	as	citizens.	Like	Biesta	(2011),	my	concern	here	is	that	Rancière	leaves	little	space	for	politics	within	the	police	order.		Second,	I	am	suspicious	of	Rancière’s	assumption	that	the	police	order	cannot	work	toward	establishing	core	political	values	through	institutions.	I	am	more	sympathetic	to	Mouffe’s	semi-archic	(as	opposed	to	anarchic)	understanding	of	how	core	democratic	principles	must	be	upheld	via	institutions.	While	Mouffe	(1992)	recognizes	that	neither	equality	nor	liberty	can	ever	be	fully	realized	due	to	inevitably	competing	interpretations	thereof,	these	principles	must	still	act	as	a	“grammar	of	conduct”	toward	which	people	must	work	(p.	30).	As	Balibar	(2008)	states,	“[this	institutional	dimension]	cannot	be	left	aside	because	equality	also	has	to	be	written	in	institutions	.	.	.	and	the	democratization	of	institutions,	including	‘public’	institutions,	should	not	become	confused	with	the	problem	of	the	construction	of	the	sovereign	state”	(p.	526,	cited	in	Ruitenberg,	2015,	p.	3).	These	disagreements	notwithstanding,	Rancière’s	conception	of	dissensus	is	highly	valuable	since	it	helps	demonstrate	how	conflict	creates	the	conditions	for	a	richer	social	order	through	the	process	of	political	subjectification.	His	work	also	clarifies	how	conflict	acts	as	a	claim	for	substantive	                                                39	Rancière	speaks	of	equality	in	terms	of	people’s	equal	ability	to	reflect	consciously	and	intelligently	on	their	own	situation.	In	so	doing,	Rancière	conceives	of	equality	as	inseparable	from	liberty,	in	that	subjects	are	equally	free	to	act	equally	to	demand	equality	(May,	2010). 	 80 recognitions	of	core	political	values,	even	if	I	disagree	with	him	on	how	those	values	should	be	realized.	There	are	also	similarities	between	Isin’s	(2008)	and	Rancière’s	(1999)	conceptions	of	individuals’	claims	to	rights	through	dissent,	particularly	in	their	commitment	to	“acts”	as	foundational	for	claiming	equal	rights.	However,	there	are	important	differences:	I	refer	here	to	Isin’s	less	anarchic	conception	of	dissent	because	his	does	not	require	extreme	outcomes	for	citizens	to	claim	full	rights,	whereas	Rancière’s	conception	of	dissensus	requires	political	boundaries	to	be	redrawn	or	new	modes	of	being	to	be	created.	In	Canada’s	liberal-democratic	context,	Isin’s	sole	requirement	for	dissenters	to	claim	rights—to	be	creative	in	rewriting	societal	scripts—is	simply	more	realistic	for	everyday	dissent.		Said	differently,	while	I	agree	that	Rancière’s	conception	of	subjectification	is	desirable	and	that	it	creates	space	for	dissenters	to	claim	rights,	dissensus	is	an	extreme	outcome	of	democratic	politics.	Dissent	can	occur	without	dissensus,	and	I	am	concerned	here	with	dissent	in	both	its	dissensus	form	and	more	commonplace	forms	of	dissent	such	as	those	Isin	and	Mouffe	discuss.	To	use	Rancière’s	terms,	while	Rancière	and	I	are	both	concerned	with	dissensus	about	political	matters	(those	that	modify	the	aesthetics-political	terrain	of	what	he	calls	the	“police	order”),	I	am	also	interested	in	dissent	as	it	occurs	within	the	“police	order.”	Notwithstanding,	Rancière’s	conception	of	democratic	politics	is	a	strong	argument	for	the	desirability	of	dissent	/	dissensus	because	of	its	nuanced	understanding	of	the	power	of	policing.	As	I	discuss	in	the	subsequent	chapter,	it	also	provides	insights	about	the	impassioned	nature	of	dissent.	The	key	conclusion	I	draw	from	Rancière	is	that	dissent	is	integral	to	political	life	for	exposing	the	limitations		 81 of	the	established	order	in	its	ability	to	respect	rights	or	core	ethico-political	values,	and	for	illuminating	creative	ways	for	humans	to	interact	more	inclusively.		Isin,	Rancière	and	I	share	the	conviction	that	dissent	is	desirable	because	it	provides	space	to	expose	and	mitigate	inequities,	infringements	on	liberty,	and	unequal	distributions	of	rights.	I	also	agree	with	Mouffe	that	agonistic	dissent	is	necessary	for	keeping	legitimate	political	channels	open,	thereby	fostering	respect	for	political	opponents,	encouraging	those	in	power	listen	to	subaltern	groups’	counterhegemonic	concerns,	and	diminishing	the	disposition	to	engage	in	violent	activities.	In	what	follows,	I	apply	this	conception	of	dissent	to	civic	education	and	argue	that	it	is	not	enough	to	simply	teach	students	that	many	forms	of	dissent	are	legal.	Rather,	schools	should	normalize	dissent	by	helping	create	a	political	consciousness	for	acts	of	dissent,	thereby	preparing	students	to	channel	their	dissent	productively	and,	in	turn,	help	increase	students’	civic	and	political	engagement. 	Dissent	as	a	Negative	Right	to	Foster	Engagement		 I	borrow	from	Stitzlein	(2012)	the	distinction	between	dissent	as	a	negative	or	positive	right	as	these	concepts	relate	to	civic	education.	These	two	differ	in	that	negative	rights	cannot	be	infringed	upon	from	the	outside	(e.g.,	the	right	to	freedom	of	movement),	whereas	positive	rights	guarantee	entitlement	to	certain	goods	or	freedoms	(e.g.,	the	right	to	clean	water).	Conceiving	of	dissent	as	a	negative	right	in	Canada	means	that	actors	are	able	to	dissent	without	fear	of	reprisal	from	fellow	citizens	or	state	institutions,	provided	they	do	not	infringe	on	other	citizens’	liberties	or	rights,	as	interpreted	by	the	judicial	system.	Considering	dissent	a	positive	right		 82 requires	that	students	be	entitled	to	an	education	that	adequately	prepares	them	to	dissent.			 In	Canada,	provincial	courts	are	charged	with	determining	whether	students	have	received	an	“adequate”	education.	For	example,	in	permitting	an	appeal	in	a	case	for	adequate	special	education	the	Supreme	Court	deemed	that	B.C.	defined	special	education	as	a	positive	right:	The	purpose	of	the	School	Act	in	British	Columbia	is	to	ensure	that	‘all	learners	.	.	.	develop	their	individual	potential	and	.	.	.	acquire	the	knowledge,	skills	and	attitudes	needed	to	contribute	to	a	healthy,	democratic	and	pluralistic	society	and	a	prosperous	and	sustainable	economy’.	This	is	an	acknowledgment	by	the	government	that	the	reason	children	are	entitled	to	an	education	is	that	a	healthy	democracy	and	economy	require	their	educated	contribution.	Adequate	special	education,	therefore,	is	not	a	dispensable	luxury.	(Moore	v.	British	Columbia,	2012,	pp.	361-362)		As	such,	various	provinces	might	differ	in	deciding	whether	teaching	dissent	only	as	a	negative	right	(or	failing	to	teach	for/about	dissent)	constitutes	an	(in)adequate	education.	I	argue	here	that	only	an	education	that	teaches	dissent	as	a	positive	right	should	be	considered	adequate,	especially	since	the	capacity	for	and	disposition	to	dissent	are	indispensable	for	a	healthy	democracy.		The	External	Curriculum	The	primary	concern	I	have	with	teaching	dissent	as	a	negative	right	is	that	doing	so	leaves	students	uninformed	of	alternatives	to	the	dominant	conception	of		 83 dissent.	If	schools	do	not	teach	for	dissent,	students	are	likely	to	adopt	attitudes	they	are	exposed	to	in	the	external	curriculum.	The	external	curriculum	“refers	to	what	students	learn	outside	of	the	classroom	(e.g.,	from	other	students	in	the	school,	and	from	other	sources	such	as	the	family,	the	media,	religious	leaders,	neighbours,	friends,	etc.),	and	has	a	greater	influence	on	youth	where	formal	curricula	are	far	removed	from	students’	lived	experience	(Mazawi,	1998;	Schugurensky,	2002,	p.	5).	Students	will	doubtless	witness	dissent	as	well	as	efforts	to	silence	that	dissent	in	the	external	curriculum,	though	“exactly	how	students	makes	sense	of	these	experiences	is	unclear”	(Stitzlein,	2012,	p.	112).	The	dominant	model	of	formal	politics	in	Canada	is	deliberative,	so	this	likely	leaves	the	greatest	impression	on	students’	understandings	of	dissent.	Deliberative	thinkers	often	consider	less	obviously	deliberative	forms	of	dissent	to	be	last	resorts,	for	example	when	Habermasian	“ideal	speech”	conditions40	cannot	be	met	(and	most	now	believe	these	conditions	will	be	difficult	to	meet)	or	when	one	side	ceases	to	be	reasonable	(Habermas,	1974/1988;	Gutmann	&	Thompson,	2004).	Even	in	newer	models	of	deliberative	democracy,	Narval	(2007)	notes	that	“rationality	remains	privileged	even	where	other	forms	of	communication	are	incorporated	into	the	deliberative	space”	(cited	in	Bond,	2011,	p.	165).	In	most	deliberative	theories	that	inform	Canadian	political	life,	many	forms	of	dissent	(e.g.,	road-blocking,	overloading	administrative	systems,	etc.)	are	viewed	as	non-rational	and	thus	illegitimate.	Students	who	learn	only	that	dissent	is	permissible	under	exceptional	circumstances	may	feel	                                                40	Namely,	that	all	people	considered	“competent”	in	the	public	sphere	can	inform	discourse,	or	introduce	or	question	any	assertion	without	hesitation,	without	coercion	(Habermas,	1990,	pp.	43-115). 	 84 confined	to	consensus-oriented	actions.	In	a	socially	(neo-)liberal	climate	where	the	“good	citizen”	is	portrayed	as	active	as	opposed	to	activist,	and	where	police	are	expected	to	curb	“public	anxiety	about	terrorist	threats,”	youth	may	feel	actively	discouraged	from	engaging	in	dissent	(Kennelly,	2009).		Opposition	to	dissent	in	external	curricula	may	also	neutralize	the	forms	of	dissent	that	students	learn	to	perceive	as	legitimate.	There	exist	other	forms	of	non-violent	civil	disobedience	that	may	also	modify	the	“scripts”	of	the	existing	democratic	order	without	relying	on	the	rationalist	means	commonly	considered	appropriate.	I	have	already	alluded	to	DePape’s	“Stop	Harper”	Senate	protest.	Other	examples	include	sit-ins,	roadblocks,	hanging	posters	where	posters	are	not	allowed,	the	insistence	of	using	language	not	normally	recognized	as	legitimate	(e.g.,	naming	non-consensual	sex	within	marriage	as	“rape”	before	this	was	recognized	as	a	legal	possibility),	and	the	like.	Gutmann	and	Thompson	(2004),	the	leading	authorities	of	this	generation	of	deliberative	democracy,	might	condemn	such	actions	as	“bargaining”	and	thus	devoid	of	“moral	reasoning,”	and	in	turn	more	prone	to	unjustifiable	outcomes	(p.	155).	In	Canada’s	rationalist	climate,	which	normalizes	dissent	as	a	negative	liberty,	youth	may	learn	to	condemn	these	ostensibly	non-rational	activities,	despite	their	actually	being	moral	grey	areas	in	my	view.	These	activities	need	not	be	secondary	or	last-resorts,	though	I	believe	them	to	be	most	effective	as	responses	to	marginalization	or	exclusion.		Exclusionary	Limitations	of	a	Negative	Right	to	Dissent	There	are	limits	to	teaching	the	negative	right	to	dissent	beyond	falling	back	on	the	external	curriculum	and	its	probable	outcome	of	neutralizing	dissent.	Without		 85 fostering	the	capacity	to	dissent,	schools	are	complicit	in	reproducing	the	institutional	inequities	inherent	to	deliberative	models	of	democracy.	Deliberative	democracy	has	deep	roots	in	Aristotelian,	rationalist	traditions	and	has	developed	according	to	Eurocentric	and	masculinist	worldviews	(Wilson,	2011).	This	is	not	to	say	that	only	males	from	European	backgrounds	can	be	rational.	Rather,	in	Derrida’s	(1974)	terms,	“the	white	man	takes	his	own	mythology	(that	is,	Indo-European	mythology),	his	logos—that	is,	the	mythos	of	his	idiom,	for	the	universal	form	of	that	which	it	is	still	his	inescapable	desire	to	call	Reason”	(p.	11).		In	other	words,	rationalist	democratic	models	developed	in	masculinist	and	European	traditions	have	typically	identified	as	“rational”	only	those	forms	of	thought	that	are	consistent	with	masculinist	and	European	thought	traditions,	even	if	many	they	exclude	are	equally	reasonable.	For	Mouffe	(1999),	this	“point	of	convergence—or	rather,	mutual	collapse—between	objectivity	and	power	that	we	call	‘hegemony’”	is	inevitable	in	democracies,	but	deliberative	models	fail	to	acknowledge	the	link	between	legitimacy	and	power	(p.	753).41	Those	articulating	European	and	masculinist	reasons	for	political	outcomes	currently	have	an	advantage	in	the	deliberative	sphere	over	those	articulating	different—but	no	less	valid—reasons,	by	virtue	of	Eurocentric	and	masculinist	worldviews	wielding	greater	power	in	Canada’s	political	climate.	Political	outsiders	are	thus	faced	with	the	choice	of	learning	and	adopting	the	“language	of	power”	in	order	to	gain	political	influence,	or	communicating	issues	on	their	own	terms	and	risk	having	their	position	or	entire	worldview	dismissed	as	bizarre	or	irrational	                                                41	Mouffe’s	(1999)	aim	is	not	to	eliminate	power,	but	to	determine	“how	to	constitute	forms	of	power	that	are	consistent	with	democratic	values”	(p.	753). 	 86 (Levinson,	2003).	As	a	result,	students	whose	thinking	is	inconsistent	with	Eurocentric	or	masculinist	worldviews	may	be	less	disposed	or	less	prepared	than	their	peers	to	engage	in	deliberative	politics.	This	is	in	part	because	their	interpretations	of	core	ethico-political	values	may	differ	on	a	more	fundamental	level	than	disagreements	between	those	with	similar	worldviews.	For	example,	a	student	might	disagree	with	the	Canadian	government	on	its	resource	development	policies	while	also	espousing	an	Indigenous	worldview.	It	is	possible	these	concerns	can	be	recognized	through	deliberative	means.	However,	if	these	concerns	are	fundamental,	(e.g.,	if	they	stem	from	the	differences	between	the	student’s	and	the	Canadian	government’s	conceptualization	of	humans’	relationship	with	the	natural	world),	then	deliberative	channels	may	not	offer	an	effective	means	of	voicing	disagreement.		To	begin	with,	other	stakeholders	may	be	ill	prepared	to	understand	the	terms	this	student	uses	and	might	resort	to	paraphrasing	her	discourse—and	with	it,	her	argument—into	their	own	terms.	Alternatively,	this	student	may	need	to	translate	her	own	argument	into	masculinist	and	European	terms,	watering	it	down	in	the	process.	Other	stakeholders	may	also	consider	this	student	naive	or	irrational	because	her	ideas	do	not	fit	into	the	same	sphere	of	experience	as	their	own.	This	might	lead	them	to	perceive	her	disagreement	as	merely	an	obstacle	to	be	overcome,	rather	than	providing	valuable	input	to	modify	the	existing	proposal.	In	the	worst	of	cases,	this	attitude	might	transform	the	student	into	a	political	“enemy”	(more	on	this	below).	It	might	also	cause	them	to	believe	that	this	student	is	best	left	ignored	since	“she	doesn’t	know	what	we’re	talking	about.”	My	point	is	not	to	equate	individuals	with	their	cultural	backgrounds	or		 87 worldviews.	There	are	certainly	Indigenous	issues	that	are	commensurable	with	the	current	hegemony	and	which	might	be	addressed	through	deliberative	channels.	I	use	this	example	to	illustrate	how	non-masculinist	and	non-Eurocentric	views	are	more	easily	dismissed	through	this	model	of	democracy.	I	thus	hold	that	deliberation	is	deeply	flawed	since	it	aims	for—but	cannot	propose—solutions	for	disagreements	on	fundamentally	different	values.		According	to	Mouffe	(2000),	the	fundamental	reason	for	the	exclusionary	nature	of	deliberative	strategies	is	their	inclination	to	treat	those	holding	fundamentally	different	positions	as	“enemies	to	be	destroyed”	(p.	102).	However,	deliberative	models’	Eurocentric	and	masculinist	backgrounds	also	mean	that	they	value	rational	discourse	above	other	communicative	strategies.	This	is	problematic	because	reason’s	unmitigated	primacy	in	decision-making	presumes	all	actors	are	entirely	rational,	even	though	politics	is	a	passionate	affair.	I	explain	this	premise	further	in	the	following	chapter.	Rationalism	has	also	been	used	to	justify	decisions	that	are	supposedly	“value-neutral,”	despite	the	impossibility	of	neutrality	in	either	the	political	or	educational	spheres.	This	is	particularly	problematic	in	pluralistic	contexts,	where	those	with	non-Eurocentric,	non-masculinist	views	are	often	considered	unreasonable—or	worse,	irrational	(Kohn,	2000).		These	“political	outsiders”	might	respond	in	one	of	three	ways.	First,	internalizing	their	supposed	(and	imposed)	irrationality,	they	might	disengage	from	political	life	altogether,	delegitimized.	Second,	they	might	disengage	politically	out	of	a	sense	of	hopelessness	without	ever	accepting	their	ideas	as	less	valid,	fostering	at	the	same	time	a	sense	of	resentment	for	political	life.	This	seems	a	likely	option,	given	how		 88 “outsiders”	in	Canada	have	articulated	their	disengagement	(Bastedo	et	al.,	2011;	Martin,	2012).	Third,	they	might	redouble	their	engagement	in	the	political	sphere	through	non-deliberative	strategies,	particularly	through	dissent,	and	this	time	with	a	different	affective	impetus	(see	Coulthard,	2014).	I	discuss	these	affective	components	in	the	subsequent	chapter.	In	the	worst	cases,	turning	to	dissent	after	failing	to	be	recognized	through	deliberative	means	may	involve	exercising	dissent	through	non-legitimate	channels,	including	violent	ones	(Mouffe,	2005).	This	underscores	the	need	to	open	and	maintain	legitimate	channels	for	dissent.	This	third	outcome	also	requires	a	strong	sense	of	political	efficacy	as	well	as	the	capacity	and	disposition	necessary	to	engage	in	dissent.	Because	of	these	requirements	and	because	of	the	extra	barriers	that	political	“outsiders”	face,	civic	educators	must	acknowledge	that	deliberative	channels	are	insufficiently	prepared	to	address	deep	pluralism.	These	channels	may	seem	unappealing	because	they	often	demand	certain,	exclusive	styles	of	communication	(especially	rationalist	ones).	They	may	also	limit	the	capacity	to	voice	positions	or	disagree	through	constraining	procedures	and	structures	(consider	Robert’s	Rules	of	Order).	In	other	cases,	the	“entry	requirements”	for	deliberation	might	be	difficult	or	impossible	to	access,	such	as	when	politicians	take	only	pre-approved	questions	or	the	fact	that	Parliamentary	committees	require	witnesses	to	be	invited.	Teaching	dissent	as	a	negative	right	ignores	these	inherent	inequalities.	By	incorrectly	presuming	that	students	have	equal	capacities	to	engage	in	deliberative	politics,	schools	fail	to	prepare	students	whose	voices	are	marginalized	through	deliberation—by	virtue	of	their	deeply	divergent	positions—to	engage	politically	through	channels	they	are	likely	find	most	effective.			 89 When,	and	Why,	and	How	to	Dissent	Perhaps	the	greatest	danger	of	teaching	dissent	as	a	negative	right	is	that	students	will	enter	the	public	sphere	without	the	knowledge	of	when,	why,	or	how	dissent	can	be	valuable.	Without	schools	to	foster	critical	thinking	about	dissent,	students	are	more	liable	to	dissent	in	unproductive42	ways—if	they	do	so	at	all.	One	benefit	of	teaching	for/about	dissent	is	that	students	may	gain	valuable	understandings	about	the	legal	risks	of	dissent,	since	the	legal	restrictions	on	protest	are	the	main	limitation	on	this	right.	However,	if	dissent	is	construed	as	a	negative	right,	students	may	not	learn	to	question	when	their	moral	imperatives	to	dissent	outweigh	the	legal	implications	for	their	actions	and	why	it	can	be	important	to	dissent.	A	recent	example	of	this	dilemma	occurred	when	Canadian	environmentalist	and	Indigenous	rights	groups	protested	oil	company	Kinder	Morgan’s	right	to	survey	for	a	pipeline	through	Burnaby,	British	Columbia.		While	Canadian	courts	upheld	Kinder	Morgan’s	surveys,	nine	coastal	Indigenous	nations	signed	an	intertribal	treaty	to	protect	the	Salish	Sea	from	environmental	destruction.	Canadian	law	does	not	recognize	this	treaty,	but	the	pipeline	runs	through	traditional	First	Nations	land,	including	fifteen	Reserves,	and	endangers	other	unceded	Indigenous	territories.	During	the	ensuing	protests,	some	dissenters	broke	court	injunctions	protecting	Kinder	Morgan’s	surveys	and	crossed	police	lines.	Although	they	were	arrested	for	their	actions,	they	called	the	moral	underpinnings	of	the	laws	themselves	into	question.	This	highly	publicized	event	delegitimized	existing	laws	in	                                                42	Recall	that	by	“productive”	avenues,	I	refer	to	forms	of	dissent	that	might	feasibly	achieve	outcomes	without	isolating	dissenters	or	their	opponents	from	their	commitments	to	core	ethico-political	values. 	 90 many	observers’	eyes	while	garnering	both	support	and	disdain	for	environmental	and	Indigenous	perspectives	on	resource	development	and	land	claims.43	As	such,	these	acts	of	dissent	provide	an	external	curricular	lesson	on	the	moral	and	legal	implications	of	dissent.	However,	there	is	no	guarantee	that	schools	teaching	dissent	as	a	negative	right	would	foster	similarly	critical	attitudes.	I	will	discuss	below	how	teaching	for	dissent	as	a	positive	right	can	open	space	for	more	criticality.	Conceptualizing	dissent	as	a	negative	right	might	also	discourage	educators	from	teaching	students	how	and	why	to	dissent.	Mouffe	(1992)	fears	that	political	opponents	in	liberal	models	(which	I	take	to	include	deliberative	models)	are	liable	to	isolate	their	fellow	citizens	from	the	core	ethico-political	values	of	liberty	and	equality,	rather	than	simply	disagreeing	over	these	values’	interpretations.	If	opponents	cease	to	treat	one	another	as	free	and	equal	persons	who	merely	differ	from	one	another,	then	they	will	close	political	channels	and	thus	erode	mutual	respect.	In	extreme	cases,	Mouffe	(2005)	argues,	eroding	legitimate	political	channels	can	also	lead	to	violence	and	terrorism	as	the	disagreement	seeks	a	channel	outside	the	legitimate	political	sphere.	Teaching	that	dissent	is	a	negative	right	is	thus	dangerous	because	it	leaves	little	room	for	students	to	learn	how	to	channel	dissent	while	respecting	their	mutual	opponents.	Ruitenberg	(2010b)	focuses	on	students’	capacities	to	engage	with	political	questions.	She	argues	that	students	not	only	need	to	learn	to	recognize	injustices,	but	also	challenge	them.	However,	she	perceives	both	an	ethical	deficit	(recognizing	the	injustice)	and	a	motivational	deficit	(wanting	to	do	something	about	it),	the	latter	of	                                                43	The	legal	distinctions	between	those	charged	with	“civil	contempt”	(whose	charges	were	dismissed)	and	those	charged	with	assault	or	obstruction	of	justice	provide	further	material	for	discussion	(CBC	News,	2014).			 91 which	is	rooted	in	students’	articulatory	deficits.	For	Ruitenberg,	students	cannot	be	considered	“politically	educated”	until	they	have	learned	to	articulate	political	demands	with	others	(p.	377).	However,	articulation	requires	that	students	undergo	a	process	of	political	subjectification;	that	is,	they	must	establish	relationships	with	similarly	motivated	people	“such	that	their	identity	is	modified	as	a	result	of	the	articulatory	practice”	(Laclau	&	Mouffe,	1985,	as	cited	in	Ruitenberg,	2010,	p.	375).	If	they	cannot	undergo	subjectification,	students	will	remain	“objects	of	the	existing	social	order”	(Ruitenberg,	2010,	p.	379).	Curricula	that	conceive	of	dissent	as	a	negative	right	provide	very	limited	opportunities	for	students	to	correct	their	motivational	deficit.	They	may	help	students	develop	a	sense	of	ethical	motivation,	but	they	do	very	little	to	foster	their	capacity	to	articulate	politically	or	experience	subjectification.		Dissent	as	a	Positive	Right	to	Foster	Engagement	How,	then,	can	conceptualizing	dissent	as	a	positive	right	encourage	students	to	engage	in	dissenting	practices	where	they	perceive	injustices?	The	short	answer	is	that	teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right	fosters	the	disposition	as	well	as	the	critical	and	moral	capacities	necessary	for	dissent.	Together,	these	characteristics	can	build	a	consciousness	for	acts	of	dissent.	As	I	will	explain	in	this	section,	teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right	is	in	many	ways	a	riskier	position	to	adopt	compared	to	teaching	it	as	a	negative	right.	However,	I	maintain	these	risks	far	outweigh	the	dangers	of	displacing	politics	by	failing	to	teach	for	dissent.	Stitzlein	(2012)	makes	a	more	pragmatist	argument	than	Isin,	Mouffe,	Rancière,	and	Ruitenberg	in	favour	of	political	dissent	as	a	positive	right,	although	she	is	still	sympathetic	to	an	agonistic	perspective	(p.	72).			 92 Stitzlein	(2012)	contends	that	civil	disobedience	is	rooted	in	pragmatist	moral	reflections	on	the	injustices	that	laws	create	for	the	dissenter’s	lived	experience	(pp.	53-57).	Writing	about	the	United	States,	where	rhetoric	often	associates	civil	disobedience	and	concerns	about	the	existing	social	order	with	disloyalty	and	unpatriotic	aims	(p.	68),	she	appeals	to	the	Founding	Fathers	to	argue	that	dissent	avows	an	actor’s	commitment	to	a	political	community	in	its	aim	to	create	a	“better	version	of	itself”	(p.	68).	Like	deliberative	and	post-deliberative	thinkers	alike,	Stitzlein	argues	that	incommensurable	values	are	a	fact	of	life	(p.	72).	Even	where	values	are	not	in	direct	conflict,	she	maintains	that	effective	dissenters	will	illuminate	underrepresented	or	underexplored	perspectives.	Specifically,	Stitzlein	is	concerned	that	the	voices	of	subaltern	counterpublics	may	be	marginalized	through	deliberative	discussions,	thus	reproducing	power	inequalities	(p.	73).	What	is	especially	useful	about	her	pragmatist	position	is	that	she	emphasizes	how	the	legitimacy	of	the	state	(understood	broadly	as	the	formal	government)	depends	on	the	consent	of	the	governed	and	its	responses	to	dissent.	To	prevent	the	state	from	coercing	its	citizens	into	consenting,	the	state	must	treat	dissent	as	a	positive	right	so	citizens	“have	the	ability,	the	skills,	and	know-how”	to	invoke	it	(p.	85).	Fostering	the	ability	to	(self-)critique	does	not	only	justify	resistance,	Stitzlein	argues,	but	also	empowers	students	to	resist	(p.	184).	Stitzlein’s	(2012)	work	is	highly	valuable	for	grounding	my	arguments	about	the	desirability	of	dissent	and	schools’	responsibility	to	conceptualize	it	as	a	positive	right	in	practice.	However,	there	is	an	unresolved	tension	about	whether	her	ideal	humanities	curriculum	is	archic	or	semi-archic	(whether	or	not	she	favours	a	specific	conception	of	the	arkhe,	and	by	extension,	the	“good	citizen”).	She	does	not	state		 93 outright	that	any	specific	activities	(even	dissent)	characterize	the	“good	citizen,”	but	she	aims	to	foster	the	capacity	to	dissent	in	all	students.	It	is	nevertheless	unclear	whether	she	wishes	to	encourage	the	disposition	to	dissent.	She	reiterates	cogently	that	vibrant	democracies	cannot	exist	without	“a	sufficient	number	of	citizens”	who	dissent	(p.	185),	but	this	leaves	unanswered	whether	those	who	are	not	disposed	to	dissent	(as	Stitzlein	rightly	notes	is	inevitable)	can	also	be	considered	to	be	“good	citizens.”	In	light	of	these	tensions,	I	wish	to	echo	Biesta’s	(2011)	call	to	teach	for	the	“ignorant	citizen”	who	resists	any	attempt	from	educators	to	mould	her	according	to	a	particular	conception	of	the	“good	citizen.”		Biesta	(2011)	challenges	“the	idea	that	political	subjectivities	and	identities	can	be	and	have	to	be	fully	formed	before	democracy	can	‘take	off’	”	(p.	151).	My	aim	in	fostering	a	consciousness	for	dissent	is	not	to	produce	citizens	who	always	dissent	or	who	must	dissent	in	order	to	be	considered	good	citizens.	Rather,	a	consciousness	for	dissent	implies	that	if	students	disagree	with	established	interpretations	of	core	ethico-political	values	or	perceive	injustices	in	their	distribution,	they	will	be	able	and	disposed	to	counter	these	issues	through	legitimate	political	channels.44	It	also	implies	that	dissent	is	normal	and	not	radical,	and	also	expected	but	not	necessarily	desirable.	If,	as	radical	theorists	such	as	Rancière	and	Mouffe	argue,	educators	are	serious	about	students’	commitments	to	core	ethico-political	values,	curricula	must	leave	space	for	students	to	develop	their	own	interpretations	of	these	values.	By	extension,	students	                                                44	As	I	explain	below,	“legitimate”	refers	more	to	a	commitment	to	core	ethico-political	values	than	to	certain	actions’	legality.	 	 94 will	develop	subjective	notions	of	good	citizenship—or,	more	importantly,	of	favourable	modes	of	human	togetherness—accordingly.		I	therefore	disagree	with	Isin	(2008)	when	he	implies	that	it	is	altogether	preferable	to	become	an	“activist”	citizen.	As	Stitzlein	(2012)	suggests,	activist	citizens	are	necessary	for	a	vibrant	democracy	to	exist	because	they	keep	checks	on	the	existing	order	at	minimum	and	create	new	ways	of	being	within	that	order	at	best.	But	activist	citizens	are	not	necessarily	better	than	active	citizens,	informed	citizens,	or	any	other	prescriptive	model	of	citizenship.	For	many	citizens,	whose	interpretations	of	core	political	values	are	relatively	consistent	with	the	existing	political	order	(through	state	institutions	or	otherwise),	it	may	be	sufficient	to	uphold	rather	than	challenge	the	existing	order.	In	addition,	as	I	discuss	below,	some	citizens	will	inevitably	face	unequal	obstacles	when	considering	whether	to	engage	in	dissent.	Thus,	while	I	normatively	agree	that	dissent	is	usually	a	desirable	act	as	long	as	it	is	consistent	with	core	ethico-political	values,45	I	recognize	that	many	are	more	comfortable	with	the	status	quo	or	simply	uncomfortable	with	dissent.	As	such,	the	most	desirable	civics	curricula	does	not	teach	students	that	they	should	dissent,	although	it	will	conceive	of	dissent	as	a	positive	right	in	order	to	encourage	them	to	consider	when,	why,	and	how	dissent	can	be	productive.		                                                45	This	means	that	dissent	that	contests	core	ethico-political	values,	such	as	white	supremacist	protests,	are	never	desirable,	but	that	other	controversial	movements	that	merely	contest	these	values’	interpretations,	such	as	pro-life	rallies,	are	acceptable. 	 95 The	Risks	and	Limitations	of	Teaching	Dissent	as	a	Positive	Right		 Readers	may	be	wary	of	teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right.	I	acknowledge	that	this	is	a	risky	prospect,	but	likely	not	for	the	reasons	that	proponents	of	consensus-oriented	models	would	deem	problematic.	I	have	already	made	clear	my	agonistic	position,	which	I	maintain	is	more	realistic	and	productive	than	a	consensus-oriented	model	because	it	respects	the	deep-seated	nature	of	many	disagreements.	Notwithstanding,	I	suspect	consensus-oriented	theorists	will	question	whether	it	is	appropriate	to	teach	secondary-aged	students	about	dissent.	Moreover,	I	expect	that	some	readers	will	find	the	idea	of	dissent	as	a	positive	right	to	be	controversial	or	even	dubious,	especially	if	it	may	create	space	for	civil	disobedience.	I	address	these	concerns	here.		 As	Stitzlein	(2012)	points	out,	many	people	judge	youth	to	be	either	apathetic	or	troublemakers,	or	too	young	to	handle	the	responsibility	that	comes	with	dissent	(p.	142,	p.170).	These	perceptions	are	particularly	true	for	boys,	and	for	Indigenous	or	Black	youth	(Martino,	Kehler,	&	Weaver-Hightower,	2009;	Ruck,	Harris,	Fine,	&	Freundeberg,	2008).	Opponents	may	fear	that,	without	“real-world”	experience	or	the	capacity	to	reflect	on	the	consequences	of	their	actions,	dissenting	youth	will	provoke	disorder	and	violence.	However,	these	are	precisely	the	same	concerns	that	teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right	addresses.	I	argue	that	it	is	much	riskier	not	to	teach	students	to	dissent	when	they	perceive	injustices,	because	this	opens	the	more	serious	possibility	of	displacing	politics	or	closing	political	channels.		Consider	the	parallel	between	educating	dissent	as	a	positive	right	and	sex	education:	in	Ontario,	sex	education	is	premised	on	“the	knowledge	and	skills	needed	to		 96 make	sound	decisions	about	matters	affecting	their	health	and	well-being	before	they	experience	real-life	situations	in	which	decisions	have	to	be	made”	(Ontario	Curriculum,	2015,	p.	42).	The	curriculum	does	not	take	a	position	on	whether	or	not	sexual	activity	is	desirable,	but	allows	students	to	critically	reflect	on	“the	benefits	and	consequences	of	a	sexual	relationship”	and	“to	consider	[their]	values	and	beliefs	to	be	sure	[their]	actions	are	consistent	with	them”	(p.	124).	Including	sexual	education	as	part	of	the	health	and	physical	education	curriculum	is	premised	on	helping	students	reflect	on	their	values	and	character	so	they	can	make	informed	decisions	about	situations	they	will	very	likely	face	anyway.	Similarly,	a	good	civic	education	should	help	students	determine	the	benefits	and	risks	of	dissent,	and	refine	their	understandings	of	their	own	values	so	they	will	be	prepared	to	decide	when,	where,	and	how	to	dissent	(if	at	all).	In	short,	it	does	not	follow	that	teaching	young	people	about	dissent	will	make	them	unruly	and	civilly	disobedient.	Rather,	teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right	may	reduce	students’	dispositions	to	engage	in	unproductive	forms	of	dissent	since	they	will	be	more	aware	of	the	moral	and	legal	implications	of	their	behaviour.	While	it	does	not	follow	that	teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right	will	encourage	students’	civil	disobedience,	it	does	provide	room	for	civil	disobedience	to	be	discussed	as	a	legitimate	option	in	the	right	circumstances.	I	have	already	alluded	to	the	distinction	between	legality	and	legitimacy,	and	I	maintain	that	Canada’s	judicial	institutions	do	not	have	a	monopoly	over	that	which	is	morally	legitimate—even	if	there	is	a	high	degree	of	overlap	between	legal	and	moral	legitimacy.	This	is	a	controversial	statement,	especially	since	Canadian	educators	are	subject	to	one	of	the	most	stringent	legal	standards	of	any	profession	and	may	be	subject	to	legal	or		 97 professional	action	if	their	teachings	are	found	too	controversial	or	dangerous.	Accordingly,	educators	must	tread	carefully	here.	Note	that,	in	line	with	my	semi-archic	perspective,	I	insist	that	educators	should	not	teach	students	that	civil	disobedience	is	always	a	preferable	option.	Similarly,	they	should	provide	justifications	for	the	importance	of	laws	as	they	teach	curricular	content	about	the	process	of	lawmaking.	However,	during	this	process,	they	should	also	ensure	students	understand	that	laws	are	human	constructs	and	thus	fallible.	Moreover,	they	should	teach	students	that	the	judicial	system,	for	all	its	benefits,	is	likely	to	mete	out	justice	unevenly	in	practice.		Because	civil	disobedience	may	entail	breaking	laws	or	other	rules,	it	is	difficult	to	conceive	of	it	as	a	positive	right	if	positive	rights	are	defined	as	entitlements	that	the	state	guarantees	to	provide	its	citizens.	We	should	not	pretend	that	the	judicial	system	(with	the	exception	of,	perhaps,	the	Supreme	Courts)	will	overlook	civil	disobedience	if	citizens	argue,	“Well,	I’m	justified	because	x	should	be	a	right!”	Most	civil	disobedience	has	as	its	ultimate	aim	the	modification	or	reinterpretation	of	existing	laws	to	recognize	specific	rights	or	freedoms,	so	the	performance	of	disobedience	primarily	targets	the	morality	of	the	legislative	system	and	general	public	opinion	rather	than	the	judicial	system.	Any	discussion	of	civil	disobedience	must	be	attentive	to	the	risks	involved,	including	judicial	consequences,	a	criminal	record,	personal	harm,	and	harm	to	others.	Despite	these	caveats,	it	is	still	possible	to	frame	the	teaching	of	civil	disobedience	as	a	positive	right	if	curricula	espouse	a	semi-archic	perspective—even	though	this	is	very	sticky	terrain	that	requires	cautious	treatment.		Curricula	can	frame	civil	disobedience	in	terms	of	claims	for	(or	defences	of)	the	core	ethico-political	principles	of	Canada’s	liberal	democracy,	which	are	themselves		 98 positive	rights.	Educators	may	stress	that	legal	infractions	can	be	morally	right	if	they	respect	core	ethico-political	principles.	They	may	even	suggest	that	it	is	an	ethical	duty	to	consider	civil	disobedience	in	egregious	cases	of	rights	violations,	as	long	as	they	remind	students	of	the	potential	risks	and	the	need	to	respect	core	ethico-political	values.	This	approach	can	be	similar	to	how	the	Ontario	curriculum	treats	sexual	education,	which	falls	under	the	purview	of	the	Health	and	Physical	Education	curriculum.	Rather	than	teach	that	sex	is	a	desirable	or	undesirable	activity,	the	curriculum	teaches	that	safe	sex	can	be	a	part	of	students’	overall	health,	which	is	itself	a	positive	right.	Similarly,	civil	disobedience	should	not	be	taught	as	always	desirable	or	always	undesirable,	but	curricula	should	teach	that	productive	civil	disobedience	can	be	a	part	of	citizens’	claims	to	core	ethico-political	values.	In	addition,	to	avoid	the	controversy	of	having	educators	express	their	own	views	on	current	political	issues,	it	may	be	helpful	to	illustrate	civil	disobedience	through	historical	examples.	One	suggestion	might	be	the	activism	undertaken	by	American	civil	rights	advocates	protesting	Jim	Crow	laws.	This,	however,	might	reinforce	the	problematic	teleological	or	“Whig”	conception	of	history	which	implies	that	“social	progress”	has	moved	Canadians	beyond	the	discriminatory	attitudes	“of	the	past.”	If	educators	choose	to	supplement	these	with	present-day	examples	to	illustrate	the	productive	potential	and	risks	of	civil	disobedience—and	I	believe	they	should—this	is	most	safely	approached	through	a	non-prescriptive	presentation.	For	instance,	if	the	Kinder	Morgan	example	I	discuss	above	is	used,	educators	might	ask	students	to	reflect	on	questions	such	as,	“Is	there	a	cause	for	which	I	would	be	willing	to	break	the	law	and	face	consequences?”	“What	is	the	cost	of	breaking	the	law	for	this	cause?”		 99 “What	is	the	cost	of	not	breaking	the	law	for	this	cause?”	and	“Are	there	other	options,	and	would	they	be	more	or	less	effective?”	Again,	this	does	not	mean	that	educators	should	teach	that	civil	disobedience	is	always	desirable.	The	role	of	curricula	should	open	spaces	for	discussion	about	civil	disobedience,	which	I	maintain	is	only	possible	by	teaching	civil	disobedience	as	a	potential	channel	through	which	to	claim	or	defend	the	positive	rights	of	core	ethico-political	values.	By	inculcating	the	understanding	that	laws	are	fallible	and	that	political	subjects’	commitments	to	core	ethico-political	values	are	among	the	most	vital	components	of	a	functioning	democracy,	educators	can	find	a	“middle	ground”	in	which	to	teach	civil	disobedience	productively.	This	middle	ground	respects	that	laws	are	vital	for	democratic	life,	but	also	that	core	ethico-political	values	sometimes	create	room	for	civil	disobedience	to	occur	legitimately.			 There	is	another	risk	to	teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right,	but	this	one	is	of	more	concern	to	critical	and	radical	theorists.	When	teaching	dissent	at	the	classroom	level,	educators	may	conceive	of	dissent	quite	narrowly,	neutralize	dissent,	or	reproduce	limited	hegemonic	views	of	what	constitutes	“appropriate”	forms	of	dissent.	This	could	involve	teaching	that	dissent	should	only	be	through	deliberative	channels	which	policymakers	might	easily	ignore	(such	as	letter-writing)	as	opposed	to	teaching	that	more	obstructive,	non-deliberative	forms	of	dissent	(such	as	road	blockades)	can	be	productive	in	some	situations.	If	educators	fall	back	on	the	dominant,	deliberative	conceptions	of	acceptable	forms	of	dissent	or	continue	to	teach	for	“active	compliance”	except	as	a	last	resort	(Kennelly	&	Llewellyn,	2011),	they	risk	silencing	subaltern	discourses.	In	so	doing,	they	will	reproduce	systemic	injustices	and	leave	little	room	for		 100 students	to	(re)interpret	core	ethico-political	values.	For	policymakers	and	educators	hoping	to	increase	youths’	democratic	engagement	through	education,	this	is	a	serious	risk.			 It	may	be	difficult	for	educators	to	adhere	to	the	semi-archic	ideal	I	discuss	here	because	students	and	teachers	will	likely	be	thinking	of	concrete	issues	in	their	society	while	in	the	classroom.	It	will	be	challenging	to	avoid	coming	down	on	one	side	of	the	debate	or	another.	However,	the	semi-archic	perspective	I	espouse	does	not	equate	with	neutrality	or	objectivity,	in	part	because	total	non-partisanship	is	virtually	impossible	in	civics	classrooms.	Educators’	task	is	to	open	the	discussion,	with	students	as	active	participants,	to	as	many	different	avenues	and	perspectives	as	is	viable	within	a	classroom	setting.	They	should	thus	avoid	pedagogic	approaches	that	foreclose	full	debate.	However,	it	is	also	educators’	task	to	ensure	that	classroom	interactions	remain	in	line	with	core	ethico-political	values,	and	to	make	sure	that	they	call	the	status	quo	into	question,	even	if	students	or	teachers	themselves	agree	with	the	status	quo.	In	short,	teachers	should	avoid	reifying	or	legitimizing	any	one	perspective	over	another	and	educate	for	the	critical	capacities	necessary	to	exercise	informed	dissent	if	students	so	choose.		 The	most	pressing	limitation	in	teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right	is	that	some	students	face	greater	risks	in	exercising	dissent	than	others.	I	have	postulated	that,	by	fostering	a	consciousness	for	dissent	according	to	which	dissent	is	normalized,	Canadians	might	expect	more	citizens	to	dissent	when	they	perceive	injustices.	The	risk	for	subaltern	groups	here	is	two-fold.	First,	by	virtue	of	being	subaltern,	they	are	more	likely	to	experience	injustices	themselves	and	are	thus	more	likely	to	find	reasons	to		 101 dissent.	I	am	unaware	of	any	studies	measuring	subaltern	groups’	disposition	to	dissent,	but	my	point	is	that	the	stakes	are	higher	for	these	groups,	whether	or	not	they	choose	to	express	dissenting	views.	Second,	if	subaltern	groups—racialized	groups	in	particular—do	choose	to	engage	in	acts	of	dissent,	they	are	more	liable	to	be	labelled	as	“dangerous”	(Dhamoon	&	Abu-Laban,	2009).	This	has	led	to	more	serious	sanctions	and	more	violent	police	responses,	and	is	becoming	increasingly	concerning	due	to	new	and	proposed	legislation	(Bill	C-51	is	a	good	example	of	this).	There	is	evidence	that	Canada	is	at	once	expanding	the	definition	of	what	constitutes	“terrorism”	while	at	the	same	time	policing	“terrorist”	activity	more	closely	(Anti-Terrorism	Act,	2015;	Linnit,	2015).	Although	the	risks	of	judicial	sanctions	and	police	violence	are	serious	concerns,	I	do	not	believe	that	teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right	or	fostering	a	consciousness	for	dissent	place	students	in	unwarranted	harm.	In	some	cases,	fostering	the	growth	of	certain	counterpublics	(particularly	those	networked	into	schools)	can	even	create	more	secure	environments	because	these	“more	private	publics”	act	as	safe	discursive	arenas	(Kelly,	2003,	p.	126).	In	perhaps	rarer	cases,	students	who	perceive	educators	as	supportive	of	productive	dissent	may	be	inclined	to	seek	out	school	authorities	(maybe	in	informal	spaces	such	as	hallways	or	outside	school	hours)	to	discuss	strategies	for	expressing	dissent	(Johnson,	2009,	p.	53).	The	relationships	between	these	students	and	educators,	with	whom	students	have	already	established	trust	and	who	may	be	well-situated	to	understand	students’	dissenting	attitudes	and	dispositions,	can	act	as	avenues	for	the	safe	exploration	of	productive	exercises	of	dissent.	Educators	in	these	situations	are	likely	better	suited	to	inform	and	foster	productive	dissent	as	compared		 102 to	the	potentially	less	trustworthy	sources	students	might	turn	to	in	those	educators’	absence	(e.g.,	online	sources,	pre-existing	counterpublics).	Moreover,	to	say	that	it	is	ultimately	an	individual’s	own	decision	to	exercise	her	right	to	dissent	is	only	partially	true.	The	role	of	civic	education	in	this	regard	is	to	minimize	the	risks	inherent	to	engaging	in	acts	of	dissent	by	asking	students	to	reflect	on	their	values	and	by	informing	them	of	the	legal	and	moral	risks	of	dissent.	It	does	demand	that	students	“pick	their	battles”	and	weigh	the	importance	of	their	values	with	the	risks	they	take	in	expressing	dissent.	But	the	state	does	have	a	role	in	mitigating	inequalities	for	those	expressing	dissent.	As	such,	educators	have	an	obligation	to	students	to	reveal	how	“othered”	youth	are	disproportionately	likely	to	be	constructed	as	dangerous	rather	than	presume	that	judicial	authorities	will	treat	all	dissenters	equally.	Civics	curricula	can	only	do	so	much	by	helping	students	make	informed	decisions	regarding	their	own	wellbeing.		We	must	also	remember	that	curricula—especially	civics	curricula—do	not	exist	independently	of	the	civic	world,	and	that	the	state	and	its	citizens	are	obligated	to	ensure	that	policies	and	society	actively	make	curricular	goals	possible.	State	institutions	can	make	possible	a	positive	conceptualization	of	dissent	and	minimize	risks	for	students	who	exercise	that	right	by	providing	what	Fraser	(2008)	calls	“participatory	parity.”	This	entails	the	ability	of	all	members	of	society	to	participate	with	substantive	equality	in	civic	and	political	matters.	Fraser	identifies	three	spheres	that	require	attention:	first,	the	society’s	economic	structures	must	ensure	that	citizens	have	the	resources	to	interact	“as	peers.”	Second,	people’s	cultural	value	must	be	recognized	as	equal,	and	so	societies	must	eradicate	institutional	hierarchies	of	this		 103 value.	Third,	formal	decision	rules	must	ensure	that	people	are	substantively	included	and	represented	(pp.	405-406).		This	project	cannot	happen	overnight,	nor	is	it	solely	the	responsibility	of	the	state.	Educators	must	make	clear	that	it	is	not	solely	the	marginalized	who	must	stand	up	for	their	own	rights	(and	face	uneven	consequences	accordingly).	They	must	also	make	clear	that	dissent	is	not	an	individual	endeavour,	but	a	collective	endeavour.	Dissent	should	not	always	be	only	for	one’s	own	sake;	as	we	will	see	in	the	subsequent	chapter,	dissent	is	driven	by	concern	for	others	and	by	a	substantive	vision	of	a	just	society	for	all.	Thus,	curricula	should	also	highlight	the	role	of	“allies”	in	dissent	and	collective	struggle.	In	addition	to	asking	students	to	reflect	on	questions	like,	“Is	there	a	cause	important	enough	for	me	that	I	would	be	willing	to	fact	the	risks	of	dissent?”	they	should	also	be	asked	to	consider,	“Is	there	a	cause	important	enough	for	others	that	I	would	be	willing	to	face	the	risks	of	dissent	on	their	behalf?”	In	short,	teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right	requires	an	awareness	that	citizens	share	responsibility	for	one	another’s	well-being,	and	that	they	are	sometimes	uniquely	situated	to	support	those	who	face	disproportionate	risks.		Conclusion	Teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right	will	make	democracies	richer,	more	socially	just,	and	safer.	If	curricula	create	space	for	agonistic	and	semi-archic	political	perspectives,	democracies	will	be	richer	as	they	will	be	better	suited	to	deal	with	the	pluralism	inherent	to	an	increasingly	diverse	society.	By	fostering	a	consciousness	for	dissent,	civics	curricula	will	also	animate	space	for	productive	dissent,	particularly	for		 104 those	whose	backgrounds	and	interpretations	of	core	ethico-political	values	are	marginalized	through	hegemonic	processes.	Finally,	Canadian	democracy	will	be	safer	since	teaching	positive	dissent	through	semi-archic	and	agonistic	lenses	aims	to	keep	legitimate	political	channels	open,	thus	encouraging	citizens	to	treat	one	another	as	respected	adversaries	and	not	enemies	to	be	destroyed.		There	is	nevertheless	a	crucial	element	of	this	argument	that	I	have	not	yet	addressed.	In	the	following	chapter,	I	will	balance	the	affective,	emotional,	and	passionate	components	inherent	to	dissent	with	the	rational	components	necessary	for	dissent	to	be	productive.		 		 105 Chapter	Four:	The	Passionate	Demands	of	Democratic	Citizenship			 Reasoning	will	never	make	a	Man	[sic]	correct	an	ill	Opinion,	which	by			 Reasoning	he	never	acquired.	 —Jonathan	Swift,	A	Letter	to	a	Young	Gentleman	 	 In	the	previous	chapter,	I	made	the	case	that	dissent	is	a	vital	part	of	democratic	life,	and	that	teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right	fosters	the	disposition	as	well	as	the	critical	and	moral	capacities	necessary	for	dissent.	But	dissent	is	also	a	passionate	affair	(a	term	I	explain	below).	Still,	it	is	as	yet	unclear	in	this	thesis	how	passion	figures	into	political	life.	For	many,	especially	for	some	deliberative	democrats,	passion	is	a	distraction	that	prevents	“proper”	consideration	of	the	issues	and	presents	an	impediment	to	legitimate	decision-making.46	This	attitude	has	gained	legitimacy	in	formal	Canadian	politics.	The	late	Prime	Minister	Pierre	Trudeau,	for	instance,	was	deeply	informed	by	the	mantra,	“Reason	over	passion,”	which	underpinned	many	key	principles	of	his	constitutional	projects	(Von	Heyking,	2009,	p.	41).	However,	I	hold	that	passions	are	far	from	being	an	undesirable	social	fact,	and	are	inseparable	from	and	necessary	for	political	life.	Moreover,	I	believe	we	should	be	wary	of	the	exclusionary	nature	of	political	models	that	claim	to	be	entirely	rationally	oriented.	I	also	believe	that	                                                46	We	might	attribute	the	contemporary	prevalence	of	rationalist	understandings	of	deliberation	to	Habermas’	mid-20th	century	works.	However,	this	rationalist	line	of	thought	can	be	traced	back	as	far	as	Aristotelian	deliberative	politics,	in	which	reason	plays	the	preeminent	role	in	producing	just	and	virtuous	outcomes	(Wilson,	2011).	Neither	Aristotle	nor	his	contemporaries,	the	early	Stoics,	made	a	radical	distinction	between	reason	and	passion.	However,	since	Stoics	believe	that	emotions	(understood	as	primary	impulses)	are	often	created	by	flawed	reasoning,	people	should	ignore	their	emotions	in	favour	of	reason	wherever	possible	(Solomon,	2003).	The	hierarchal	dominance	of	reason	over	passion	intensified	with	the	Cartesian	mind/body	split,	with	passions	“conceived	as	alien	intruders	from	the	realm	of	the	body”	(Lloyd,	2003,	p.	xv).	Despite	interventions	by	18th	and	19th	century	thinkers	such	as	David	Hume	and	Jean-Jacques	Rousseau,	rationalist	understandings	of	passion	witnessed	a	resurgence	early	in	the	20th	century	due	in	part	to	cognitivists	like	William	James	(Solomon,	2003).	This	is	by	no	means	a	complete	genealogy	of	the	rationalist	underpinnings	of	deliberative	democracy;	I	wish	only	to	offer	some	historical	perspective	on	the	deep-rootedness	of	rationalist	ideals.			 106 passions	are	intrinsically	valuable	for	human	life	and	particularly	for	human	togetherness,	though	I	do	not	develop	these	arguments	here.	I	advance,	instead,	the	normative	argument	that	civic	education	in	Canada	should	include	critical	attention	to	the	passionate	demands	of	democratic	citizenship,	especially	insofar	as	passion	prepares	students	to	exercise	their	positive	right	to	political	dissent.	I	begin	by	making	the	case	that	teaching	political	passions	can	inspire	students’	political	engagement,	but	that	this	must	be	balanced	with	the	need	to	harness	and	channel	passions	productively.	Second,	I	argue	that	the	narrow	focus	on	rationality	and	reason	in	civic	life	at	the	expense	of	passion	circumscribes	not	only	democratic	procedures	(how	certain	issues	can	be	discussed),	but	also	the	substance	(what	is	discussed).	Third,	I	argue	that	teaching	students	about	how	political	passions	are	constructed	and	mobilized	can	help	them	resist	manipulative	forms	of	political	emotion.		Political	Passion	A	Conceptual	Clarification.	Much	as	the	expression	of	the	human	capacity	for	reason	can	be	called	rationality,	I	refer	to	expressions	of	affect	as	“passion.”	The	term	affect	is	often	used	across	disciplines	(including	but	not	limited	to	cognitive	psychology,	cultural	studies,	neuroscience,	and	sociology)	to	subsume	all	terms	relating	to	feeling,	emotion,	passion,	and	the	like.	There	is	little	agreement	between	(or	within!)	these	schools	about	what	any	of	these	terms	mean.	As	I	discuss	below,	my	own	understanding	of	passion	does	not	fit	neatly	into	any	particular	school	of	thought.	First,	however,	I	would	like	to	explain	why	I	elect	to	discuss	“passion"	rather	than	affect,	emotion,	or	feeling.			 107 	 In	addition	to	using	affect	as	an	overarching	term,	many	schools	(e.g.	cognitive	psychology,	neuroscience)	use	affect	to	correspond	to	the	body’s	capacity	to	experience	a	perceptual,	“pre-personal”	and	“non-conscious	experience	of	intensity,”	one	that	cannot	be	qualified	by	words	(Shouse,	2005,	par.	5).	Said	differently,	affect	can	be	conceived	as	the	“primarily	sensory	modality	through	which	we	perceive	the	internal	(psychic)	world	of	reality”	(Solms,	2002,	p.	55).	I	find	this	dual	meaning	of	“affect”	as	both	a	primary	sensory	modality	and	as	a	term	to	subsume	the	cognitive	psychological	affective	states	I	describe	above	unnecessarily	confusing.	I	wish	to	avoid	conflating	discussions	of	(what	I	mean	by)	passion	with	those	about	unqualified,	unconscious,	sensorial	intensity.		 Some	theorists	(see	Bond,	2011;	Nussbaum,	2013)	instead	subsume	terms	like	anger,	hope,	love,	and	fear	under	the	term	“emotion.”	Emotion	has	the	advantage	of	being	a	commonplace	term.	However,	as	Sara	Ahmed	(2004)	points	out,	the	“psychologization	of	emotions”	has	emphasized	the	now-familiar	ways	that	emotions	originate	from	within	and	then	“get	out”	(p.	28),	perhaps	against	one's	wishes.	While	more	recent	work	(including	Ahmed's)	has	challenged	this	perspective,	I	believe	this	“inside-out”	perspective	still	dominates	understandings	of	emotion.	The	term	“feeling”	is	also	unsuitable	for	my	purposes,	too	easily	connoting	the	sensational,	fleeting	elements	of	passions	(Boler,	1999,	p.	xx).47	This	leaves	little	room	to	describe	how	they	might	also	be	mobilized	or	channelled	politically.		                                                47	Dispositions	have	an	opposite	characteristic	of	feelings,	in	that	they	are	amalgamations	of	temporary	passions	over	time.	More	on	this	below.		 108 	 I	choose	instead	to	use	the	term	“passion”	throughout	this	thesis.	I	find	this	term	most	accurately	reflects	the	intense,	motivational	force	that	drives	political	action,	especially	dissent.	Like	Mouffe	(2014),	I	believe	the	term	“passion”	is	most	suitable	to	“challenge	the	rationalist	view	dominant	in	democratic	political	theory”	(p.	155).	In	my	view,	this	is	because	it	embraces	the	“disruptive”	and	“uncontrollable”	(or	difficult-to-control)	nature	that	rationalist	traditions	(e.g.,	the	Stoics,	Descartes)	have	attributed	to	it.	Rather	than	trying	to	suppress	or	master	passions,	I	focus	here	on	how	they	might	be	channelled,	or	directed	at	a	political	object.			 Following	Mouffe	(2014),	I	recognize	that	the	term	entails	both	the	collective	construction	and	partisan	nature	of	political	identities:	From	the	perspective	that	I	advocate	it	is	essential	to	distinguish	between	‘passions’	and	‘emotions’.	Indeed	it	is	with	regard	to	the	political	domain	that	my	approach	has	been	elaborated	and	one	of	its	central	tenets	is	that	in	that	field	we	are	always	dealing	with	collective	identities,	something	that	the	term	‘emotions’	does	not	adequately	convey	because	emotions	are	usually	attached	to	individuals.	To	be	sure	‘passions’	can	also	be	of	an	individual	nature	but	I	have	chosen	to	use	that	term,	with	its	more	violent	connotations,	because	it	allows	me	to	underline	the	dimension	of	conflict	and	to	suggest	a	confrontation	between	collective	political	identities,	two	aspects	that	I	take	to	be	constitutive	of	politics.	(p.	149)	Mouffe	makes	explicit	here	that	political	identities	are	always	bound	up	in	passions	and	thus	necessarily	partisan.	As	we	will	see,	this	element	helps	refocus	democratic	theory	on	conflict	rather	than	the	consensus	typical	of	rationally	oriented	models.	Moreover,		 109 passion	is	not	merely	a	product	of	the	individual,	as	rationalist	traditions	have	tended	to	treat	it.	Departing	from	these	traditions	leaves	space	to	consider	how	passions	are	collectively	constructed	and	even	how	they	shape	collective	identities.		What	Is	Passion?	To	counter	the	rationalist	hierarchy	of	reason	over	passion	that	many	liberal	and	deliberative	theorists	uphold,	I	witness	here	the	deconstruction	of	the	binary	between	reason	and	passion.	In	so	doing,	I	demonstrate	how	democratic	theory	is	limited	if	it	treats	the	two	as	the	separate,	opposed,	and	hierarchically	related	sides	in	a	binary	pair	(see	Biesta,	2009).	Witnessing	the	deconstruction	of	this	binary	between	reason	and	passion	permits	us	to	“bear	witness	to	what	is	made	invisible	by	[the	presence	of	reason]	but	is	nonetheless	necessary	to	make	this	presence	possible”	(Biesta,	2009,	p.	394).	In	other	words,	this	method	does	not	merely	attend	to	the	“other	side”	of	reason	in	the	reason/passion	binary;	it	strengthens	our	understanding	of	reason	and	passion	alike.		The	act	of	witnessing	opens	up	the	binary	between	reason	and	passion	and	permits	us	to	think	more	inventively	about	the	spaces	where	reason	and	passion	constitute	one	another.	We	will	see	that	the	role	passion	plays	(and	has	always	played)	in	the	political	realm	has	been	rendered	less	visible	by	the	emphasis	on	reason.	Attending	to	the	spaces	where	reason	and	passion	constitute	one	another	not	only	elucidates	passion’s	instrumental	value,	but	also	illuminates	how	political	processes	that	we	have	recognized	as	solely	rational	are	in	fact	inseparable	from	passion.			 I	am	by	no	means	the	first	to	witness	this	deconstruction;	other	scholars,	especially	feminist	scholars	in	the	20th	century,	have	made	these	interventions	into	the	reason/passion	binary	possible.	Alison	Jaggar	(1989),	for	example,	argues	that	Western		 110 epistemological	traditions	have	obscured	how	emotion	contributes	to	knowledge	and	shows	how	the	myth	of	“dispassionate	investigation”	has	undermined	women’s	and	many	non-Euromericans’	perfectly	valid	knowledge	claims.	Genevieve	Lloyd	(2003),	too,	exposes	how	reason	was	partially	constructed	on	the	exclusion	of	the	feminine.			 Spurred	in	part	by	these	interventions,	scholars	in	the	“affective	turn”	of	the	last	fifteen	years—from	socio-cultural	and	scientific	perspectives	alike—have	“fended	off	the	emotions	=	irrationality	equation…	arguing	that	all	human	beings	are	both	rational	and	emotional,	and	that	feelings	are	a	necessary	component	of,	rather	than	a	barrier	to,	rational	thought”	(Gould,	2010,	p.	35).	Psychologist	Daniel	Batson	(2014),	for	instance,	argues	that	emotions	reflect	people’s	goals	(or	changes	in	their	situational	relation	to	their	goals),	which	are	in	turn	based	on	rational	considerations.	Neo-stoics	and	cognitivists	have	also	shown	that	passions	possess	both	an	intentional	quality	and	are	open	to	rational	assessment	(Solomon,	2003).	As	such,	emotions	and	other	passionate	states	are	“intelligent	appraisals”	of	moral	worth	and	other	important	decisions	(Hordern,	2012,	pp.	25-28).	But	reason	is	not	just	a	key	component	of	our	passions;	passions	also	inform	our	rationality	such	that	it	is	irresponsible	to	treat	reason	and	passion	as	a	hierarchy	or	binary.	It	would	be	difficult	to	exercise	reason	without	a	driving	force	to	motivate	political	decision-making.	People	are	“emotionally	invested”	in	their	own	interests,	or	there	would	be	no	affective	“reward”	for	achieving	them.	Indeed,	Archer	(2013)	critiques	the	assumption	that	instrumental	reason	is	devoid	of	emotion,	asking	what	else	could	provide	the	“shoving	power”	to	motivate	one’s	attempts	to	maximize	a	given	utility	(p.	6).	Neurological	research	also	demonstrates	that	emotions	are	especially	helpful	for	decision-making	that	was	once	considered	entirely	rational,		 111 not	only	for	“gut	decisions”	but	also	for	“thoughtful	deliberation”	(Morris,	2015,	pp.	14-15).		 My	understanding	of	passion	straddles	the	boundaries	between	various	schools	of	thought.	To	help	deconstruct	the	reason/passion	binary,	I	rely	on	cognitivist	views	that	conceive	of	passions	and	cognition	as	intimately	linked	in	nature,	particularly	in	their	capacity	to	act	as	intelligent	appraisals	of	an	object’s	moral	worth	(see	above).	On	the	other	hand,	I	draw	from	constructivist	accounts	that	explain	how	people	feel	and	express	passions	based	on	external	circumstances,	such	as	language	(see	Abu-Lughod	&	Lutz,	1990).	Ahmed	(2004)	helps	make	this	perspective	clear.	She	understands	passions	as	mediators	between	the	individual	and	the	collective	that	shape	the	fabric	of	collective	identities	by	establishing	shared	feelings:	“How	we	feel	about	others	is	what	aligns	us	with	a	collective,	which	paradoxically	‘takes	shape’	.	.	.	as	an	effect	of	such	alignments”	(p.	27).	She	also	explains	how	passions	are	intentional	in	that	they	are	directed	at	objects,	and	how	passions	move	us	to	create	attachments	or	borders	with	those	objects.	As	we	will	see,	passions’	moving	component	is	key	to	political	engagement.		 Ahmed’s	work	is	consistent	with	Mouffe’s	(2014)	more	psychoanalytic	perspective	on	how	collective,	impassioned	political	identities	reflect	and	shape	shared	antagonisms.	Both	perspectives	highlight	the	collective,	rather	than	internal	or	private	nature	of	emotion,	and	are	as	such	consistent	with	a	feminist	politics	of	emotion	(Boler,	1999).	Moreover,	Mouffe’s	psychoanalytic	perspective	leaves	room	to	discuss	how	people	can	“channel”	political	passions.	Following	from	Boler’s	(1999)	distinction	between	moral	anger	(on	behalf	of	a	collective)	and	defensive	anger	(threats	to	our	own	identities),	Ruitenberg	(2009)	defines	political	emotions	as	those	that	are	“necessarily		 112 bound	up	with	the	power	relations	in	a	society	and	with	a	substantive	vision	of	a	just	society”	(p.	277).	In	this	chapter,	it	is	these	specifically	political	passions	I	am	interested	in.	 	In	what	follows,	I	argue	that	attending	to	political	passion	is	vital	for	civic	education.	I	will	draw	on	critical-radical,	agonist,	and	semi-archic	understandings	of	passion	to	elucidate	how	the	treatment	of	passion	in	many	deliberative	models	of	democracy	precludes	some	desirable	aspects	of	decision-making	processes.	I	share	policymakers’	desire	for	youths’	heightened	civic	and	political	engagement	and	argue	that	passions	provide	the	mobilizing	force	necessary	to	inculcate	students’	disposition	to	engage.	Moreover,	since	I	am	concerned	with	students’	disposition	to	and	capacity	for	dissent	when	students	perceive	injustices,	I	argue	that	educating	for	an	impassioned	consciousness	for	dissent	will	help	students	to	exercise	dissent	productively,	in	line	with	the	core	ethico-political	values	of	a	liberal	democracy.	Finally,	since	I	am	concerned	that	students	may	lack	preparedness	to	be	critical	of	the	construction	of	political	passions,	I	argue	that	attending	to	passions	is	necessary	if	students	are	to	resist	manipulative	exercises	of	passion.		Inspiring	Engagement	Through	Passion	Engaging	Students	in	Civic	Life.	One	of	the	key	aims	of	the	civics	curricula	I	study	is	to	encourage	students	to	engage	in	civic	life	(B.C.	Ministry	of	Education,	2005;	Ontario	Ministry	of	Education,	2013).	A	disposition	to	engage	is	developed	through	an	amalgamation	of	temporary	passions	over	time,	resulting	in	a	relatively	permanent	sentiment	toward	a	specific	object	or	other.	The	“object”	or	“other”	may	be	any	number	of	civic	ideas	or	fellow	citizens	(e.g.,	a	longing	for	an	end	to	human	trafficking	or		 113 compassion	for	the	homeless).48	Remembering	also	that	feelings	act	as	mediators	of	collective	affect,	a	disposition	to	engage	is	in	part	a	product	of	the	“moving”	elements	of	passions	and	a	contributor	to	the	social	world.	This	move	to	engage	with	another	“reshapes	the	bodies	in	the	contact	zone	of	the	encounter”	(Ahmed,	2004,	p.	31).	Said	differently,	a	student	who	is	moved	by	her	passions	(e.g.,	compassion)	to	engage	with	another	(e.g.,	a	homeless	man)	modifies	the	way	that	both	people,	and	all	those	in	proximity	who	share	their	feelings,	will	read	one	another	in	the	future.	In	this	sense,	to	be	moved	by	our	passions	is	to	shape	history	(p.	39).	Fostering	students’	sense	of	being	inextricably	woven	into	this	fabric,	where	the	social	and	the	personal	meet,	may	instil	in	them	a	sense	of	the	importance	of	heeding	the	moving	component	of	passions.	To	learn	to	heed	passions	in	productive	ways	is	key	to	strengthening	one’s	disposition	to	engage	in	civic	life.		 	Educators	are	doubtlessly	aware	that	fostering	the	disposition	to	engage	effectively	requires	them	to	attend	to	the	more	passionate	aspects	of	democracy.	This	is	particularly	true	for	contested	and	controversial	issues.	Barton	&	McCully	(2007)	argue	that	“if	emotional	issues	are	ignored,	then	far	from	learning	to	deal	with	difficult	issues	rationally,	students	may	simply	come	to	see	[subject	matter]	as	irrelevant	to	their	own	concerns”	(p.	14).	Students	might	understand	why	issues	such	as	climate	change	are	important,	but	if	they	do	not	feel	sufficiently	concerned	to	do	anything	about	them,	they	are	unlikely	to	engage.	Pedagogical	efforts	to	engage	students	in	civic	life	are	thus	a	very	fundamental	reason	to	include	attention	to	passion	in	civics	curricula,	but	I	do	not	                                                48	As	per	my	semi-archic	perspective,	I	believe	that	a	chief	aim	of	democracy	studies	must	be	to	instil	in	students	an	impassioned	longing	for	democratic	modes	of	human	togetherness,	generally,	rather	than	for	a	specific	model	of	democracy.		 114 discuss	these	in	detail	here.	I	am	more	concerned	with	engaging	students	in	civic	life	beyond	the	classroom.	Activists	have	long	deployed	passion	strategically	“to	engender	sufficient	commitment	amongst	activist	collectives	to	maintain	their	on-going	participation”	and	to	engender	solidarity	(Brown	&	Pickerill,	2009).	We	probably	have	no	trouble	bringing	to	mind	images	of	angry	protesters,	but	it	may	be	more	difficult	to	think	of	other	examples	of	how	Canadians	mobilize	passion	productively.	It	is	less	obvious	why	passion	might	be	useful	on	a	day-to-day	basis.	However,	disgust	over	the	country’s	rising	income	inequality	and	gratitude	for	military	sacrifices	are	both	examples	of	these	everyday	political	passions.	For	Rawlsian	(1995)	deliberative	democrats,	principle-dependent	emotions	(those	based	in	a	shared	sense	of	justice)	seem	to	be	enough	to	inspire	people	to	act	morally.	In	a	Canadian	context,	one	example	of	a	principle-dependent	emotion	is	the	public	sense	of	shame	over	the	Komagata	Maru	incident.	The	Canadian	Government’s	apology	in	May	of	2016	for	the	country’s	1914	rejection	of	Sikh,	Muslim,	and	Hindu	migrants	acts	as	a	call	to	reinvigorate	Canadians’	commitment	to	the	shared	(Rawls	would	say	“overlapping”)	principle	of	multiculturalism.	In	Rawls’	“well-ordered	society,”	this	might	be	a	sensible	way	of	strengthening	people’s	commitment	to	moral	action.	Building	on	this	argument,	and	following	in	the	footsteps	of	Enlightenment	thinkers	like	Mill	and	Kant,	Nussbaum	(2013)	believes	that	eudaemonistic	political	emotions—those	tied	to	people’s	circle	of	concern—are	important	to	help	“people	to	think	larger	thoughts	and	recommit	themselves	to	a	larger	common	good”	(p.	3).			 115 A	key	part	of	the	task,	Nussbaum	(2013)	argues,	is	to	“cultivate…	the	ability	to	see	full	and	equal	humanity	in	another	person”	(p.	3).	This	ability	is	important	because	people	“care	most	about	those	in	their	circle	of	concern,”	and	most	easily	perceive	them	as	equally	worthy	of	dignity	(pp.	11,	120).	Fostering	a	sense	of	equal	humanity	requires	cultivating	a	range	of	emotions	and	dispositions,	all	of	which	(for	Nussbaum)	are	bound	together	by	love.	Nussbaum’s	humanistic	project	reveals	much	about	the	ability	to	foster	citizens’	engagement	with	civic	life.	In	particular,	she	“imagine[s]	ways	in	which	emotions	can	support	the	basic	principles	of	the	political	culture	of	an	aspiring	yet	imperfect	society”	(p.	6).	She	also	imagines	how	passions	can	play	“an	important	role	in	generating	practices	of	resistance	and	cultural	resurgence”	if	they	are	mobilized	through	means	such	as	popular	music,	public	monuments,	and	festivals	(p.	120).	Nussbaum’s	project	is	heavily	based	in	Rawlsian	understandings	of	the	“overlapping	consensus”	(roughly,	a	common	conception	of	justice	to	adjudicate	between	multiple	comprehensive	viewpoints).	I	disagree	with	this	idea	for	being	too	democratically	“thick”	and	thus	unsuitable	to	deal	with	deep	difference.	Nevertheless,	contemporary	societies	such	as	Canada	have	enshrined	a	commitment	to	some	thin	(and	sometimes,	fairly	thick)	common	principles.	Canada’s	commitment	to	cultural	pluralism,	for	instance,	is	enshrined	in	a	liberal	conception	of	multiculturalism	that	citizens	are	expected	and	legally	bound	to	uphold.	Nussbaum’s	work	offers	practical	insights	about	the	ways	that	passions	work	in	tandem	with	moral	rationality	to	uphold	these	sorts	of	principles.	If	applied	to	civic	education,	students	can	learn	about	the	shared	moral	principles	that	any	given	society	espouses,	as	well	as	learn	to	appreciate	these	principles	both	rationally	and	affectively.	For	deliberative	democrats	and	more		 116 critical-radical	thinkers	alike,	passion	can	foster	students’	dispositions	to	engage	in	civic	life	by	supplementing	principle-dependent	reasons	for	engagement.			Toward	an	Impassioned	Consciousness	for	Dissent	Critical-radical	thinkers	identify	how	passions	can	be	mobilized	at	a	deeper	level.	Passion	is	not	only	important	to	supplement	status-quo	principles	or	to	inspire	engagement	in	actions	that	uphold	the	pre-written	“scripts”	of	citizenship	(Isin,	2009).	It	is	even	more	important	for	students	to	learn	for	political	passions	to	prepare	them	to	engage	in	acts	of	dissent.49	This	is	because	the	stigma	against	political	dissent	as	“anti-social”	(or	at	least	antithetical	to	civic	responsibility	in	a	liberal-democratic	environment)	makes	it	likely	that	students	are	more	likely	to	learn	so-called	“pro-social”	behaviours—and	with	them,	“pro-social”	affective	dispositions—than	behaviours	and	affective	dispositions	that	disrupt	the	“scripts”	of	citizenship	(Kennelly,	2009).	Kennelly	&	Llewellyn	(2011)	make	the	case	that	the	dominance	of	neoliberalism	since	the	1980s	has	modified	the	form	of	citizenship	Canadian	students	learn,	such	that	it	now	emphasizes	the	“pro-social”	characteristics	of	responsibility/self-regulation,	rationality	(i.e.	informed	and	ethical	citizenship),	and	duty	to	the	nation	(as	opposed	to	subverting	its	goals	through	activism).	These	are	perfectly	compatible	with	the	deliberative	ideals	of	engagement	I	discuss	in	Chapters	One	and	Two.	                                                49	I	say	“learn	for	political	passions”	rather	than	“learn	political	passions”	here	because	I	am	concerned	that	students	in	Canada’s	socio-cultural	climate,	which	I	perceive	to	be	rationally	oriented,	may	otherwise	fail	to	recognize	the	value	of	passions	in	civic	life.	Learning	for	political	passions	is	equally	concerned	with	teaching	students	to	understand	and	channel	passions	as	it	is	with	teaching	students	why	doing	so	is	important.	More	on	this	below.		 117 In	addition,	Canadian	civics	curricula	tend	to	treat	many	of	the	feelings,	emotions,	and	sentiments	that	support	pre-written	scripts	of	citizenship	(e.g.,	a	sense	of	civic	fraternity)	as	“public”	and	therefore	important,	while	those	that	cause	tensions	are	treated	as	unimportant,	“private,”	or	potentially	disruptive	passions	(Kennelly	&	Llewellyn,	2011).	I	argue	in	Chapter	Three	that	for	civic	educators	to	foster	a	consciousness	for	dissent,	students	must	learn	the	critical	and	moral	capacities	necessary	for	dissent.	Political	passions	are	one	such	capacity,	but	the	stigma	around	“anti-social”	affective	dispositions	makes	students	comparatively	less	likely	to	develop	these	capacities	through	today’s	formal	or	external	curricula.	If	these	socio-cultural	tendencies—and	the	accompanying	lack	of	critical	attention	to	political	passion—result	in	students’	inability	to	understand,	harness,	and	channel	their	passions	productively,	many	forms	of	political	acts	may	be	rendered	less	effective	or	even	hazardous	for	the	participants	and	those	around	them.		As	discussed	in	Chapter	Three,	Stitzlein's	(2012)	work	is	valuable	because	it	is	concerned	with	practical	matters	about	how	to	address	dissent	in	schools.	She	raises	the	obvious	concern	that	teaching	for	dissent	in	secondary	schools	is	difficult,	because	a	classroom	full	of	teenagers	could	be	liable	to	take	too	many	liberties	with	the	idea	of	dissent	(p.	147).	Underlying	this	concern	is	the	implication	that	teenagers	are	more	likely	to	take	impulsive	action	and	may	lack	the	experience	necessary	to	make	responsible	choices.	Stitzlein	allays	these	concerns	by	pointing	out	that	“hope	is	the	most	important	foundation	of	dissent…	Though	students	may	be	more	confident	and	willing	to	voice	their	opinions,	hope	steers	them	away	from	mere	retribution	and	anarchy”	(p.	148).	I	agree	with	Stitzlein	that	teaching	for	dissent	will	contribute	to	their		 118 disposition	to	engage	actively	in	civic	life.	However,	I	wish	to	take	a	less	archic	path	than	Stitzlein	to	allay	the	same	concern,	one	that	does	not	rely	on	any	one	emotion	as	the	“foundation”	of	hope.	I	believe	that	instilling	in	students	a	desire	for	more	democratic	modes	of	human	togetherness	draws	on	and	fosters	a	wider	array	of	passions	than	hope	(or	anger	or	trust	or	compassion)	alone.			I	argue	that	students’	relative	lack	of	political	experience	is	precisely	why	giving	attention	to	political	affect	in	civic	education	is	so	important.	Students	in	a	civics	course	will	almost	invariably	express	political	passions,	and	I	believe	that	these	courses	should	provide	semi-structured	environments	where	students	can	learn	to	channel	their	dispositions	to	engage	productively.	Like	Mouffe,	I	believe	the	danger	does	not	lie	in	a	fear	of	political	subjects’	descent	into	“mere	retribution	or	anarchy,”	as	Stitzlein	(2012,	p.148)	maintains.	Rather,	as	Mouffe	(2014)	states,		Emphasizing	the	role	of	passions	is	no	doubt	open	to	the	objection	that	those	passions	can	be	mobilized	in	ways	that	will	undermine	democratic	institutions.	This	is	clearly	the	fear	that	leads	many	theorists	to	exclude	them	from	democratic	politics.	But	…	this	is	a	very	perilous	viewpoint	because	refusing	to	provide	democratic	channels	for	the	expression	of	collective	affects	lays	the	terrain	for	antagonistic	forms	of	their	mobilization.	(p.	156)	Said	differently,	it	is	more	dangerous	to	treat	these	passions	as	non-existent	or	unimportant	than	to	provide	channels	for	their	expression.			 I	have	been	arguing	that	the	risk	of	treating	passions	as	non-existent	is	that,	when	the	time	comes	to	express	political	dissent,	students	may	not	learn	to	do	so	productively—that	is,	in	line	with	the	core	ethico-political	principles	of	a	liberal		 119 democracy,	namely	liberty	and	equality.	The	question	then	becomes,	Who	decides	what	counts	as	“liberal"	and	“equal?”	The	framework	Mouffe	(2000)	has	set	out	to	address	this	concern	is,	in	my	view,	minimally	prescriptive	and	avoids	making	thick,	normative	claims	about	these	principles.	She	argues	that	all	interpretations	of	these	core	principles	are	legitimate,	and	that	the	goal	of	agonistic	politics	is	to	assert	one’s	interpretation	of	these	principles	while	also	recognizing	the	legitimacy	of	adversaries’	alternative	interpretations—especially	counter-hegemonic	ones	(p.	8).	This	disposition	to	express	political	dissent	is	quite	common	among	young	Canadians.	Other	than	voting,	Canadian	youth	aged	15-24	are	more	likely	to	participate	in	“non-traditional”	forms	of	civic	engagement	(such	as	petition-signing,	boycotting	products,	and	attending	demonstrations)	than	in	formal	politics.	They	are	also	the	demographic	most	likely	to	participate	in	political	demonstrations	(Turcotte,	2015).	In	short,	many	youth	are	already	engaging	in	civic	life	through	affectively	charged	activities,	and	appear	drawn	to	forms	that	encourage	public	expressions	of	dissent.	The	solution	I	propose	here,	following	Mouffe	(2005),	is	to	provide	channels	where	this	sort	of	expression	can	be	exercised	productively	so	as	not	to	expose	the	student	or	others	to	the	sorts	risks	I	discuss	in	Chapter	Three	(including	arrest,	incarceration,	a	criminal	record,	personal	harm,	and	harm	to	others).	Educators	and	curricula	are	well	situated	to	provide,	or	encourage	students	to	find,	channels	to	express	political	passions.	This	raises	questions	about	how	educators	might	work	with	students	to	build	their	articulatory	capacities,	help	them	find	political	collectives	with	whom	to	identify,	and	the	like.	A	student	who	feels	outraged	about	a	social	problem	should	find	channels	for	her	outrage	such	that	she	does	not	turn	to		 120 violent	solutions.	Educators	might	suggest	that	she	express	her	outrage	by	writing	to	a	representative,	boycotting	a	company,	or	attending	a	demonstration.	They	might	also	provide	class	time,	perhaps	in	the	form	of	a	discussion	or	class	project,	to	develop	strategies	for	the	expression	of	these	passions.	One	example	of	the	latter	includes	Reed’s	(2009)	“stencilling	dissent”	project,	in	which	the	students’	project	was	to	create	stencil	images,	similar	to	those	used	in	street	protest.	The	stencils	were	designed	to	feature	“lesser-known”	activists	who	protested	for	social	justice	causes.	But	there	are	other	examples	we	might	use	that	feature	less	obviously	“political”	passions.50	A	student	might	also	feel	shocked	upon	learning,	say,	about	the	inequalities	between	the	standards	of	living	on	and	off	Indigenous	reserves.	His	teacher	may	ask	that	he	reflect	on	the	root	causes	of	this	passion,	which	might	result	in	the	student	developing	deeper	feelings	of	shame	and	disquiet	about	Canada’s	avowed	commitment	to	equality.	He	might	then	translate	these	feelings	into	a	more	critical	disposition	toward	Canada’s	Aboriginal	policy	or	mobilize	these	feelings	in	search	of	a	solution.	Mobilizing	passions	in	such	a	way	is	a	particularly	important	strategy	for	marginalized	groups,	for	whom	rational	argumentation	and	a	reliance	on	“reasonableness”	are	often	not	guarantors	of	fair	treatment	in	decision-making	processes.	This	strategy	of	collective,	critical	self-reflection	on	one’s	passions,	involving	the	development	of	“accountability	for	how	we	see	ourselves,”	the	questioning	of	deeply	held	beliefs,	and—hopefully—catalyzed	action	reflects	what	Boler	(1999)	calls	the	“pedagogy	of	discomfort”	(p.	188).	I	will	return	to	this	idea	below.		                                                50	Some	scholars,	such	as	Ruitenberg	(2010b),	have	argued	that	anger	is	the	“basic	political	emotion.”	It	is	perhaps	easiest	to	see	how	certain	passions,	such	as	anger	or	hope,	can	be	political.	I	wish	to	avoid	these	sorts	of	generalizations	to	demonstrate	how	other	passions	can	be	political	as	well.		 121 Note	also	that	educating	for	political	passions	involves	teaching	for	the	ability	to	harness	and	channel	passions	at	every	step	of	the	process	of	dissent.	Moreover,	it	is	important	to	foster	the	understanding	that	virtually	all	passions,	including	those	that	(neo-)liberal	traditions	have	typically	labelled	anti-social	(e.g.,	anger,	fear),	can	actually	be	productive	(Kennelly	&	Llewellyn,	2011).	Educating	for	political	passions	also	requires	students	to	be	able	to	identify	which	civic	emotions	and	feelings	they	have	experienced	(or	will	experience)	so	that	they	can	articulate	and	direct	those	passions	toward	the	appropriate	object	when	the	time	comes.	Recall	that,	as	per	my	semi-archic	perspective,	students	will	decide	on	their	own	terms—not	based	on	thick,	external	norms—what	constitutes	an	“appropriate”	object	of	their	passions.	They	must	ensure	that	their	own	terms	are	consistent	with	the	core	ethico-political	principles	of	liberty	and	equality,	but	the	interpretation	of	these	principles	is	their	own	decision.		Circumscribing	Decision-Making	Through	Deliberation	The	disdain	for	or	misrecognition	of	passions	in	civic	deliberation,	as	it	has	traditionally	been	described,	circumscribes	not	only	democratic	procedures	(how	certain	issues	can	be	discussed),	but	also	the	substance	of	discussions	(what	is	discussed).	Deliberative	democrats	are	relatively	more	concerned	with	proceduralism	than	are	other	major	models,	believing	that	just	outcomes	are	largely	determined	by	the	degree	to	which	the	process	of	deliberation	is	fair.	As	such,	many	deliberative	models—particularly	in	their	early,	Habermasian	and	Rawlsian	forms—value	rational	and	reasoned	forms	of	communication	to	ensure	that	the	speech	conditions	are	neutral	and	objective.	This	focus	on	reason—that	is,	the	degree	to	which	ideas	are	recognized	as		 122 rational	and	thus	worthy	of	discussion—is	problematic	precisely	because	its	grammar	is	often	determined	by	the	elites.51	Drawing	on	agonist	and	deliberative	thinkers	alike,	Fraser’s	(2008)	work	on	abnormal	justice	explains	how	the	presumption	that	all	participants	share	a	“normal”	grammar	of	justice	jeopardizes	the	more	fundamental	principle	of	participatory	parity	within	deliberation	(p.	406).	However,	Iris	Marion	Young	presents	perhaps	the	most	recognized	critiques	of	these	rational	ideals	of	communication,	and	I	focus	on	her	ideas	here	because	I	believe	she	presents	the	most	pragmatic	arguments	for	improving	deliberative	inclusivity.	Circumscribing	How	Issues	Are	Discussed.	Young	(2001)	describes	how	the	very	premises	of	deliberation	are	unfair	for	the	disempowered.	Activists	might	eschew	deliberation	because	they	recognize	that	the	powerful	have	little	motive	to	sit	down	and	find	an	acceptable	solution.	They	are	more	liable	to	use	power	and	influence	to	steer	the	discussion	in	their	favour,	or	to	delegitimize	the	activists’	interests	(p.	673).	Instead,	an	activist	opts	for	louder,	more	overtly	critical	actions	such	as	picketing	or	guerrilla	theatre	that	are	designed	to	spread	information	and	awareness,	or	more	directly	realize	the	desired	outcome.	Communication	relies	more	on	passionate	appeals,	slogans,	and	irony	in	order	to	delegitimize	the	claims	of	the	more	powerful.	Deliberation	leaves	little	room	for	these	passionate	displays	because	they	detract	from	reasonable	argument.		Implicit	in	Young’s	(2001)	criticism	is	the	concern	that	what	is	considered	“reasonable”	(or	even	“rational”)	is	socially,	culturally,	and	historically	constructed,	virtually	always	according	to	the	interests	of	the	dominant	group.	Here,	Fraser’s	(2009)	                                                51	By	“political	grammar,”	I	refer	to	the	language	with	which	political	claims	(e.g.,	for	justice,	core	democratic	principles,	etc.)	might	be	meaningfully	articulated	at	the	decision-making	level.		 123 criticism	of	the	liberal	“comprehensive	public	sphere”	strengthens	Young’s	case.	In	the	comprehensive	public	sphere,	a	nation-state’s	sovereign	power	depends	on	normative	legitimacy	and	communicatively-generated	public	opinion,	both	of	which	can	be	“marshalled	as	political	force”	(pp.	76-77).	This	normative	legitimacy	depends	in	part	on	common	political	grammar	that	helps	the	public	and	state	officials	adjudicate	between	competing	justice	claims.	For	instance,	contemporary	theorists	frequently	conclude	that	neoliberal	and	post-fordist	conceptions	of	rationality—conceived	roughly	as	instrumental	reason	or	individual	preference	maximization—inform	the	dominant	political	and	regulatory	grammar	that	informs	much	of	decision-making	today	in	Canada’s	comprehensive	public	sphere	(Belskies	&	Knight,	2016;	Fraser,	2009).	These	conceptions	of	rationality	present	the	serious	obstacle	that	participants	in	decision-making	must	understand	and	conform	to	market	logic.	Those	who	do	not	might	easily	be	dismissed	as	irrational	or	unreasonable.	Fraser’s	point	is	that,	unless	we	also	take	into	account	the	mechanisms	that	dictate	who	determines	ostensibly	“common”	grammar,	public	spheres	have	built-in	mechanisms	of	exclusion.		Young	(2001)	also	makes	the	case	that	the	most	powerful	participants	in	deliberation	often	believe	they	are	listening	to	the	concerns	of	marginalized	groups,	but	this	apparent	reasonableness	may	not	be	sufficiently	critical	or	simply	not	genuine.	According	to	many	activists,	the	outcome	is	already	predetermined	by	the	illusion	of	reasonableness	in	deliberative	procedure.	A	more	passionate	display	of	dissent,	for	the	disempowered,	is	more	likely	to	“command	attention	or	inspire	action”	than	are	discursive	strategies	(p.	676).		 124 Even	when	there	is	a	possibility	of	reaching	a	truly	reasonable	consensus,	Young	(2000)	points	out	that	an	emphasis	on	rational	argumentation	as	the	only	legitimate	form	of	communication	comes	with	built-in	“internal	exclusions”	(p.	55).	By	this,	she	refers	to	insidious	mechanisms	of	including	marginalized	people	in	political	discussions	at	a	formal	level	while	substantively	excluding	their	ideas.	For	her,	the	deliberative	emphasis	on	dispassionate	discussion	“dismisses	and	devalues	embodied	forms	of	expression…	People’s	contributions	to	a	discussion	tend	to	be	excluded	from	serious	consideration	not	because	of	what	is	said,	but	how	it	is	said”	(p.	56).	Style	and	idiom	are	disregarded	in	favour	of	articulateness	and	explicit	logic	presented	in	a	linear	fashion.	This	kind	of	discussion	is	exclusive,	because	people	who	do	not	or	who	are	less	able	to	communicate	this	way	may	easily	be	brushed	off	as	naive	or	uneducated.	Thus,	to	mitigate	these	effects,	Young	proposes	that	deliberative	conceptions	of	what	constitutes	“valid	argument”	be	communicatively	expanded	to	include	greeting,	rhetoric,	and	narrative.	While	Young’s	proposal	would	do	much	to	mitigate	the	exclusionary	effects	of	deliberation’s	rationally	oriented	nature,	it	does	not	resolve	the	issue	of	passion’s	relegation	to	the	sidelines.	For	instance,	Young’s	focus	on	the	inclusion	of	marginalized	groups	implies	that	the	more	embodied	and	passionate	forms	of	communication	she	offers	are	most	useful	for	marginalized	people	and	suggests	that	they	are	forms	to	which	dominant	groups	need	not	“resort”	(Norval,	2007,	p.	68).52	This	implicitly	reproduces	the	“us/them”	divide	between	the	dominant	and	the	marginalized.	As	such,	                                                52	Norval’s	critique	is	of	Dryzek’s	Deliberative	Democracy	and	Beyond,	but	I	believe	it	applies	equally	to	Young’s	proposal.		 125 it	closes	opportunities	within	the	deliberative	process	for	“social	learning”—that	is,	for	participants	to	appreciate	one	another’s	communicative	preferences	as	equally	valid	instead	of	merely	what	“we”	do	to	accommodate	the	less	privileged	other	(p.	68).		Still,	Young’s	suggestion	that	marginalized	people	will	benefit	most	from	these	proposals	is	accurate.	People	do	have	unequal	access	to	dominant,	deliberative	forms	and	norms	of	speech	and	argumentation,	most	significantly	based	on	their	socio-economic	and	ethnic	backgrounds.	Although	a	valuable	critique,	Young’s	communicative	proposal	can	only	improve	inclusivity	in	an	environment	where	participants	acknowledge	both	one	another	and	one	another’s	communicative	authority.	The	focus	here	is	the	need	to	“be	taken	seriously”	by	the	dominant	groups	in	society,	particularly	by	those	from	backgrounds	that	privilege	ostensibly	rational	discussion	in	the	first	place.	Sue	Campbell’s	(1994)	classic	essay	on	bitterness	supports	and	complicates	this	position.	She	writes	from	a	place	of	frustration	and	disempowerment	after	being	dismissed	for	expressing	bitterness.	For	her,	arguments	that	bitterness	is	justifiable	as	a	“legitimate"	and	“rational”	emotion	place	the	accountability	of	justification	on	the	person	accused	of	being	bitter.	Instead,	we	should	refocus	arguments	on	the	public	formation	of	passions	like	bitterness.	In	so	doing,	we	create	the	conditions	for	social	accountability	of	the	interpretive	context	of	emotional	expression.	This,	I	believe,	helps	redistribute	communicative	authority	more	equally	among	all	participants	and	creates	space	for	the	sorts	of	impassioned	communication	for	which	I	advocate.	Young	(2000)	makes	the	convincing	case	that	greeting,	rhetoric,	and	narrative	are	already	involved	in	deliberative	argumentation,	but	dominant	actors	are	still	not		 126 inclined	to	recognize	the	value	of	these	less	explicitly	rational	forms	(e.g.	storytelling)	of	argumentation.	Empirical	evidence	demonstrates	that	storytelling	helps	participants	in	deliberation	build	trust,	provide	support	for	otherwise	unpopular	ideas,	encourage	collaboration,	identify	their	own	preferences,	demonstrate	their	appreciation	of	competing	preferences,	advance	unfamiliar	views,	and	reach	areas	of	unanticipated	agreement	(Polletta	&	Lee,	2006).	In	spite	of	these	advantages,	participants	tend	to	believe	storytelling	is	of	limited	use.	This	is	not	because	of	storytelling’s	intrinsic	rhetorical	characteristics,	but	because	it	is	popularly	perceived	as	unserious,	and	valuable	only	for	normative	(as	opposed	to	technical)	discussions	(p.	719).		Like	many	privileged	Canadians,	I	was	predominantly	taught	for	fluency	in	“rational”	forms	of	communication.	I	learned	to	consider	non-argumentative	forms	of	communication	in	formal	settings	as	(in	the	words	of	one	English	teacher)	“rhetorical	fluff.”	I	recall	one	occasion	when	I	stumbled	across	a	rally	against	a	proposed	pipeline,	which	included	an	Indigenous	speaker.	This	man	recounted	the	history	of	his	people’s	displacement	and	mistreatment	at	the	hands	of	the	Canadian	government,	and	did	not	mention	the	pipeline	or	oil	extraction	once.	At	first,	I	was	frustrated	that	he	was	using	this	unrelated	space	as	a	platform	for	“his	own	agenda.”	It	was	only	later	that	I	realized	this	man’s	narrative	heavily	relied	on	argumentative	elements,	and	that	he	was	communicating	his	increasing	frustration	with	the	Canadian	government’s	disregard	for	the	environment	and	his	people’s	land.	Moreover,	his	was	an	engaging	speech	because	it	appealed	to	people’s	sense	of	frustration,	injustice,	and	solidarity.	The	issue	was	not	with	his	narrative,	but	with	my	inability	and	unwillingness	to	recognize	and	accept	his	narrative	as	espousing	a	valid	position.	 	 127 	 This	story	underscores	Rancière’s	(1995/1999)	argument	about	how	the	boundaries	of	the	police	order	are	formed	and	contested.	Though	my	policing	power	in	this	situation	was	weak	as	a	passive	observer	(limited,	perhaps,	to	the	fact	that	I	did	not	applaud),	my	attitude	reinforced	boundaries	between	what	could	be	considered	sensible	and	what	was	noise.	In	articulating	a	claim	that	“had	no	part”	in	this	particular	protest	(the	oppressive	nature	of	the	Canadian	government),	this	speaker	was	engaging	in	a	micro-struggle	to	have	his	claims	recognized	as	a	sensible	contribution	to	environmental	politics.	Similarly,	it	highlights	Fraser’s	(2008)	claim	that	misframing	political	issues	can	easily	lead	to	exclusions	in	who	is	allowed	to	make	justice	claims.	My	understanding	was	that	the	speaker	should	have	focused	only	on	the	pipeline	to	make	a	direct,	argumentative	case	to	the	federal	government.	This	understanding,	I	now	recognize,	framed	the	pipeline	issue	in	such	a	way	that	excluded	discussion	of	the	broader	context,	including	who	was	subjected	to	the	policy,	who	could	make	justice	claims,	and	how	the	policy	shaped—and	was	shaped	by—relationships	between	actors.		I	am	sure	I	am	not	alone	in	this	experience,	and	so	I	argue	here	that	Young’s	proposal	may	only	come	to	fruition	once	those	of	us	from	dominant	groups	learn	to	recognize	the	value	of	passionate	or	seemingly	“informal”	forms	of	communication.	I	contend	that	formal	education	is	the	ideal	place	for	this	to	happen,	because	it	is	one	of	the	primary	spaces	where	students	learn	to	communicate	argumentatively.	Students	must	learn	how	to	identify	the	argumentative	elements	of	rhetorical	and	passionate	forms	of	communication,	but	this	understanding	would	be	incomplete	without	also	teaching	students	(particularly	those	from	advantaged	backgrounds)	that	passionate		 128 communication	is	valuable	even	in	formal	settings.	More	importantly,	students	should	understand	that	passion	is	inherent	in	virtually	all	forms	of	communication.	 All	communication,	including	ostensibly	rational,	argumentative	forms,	are	charged	with	passion,	even	if	they	are	culturally	masked	as	dispassionate	and	thus	“neutral.”	News	agencies,	for	example,	usually	compete	to	be	the	most	factual,	objective,	and	neutral,	and	reporters	often	adopt	a	particular	style	of	“rational”	communication	to	exemplify	this.	This	style	developed	in	the	Walter	Cronkite	era	of	journalism	(roughly,	the	1960s),	in	which	reporters	adopted	the	calm,	detached,	and	cool	disposition	that	culturally	characterizes	North	American	understandings	of	neutrality	(Peters,	2011).	Neither	the	news	nor	its	reporters	have	ever	been	emotionally	neutral,	but	“hard-hitting”	stories	have	increasingly	made	this	cool	style	more	explicit	and	tied	it	to	their	apparent	trustworthiness	(Peters,	2011).	This	example	shows	how	rationality	can	be	considered	an	affective	stance	or	comportment	(Boler,	1999).	The	same	style	has	been	applied	to	deliberation	and	teaching	alike	(Barton	&	McCully,	2007),	and	I	have	shown	how	these	norms	continue	to	circumscribe	how	political	issues	can	be	discussed.	Circumscribing	Which	Issues	Are	Discussed.	We	have	seen	that	a	focus	on	rationality	sets	up	deliberation	according	to	uneven	power	relations	that	circumscribe	how	an	issue	can	be	discussed,	but	deliberative	models’	focus	on	reasoned	discussion	also	limits	which	issues	are	discussed.	While	various	models	of	democracy	define	“rationality"	and	“reasonableness”	differently,	rationality	generally	refers	to	the	capacity	to	advocate	for	one’s	own	interests	through	the	use	of	the	cognitive	faculty	of	reason.	Reasonableness,	on	the	other	hand,	is	used	in	political	literature	to	describe	participants’	willingness	to	be	open-minded	and	modify	their	positions	according	to		 129 others’	input.	Especially	in	its	Habermasian	forms,	this	quality	presumes	that	participants	recognize	other	participants	as	rational	as	well.	The	emphasis	on	“reasoned	discussion”	limits	which	issues	are	discussed	because	the	socio-historical	construction	of	reason	as	dispassionate	neutrality	and	deliberative	aim	of	consensus-building	help	certain	participants	pre-determine	common	interests	and	even	notions	of	the	“common	good.”	These,	in	turn,	can	result	in	the	exclusion	of	some	topics	and	circumscribed	outcomes	for	deliberation	before	it	even	begins.	In	addition,	the	emphasis	on	reasonableness	alone	does	not	prepare	the	participants	in	deliberation	to	productively	address	dissent,	given	that	political	disagreement	is	by	definition	affectively	charged.		The	Construction	of	Reason	as	Dispassionate	Neutrality.	As	Mouffe	(2000)	points	out,	deliberative	theory	in	its	early	Rawlsian	and	Habermasian	conceptions	relies	on	a	rationalist/universalist	tradition.	This	tradition	holds	that	there	can	only	be	one	answer	about	what	constitutes	the	“good	regime,”	meaning	that	there	must	be	a	common	framework	for	argument	based	on	ideas	of	neutrality,	dispassionateness,	and	objectivity.	However,	Mouffe	counters	liberal	and	deliberative	theories	with	a	Wittgensteinian	critique	of	the	ideas	of	rational	objectivity.	Indeed,	many	scholars	have	pointed	out	how	western	philosophies	have	monopolized	reason,	drawing	on	Eurocentric	and	masculinist	conceptions	of	neutrality,	objectivity,	and	calm	communication	as	the	only	paths	to	truth	(Hébert,	2002;	Jaggar,	1989;	Pateman,	1988;	Walby,	1994).	Mouffe	(2000)	explains	that	it	is	impossible	to	provide	a	rational	justification	of	liberal-democratic	principles	as	deliberative	theorists	propose,	since	these	could	only		 130 be	made	in	“ideal”	conditions	that	can	never	exist.	Moreover,	contractarian	agreements	about	liberal-democratic	principles	are	derived	from	“particular	judgments	we	are	inclined	to	make	as	practitioners	of	specific	forms	of	life,”	and	we	cannot	expect	all	others	in	every	situation	to	uphold	them	(Gray,	1989,	as	cited	in	Mouffe,	2000,	p.	64).	She	thus	holds	that	that	progression	in	democratic	politics	should	not	be	linked	to	progressiveness	in	rationality,	since	reasoning	is	so	contingent	on	the	content	of	deliberation	and	on	shared	beliefs,	and	since	it	is	impossible	to	find	neutral	ground	on	which	to	stage	politics.		Therefore,	when	people	denounce	one	another	as	“irrational”	in	a	liberal	political	system,	the	denouncers	are	mistaken	in	accusing	their	opponents	of	misusing	their	mental	faculties.	More	often,	the	perception	of	irrationality	is	actually	based	on	a	difference	in	beliefs	(Mouffe,	2000,	p.	65).	This	constructed,	Eurocentric	and	masculinist	conception	of	rationality	has	become	reified	in	western	societies	such	that	it	is	largely	uncontested	in	practice,	and	is	now	understood	as	the	only	means	of	being	rational.	Moreover,	this	conception	of	reason	as	neutrality	has	become	so	hegemonically	entrenched	in	western	consciousness	that	to	be	“politically	neutral”	is	to	adhere	to	the	universalist	conception	of	reason	(and	thus,	consider	the	political	world	to	be	unipolar)	in	the	first	place.53	                                                53	It	is	this	mutually	constitutive	relationship	between	reason	and	neutrality	that	makes	this	hegemonic	conception	so	difficult	to	dislodge.	If	reason	had	been	constructed	in	such	a	way	that	it	did	not	consider	neutrality	or	objectivity	as	key	components	of	rationality,	it	could	not	have	deemed	itself	the	only	reasonable	position	to	hold.	Universal	reason	has	been	constructed	on	circular	logic:	to	be	reasonable,	one	must	be	neutral	and	objective.	One	cannot	be	neutral	and	objective	unless	there	are	conditions	according	to	which	neutrality	and	objectivity	can	be	validated.	Reason	provides	the	tools	to	validate	something	as	neutral	and	objective	(in	this	case,	the	claim	that	there	can	be	a	universal	conception	of	the	good	regime,	which	can	be	inferred	through	reason).	Thus,	reason	is	neutral	and	objective,	and	vice-versa.		 131 	Reasonableness	and	Rational	Consensus	in	Deliberation.	Deliberative	models’	tendency	to	legitimize	only	those	ideas	that	all	participants	would	find	reasonable—and	thus,	in	western	societies,	that	all	participants	would	ideally	recognize	as	rational,	neutral,	and	objective—prevents	certain	issues	from	influencing	decision-making.	Meira	Levinson	(2002)	elaborates	on	minority	groups’	relative	lack	of	influence	when	participating	in	deliberation.	She	explains	how	majority	groups	often	misinterpret	minority	views	as	“extreme,”	how	the	double-standard	for	majority	and	minority	norms	dismisses	the	latter’s	norms	as	“sectarian,”	and	how	majority	groups	often	reinterpret	minority	positions	to	make	them	seem	more	“reasonable.”	It	follows	that	certain	issues	tend	not	to	be	discussed	at	all,	since	those	who	wish	to	contest	a	norm	feel	as	though	they	will	not	be	heard	or	because	those	in	power	shut	down	their	attempts	to	raise	issues.		Levinson	(2002)	discusses	how	a	religious	conservative	might	wish	to	ban	pornography	because	it	“desecrates	God	sacred	vessel,”	but	can	only	advance	this	argument	publicly	if	she	frames	it	in	secular	terms	(e.g.	pornography	promotes	violence	against	women).	“While	this	act	of	translation	may	allow	her	to	promote	her	ultimate	goal	of	banning	pornography	[…]	it	also	distorts	her	position	in	the	meantime”	(p.	268).	Even	if	the	end	result	is	that	pornography	is	banned,	the	religious	perspective	on	pornography	does	not	form	part	of	the	solution	and	gains	no	ground	for	legitimacy	in	public	deliberation.	It	may	be	that	hardcore	pornography	is	banned	in	the	name	of	women’s	protection	but	that	softcore	pornography	remains	permissible,	and	now	secular	feminists	(for	the	sake	of	argument)	are	all	content	with	the	solution.	But	the	religious	issues	with	softcore	pornography	will	continue	to	exist	for	religious		 132 conservatives,	and	the	most	“reasonable”	channel	for	them	to	express	this	issue	(i.e.	the	reframing	of	the	issue	in	secular	terms)	has	been	all	but	exhausted.	If	the	particular	socio-historic	construction	of	reason	dismisses	religious	arguments	as	irrational,	the	issue	of	softcore	pornography	may	remain	unchallenged	(or	simply	be	dismissed)	through	deliberative	channels.		Levinson’s	example	makes	a	strong	case	for	the	conscientious	expansion	of	what	can	be	considered	“reasonable”	and	thus	provides	a	critique	of	the	intersection	between	reasonableness	(as	emphasized	by	deliberative	democrats)	and	the	socio-historical	construction	of	rationality.	Her	example	demonstrates	that	deliberation’s	consensus	orientation	is	exclusionary	because	the	religious	conservative	in	her	example	is	unable	to	speak	to	the	majority	on	her	own	terms,	specifically	because	the	terms	of	discussion	have	been	hegemonically	constituted.	However,	this	argument	alone	does	not	make	explicit	why	it	is	important	to	attend	to	the	passionate	demands	of	civic	life.	The	case	for	passions	becomes	clearer	only	when	we	acknowledge	that	exposing	the	contested	nature	of	supposedly	neutral	hegemonic	terrain	is	always	a	passionate	affair.		Mouffe	(2005)	explains	how	truly	political	relationships	are	always	partisan	in	nature,	because	they	are	bound	up	in	affective	ties	between	left	and	right.	Drawing	on	psychoanalytic	theory,	she	argues	that	those	on	the	same	end	of	the	political	spectrum	are	affectively	inclined	to	view	one	another	as	“friends.”	However,	departing	from	Schmitt	(1932/1976),54	she	favours	an	agonistic	view	of	the	political	other	as	an	“adversary”	who	has	a	different	interpretation	of	core	ethico-political	values.	Mouffe	                                                54	Schmitt’s	(1932/1976)	original	thesis	was	that	the	deep	differences	between	political	communities	could	be	explained	in	terms	of	the	“friend/enemy”	distinction,	where	the	enemy	must	be	“utterly	destroyed”	(p.	36).		 133 (2005)	argues	that	“liberal”	democratic	theories	(under	which	I	classify	deliberative	models)	also	eschew	the	“friend/enemy”	distinction,	but	create	instead	a	framework	based	on	liberal	economics	(i.e.,	capitalism).	The	deliberative	focus	on	consensus	requires	that	those	who	participate	in	deliberation	must	consider	agreement	a	possibility	before	entering	(Young,	2000,	p.	24),	and	this	orientation	toward	consensus	precludes	the	friend/enemy	distinction.	Deliberative	frameworks	instead	rely	on	the	“friend/competitor”	distinction	in	which	participants	vie	to	displace	one	another	within	the	existing	hegemonic	structure	(the	market),	which	they	recognize	as	neutral	terrain	(Ruitenberg,	2009).	However,	they	do	not	contest	the	neutrality	of	this	terrain	and	thus	do	not	argue	for	“clearly	differentiated	democratic	positions”	as	the	friend/adversary	would	in	an	agonistic	model	(Mouffe,	2005,	p.	278).		At	an	affective	level,	then,	deliberative	models	mask	conflict	by	construing	as	a	“friend/competitor”	distinction	what	is	really	only	a	“friend/friend”	distinction.	In	so	doing,	they	create	the	illusion	of	conflict	(and	thus	of	conflict	resolution).	This	might	easily	exclude	certain	viewpoints	that	(in	much	of	the	western	world)	contest	the	neutrality	or	objectivity	of	the	rational	hegemonic	structure.	Returning	to	Levinson’s	(2002)	example	of	a	religious	conservative,	it	becomes	clear	that	adversarial	issues	in	deliberative	frameworks	must	be	reframed	in	the	language	of	“competitors”	lest	they	be	dismissed	as	too	radical	or	sectarian.	An	agonist	framework	can	help	resolve	this	issue	in	demonstrating	that	we	need	not	treat	adversaries	as	moral	enemies	or	as	merely	competitors.	Ruitenberg	(2009)	argues	that	educators	must	show	how	“the	supposed	neutrality	of	the	terrain	in	which	different	groups	fight	for	their	view	of	a	just	society	is	contested,	and	that	the	economic	paradigm	that	pervades	both	politics	and	education	is		 134 made	explicit	as	paradigm”	(p.	278).	I	maintain	that	this	work	is	not	possible	unless	curricula	open	spaces	for	students	to	passionately	determine	what	views	they	consider	friendly	or	adversarial,	and	how	to	express	dissenting	ideas	through	political	subjectification.	I	return	to	this	idea	below.		 For	their	part,	deliberative	models	can	prepare	students	to	critically	dissect	issues	in	order	to	determine	which	principles	underlie	them.	Since	most	deliberative	models	presume	some	universal	commonalities	among	participants	as	a	starting	point	for	political	deliberation,	students	learn	to	analyze	how	and	when	certain	issues	cross	these	limits.	Joseph	Diorio	(2011)	discusses	how	civic	education	prepares	students	to	deliberate	about	political	issues.	Most	civic	education	courses	in	practice,	he	claims,	presume	the	existence	of		two	domains	of	citizenship:	one	a	realm	of	unchallengeable	beliefs	which	all	people	must	share,	and	another	in	which	political	contests	can	be	pursued	by	divergent	parties.	Social	membership	requires	acceptance	of	the	beliefs	defined	in	the	first	domain,	which	are	assumed	to	be	extra-cultural;	political	contests	thus	supposedly	do	not	challenge	fundamental	social	beliefs.	(p.	505)		His	agonistic	criticism	of	deliberative	models	is	that	the	first	realm	of	shared	principles	can	and	ought	to	be	legitimately	challenged	in	the	political	sphere,	even	if	civic	educators	rarely	like	to	acknowledge	it.	Following	Mouffe,	he	insists	that	the	interpretation	of	these	shared	principles	and	beliefs	is	open	to	challenge.	I	add	that	the	domain	of	unchallengeable	beliefs	is	often	simply	too	thick	to	permit	any	real	disagreement.		 135 	 Diorio	(2011)	worries	that,	as	a	consequence	of	upholding	certain	domains	of	citizenship	as	unchallengeable,	civic	educators	will	reify	status	quo	interpretations	of	political	inclusion.	Writing	from	the	context	of	Northern	Ireland,	he	uses	gay	marriage	(there,	illegal)	as	an	example.	Rather	than	asking	students	to	deliberate	whether	gay	citizens	should	be	granted	equal	rights	in	marriage,	educators	are	inclined	to	engage	students	in	discussions	that	fail	to	address	the	political	and	thus	exclusionary	limitations	of	citizenship	as	a	vehicle	for	rights-claiming	(pp.	506-507).	Diorio	argues	that	this	liberal	conception	of	politics,	which	aims	for	consensus	based	on	rational	principles,	effectively	banishes	these	tougher	questions—and	the	passions	that	come	with	them—from	the	classroom.		A	classroom	based	on	the	liberal	model,	Diorio	(2011)	asserts,	constrains	discussion	in	a	way	that	the	“real	world”	does	not	by	formally	narrowing	the	field	of	“acceptable”	discourse	to	certain	interpretations	of	principles	that	are,	in	reality,	contested.	It	thus	fails	to	prepare	some	students	to	face	defeat	since	they	may	only	learn	to	face	situations	where	they	are	guaranteed	to	win	(p.	521).	Moreover,	classroom	discussions	about	political	issues	like	gay	marriage	are	about	more	than	reasoned	argumentation;	they	have	an	impact	on	many	students’	“life	chances”	(p.	522).	Thus,	they	are	far	from	dispassionate	and	should	not	be	treated	as	such.	Rather	than	sweep	these	questions	under	the	rug	or	depoliticize	them,	an	agonistic	framework	can	teach	students	how	to	channel	the	passions	they	are	likely	to	feel	inside	and	outside	the	classroom.	Accordingly,	educators	cannot	simply	treat	certain	issues	as	emotionally	neutral.	Rather,	they	must	create	spaces	for	students	to	explore	the	more	passionate		 136 consequences	of	the	issues.	In	so	doing,	educators	will	better	prepare	students	for	political	life	outside	of	school,	where	people’s	life	chances	really	are	at	stake	and	where	political	debate	is	risky	rather	than	merely	competitive.	Politics	in	the	“real	world”	is	not	dispassionate,	and	students	must	be	emotionally	prepared	to	face	any	possible	outcome.	Equally	importantly,	educating	for	political	passions	will	open	other	avenues	for	students	to	creatively	and	critically	question,	on	the	grounds	of	impassioned	partisan	attachments,	the	supposedly	unshakeable	foundations	of	“shared”	rational	principles.		Thus,	passions	reveal	weaknesses	in	deliberative	presumptions	of	the	common	good	by	reminding	students	that	ostensibly	shared	principles,	which	may	appear	fair	and	just	on	paper,	have	consequences	for	students’	lived,	impassioned	experiences,	and	are	open	to	modification.	This	helps	demonstrate	how	passion	is	not	at	odds	with	reason,	since	the	former	can	open	spaces	for	more	deeply	critical	argumentation.	Said	differently,	by	opening	classroom	discussion	to	highly	passionate	issues	and	by	making	clear	the	impassioned	nature	of	supposedly	“emotionally	neutral”	issues,	students	have	the	opportunity	to	depart	from	depoliticized	ways	of	thinking	and	exercise	their	critical	reasoning	in	a	different	way.	They	may	be	asked,	for	instance,	to	investigate	what	makes	the	agonistic	dynamic	between	conflicting	issues	so	passionately	charged,	and	to	reflect	on	how	their	passions	inform	their	(supposedly	reasoned)	beliefs	on	a	given	issue	(more	on	this	below).		Another	consequence	of	the	construction	of	rationality	according	to	masculinist,	European	values	is	the	idea	that	more	obviously	passionate	issues	should	be	private	rather	than	public	matters,	and	are	thus	“inappropriate”	for	public	deliberation.	As	we		 137 will	see,	many	issues	about	identity—or,	more	particularly,	subjectivity—are	considered	private	ground,	leaving	many	questions	largely	untouched	until	very	recently.	The	question	of	transgender	rights,	for	example,	has	been	considered	irrelevant	and	private	until	recently.	Bill	C-279	was	introduced	in	2011	and	has	died	(and	been	revived)	twice	since.	This	controversial	Bill	proposes	the	addition	of	“gender	identity”	to	the	Canadian	Human	Rights	Act	and	the	Criminal	Code,	making	it	illegal	to	discriminate	against	people	based	on	their	gender	expression.	This	example	demonstrates	that	attending	to	identity	and	subjectivity	as	impassioned,	political	phenomena	can	be	productive	in	liberal	democracies.	The	exclusion	of	ostensibly	“irrational”	ideas	from	political	life	has	particular	consequences	for	exercising	dissent,	since	dissent	on	political	matters	is	always	affectively	motivated.	Acting	upon	one’s	political,	adversarial	ties	in	the	form	of	dissent	requires	the	transformation	of	a	political	subject—a	process	known	as	political	subjectification.	As	I	explain	in	Chapter	Three,	I	draw	from	both	Rancière	and	Mouffe	in	my	understanding	of	subjectification.	Recall	that	Mouffe	(2005)	rejects	liberal,	rationalist	models	of	democracy	and	demands	that	we	consider	subjectification	an	impassioned	process.	For	her,	liberal	theories	treat	the	world	as	“post-political,”	that	is,	as	unitary	to	the	degree	that	all	disagreement	can	be	resolved	through	rational	processes	(including	deliberation).	While	it	is	necessary	to	have	thin	consensus	about	a	liberal-democratic	society’s	core	ethico-political	values,	politics	is	really	about	the	interpretation	of	these	values	along	the	adversarial	lines	of	“left”	and	“right”	(p.	31).	Unlike	deliberative	models,	Mouffe’s	is	a	conflict-centered	approach	to	politics	that	takes	as	given	these	deep	differences	in	interpretation	and	examines	how	these	differences	inform	political		 138 identities.	Traditional	deliberative	models’	emphasis	on	rationality	leaves	little	room	to	prepare	students	to	transform	their	passionate	(and	supposedly	private)	identities	through	political	subjectification.	Deliberation	can	leave	room	for	subjectification,	depending	how	deliberation	is	conceived.	Rancière	(2000/2004)	discusses	literature,	among	other	arts,	as	a	channel	through	which	the	aesthetico-political	field	can	be	modified	to	expand	common	considerations	of	what	is	“common	to	language	and	the	sensible	distribution	of	spaces	and	occupations”	(p.	40).	Michèle	Lalonde’s	(1971)	poem,	Speak	White,	is	a	good	example	of	this	sort	of	literature.	This	poem	counters	Anglophone	Canadians’	assertions	that	English	is	the	language	of	the	rational,	the	sensible,	and	the	White,	and	that	French	is	the	language	of	a	“peu	brillant”	(not-so-bright)	and	“rancunier”	(bitter)	nation.	It	instead	ties	the	English	language	to	the	linguistically,	racially,	ideologically	and	economically	oppressive	Anglophone	world,	implicitly	questioning	what	is	so	sensible	about	such	a	repressive	and	violent	order.	This	poem	acts	as	a	form	of	impassioned	dissent	in	its	own	right	by	appealing	to	a	sentiment	of	unity	in	shared	struggle,	but	it	does	more.	Speak	White	at	once	transforms	the	identity	of	an	ostensibly	“inculte	et	bègue”	(uncultivated	and	stuttering)	nation	into	a	subversive	yet	sensible	people,	and	unites	this	(d)enunciative	collective	against	Anglo-imperialism.	If	this	sort	of	literature	is	considered	deliberative,	then	deliberative	democracy	does	indeed	provide	space	for	subjectification	and	thus	for	passionate	dissent.	However,	the	consensus-oriented	deliberative	models	I	am	concerned	with	tend	to	dismiss	the	uncertain,	(d)enunciative	collectives	that	this	literature	creates	(whom	I	equate	here	with	subaltern	counterpublics).	In	either	case,	since	I	conceive	of	dissent	as		 139 a	positive	right,	civic	educators	must	ensure	that	students	are	prepared	to	mobilize	their	passions	for	subjectification	if	their	claims	to	equality	are	infringed	upon.	However,	useful	as	the	ability	to	dissent	passionately	may	be,	students	should	not	only	understand	how	to	harness	and	channel	their	passions	because	this	capacity	prepares	them	to	dissent.	The	capacity	to	harness	and	channel	passions	can	also	provide	resistance	to	external	manipulation	of	students’	passions,	and	the	lack	of	this	capacity	can	be	dangerous.		Teaching	for	Resistance	to	Manipulations	of	Passions	Passions	as	Constructed	Terrain.	In	order	to	understand	how	passions	can	be	manipulated	as	a	means	of	socio-political	control	(and	in	resistance	to	this	control),	it	is	first	necessary	to	accept	that,	in	addition	to	being	biological	phenomena,	passions	are	socially	and	politically	constructed.	Because	I	take	a	broad	view	of	passions	as	cognitive	responses	to	the	socio-cultural	environment,	there	is	space	to	consider	how	power	relations	influence	political	passion.	I	am	particularly	concerned	with	the	ability	of	the	powerful	to	mobilize	others’	passions	as	part	of	a	hegemonic	project.	They	do	not	only	do	so	explicitly	(consider	the	demagogue	who	harnesses	the	people’s	fear	of	the	other	to	gain	political	power),	but	they	also	construct	the	dominant	socio-cultural	terrain	in	ways	that	shape	and	police	passions.		This	terrain	is,	in	part,	constructed	through	a	series	of	discursive	signs.	Abu-Lughod	&	Lutz	(1990)	explain	how		Power	relations	determine	what	can,	cannot,	or	must	be	said	about	self	and	emotion,	what	is	taken	to	be	true	or	false	about	them,	and	what	only	some		 140 individuals	can	say	about	them.	[...]	Emotion	discourses	establish,	assert,	challenge,	or	reinforce	power	or	status	differences.	(p.	14,	as	cited	in	Zembylas,	2013,	p.	86)	As	we	have	seen	in	Chapter	Two,	and	will	see	in	Chapter	Five,	Canadian	civics	courses	generally	disregard	certain	forms	of	passionate	expression.	This	is	particularly	true	for	those	that	do	not	reconcile	easily	with	consensus-oriented	forms	of	deliberation,	as	they	may	be	considered	antithetical	to	Eurocentric	norms	of	objectivity,	and	thus,	validity	(see	Peters,	2011).			 Students	are	often	taught	to	approach	topics	without	expressing	strong	forms	of	passion	that,	they	are	told,	can	preclude	problem	solving.	For	example,	students	may	be	asked	to	downplay	their	anxiety	about	a	local	factory	closure	or	their	nostalgia	for	a	provincial	park	out	of	concern	that	these	passions	will	“cloud	their	judgment”	on	related	issues.	In	these	cases,	the	powerful	have	established	and	re-asserted	discourse	about	what	is	“acceptable”	by	actively	reproducing	masculinist	and	Eurocentric	norms	of	objectivity,	and	by	demanding	that	students	internalize	these	norms	and	behave	accordingly	(“Be	reasonable!”)	(O’Brien,	2004).	Students	embody	(or	resist	embodying)	these	norms,	thus	influencing	the	expression	of	their	passions	on	a	moral	level. Against	Manipulative	Exercises	of	Passion. Despite	the	potential	for	these	norms	to	become	oppressive,	establishing	a	structure	for	the	productive	expression	of	passions	is	not	always	a	bad	thing.	As	Mouffe	reminds	us,	it	is	necessary	to	ensure	that	expressions	of	passion	do	not	isolate	the	actor	or	other	people	from	core	ethico-political	principles.	For	instance,	expressions	of	passion	in	favour	of	Daesh	(ISIS/ISIL)	cannot	be	considered	legitimate,	since	they	are	premised	on	the	rejection	of	the	core	principles	of		 141 a	pluralist	liberal	democracy.	What	is	particularly	dangerous	is	when	the	mobilization	of	political	passion	is	uncritical	or	manipulative.	By	witnessing	the	deconstruction	of	the	binary	between	reason	and	passion,	it	becomes	clearer	that	passions	are	always	present	in	civic	life	and,	by	extension,	the	civics	classroom.	A	more	narrow	focus	on	developing	rational	capacities	and	reasonableness	alone	will	do	little	to	prepare	students	to	face	situations	where	their	passions	are	put	to	the	test.	I	have	in	mind	the	exclusionary	appeals	to	passions	put	forward	by	demagogues,	appeals	to	unfettered	devotion	to	a	given	object	(e.g.,	the	nation-state	or	the	monarchy),	and	similar	challenges	that	entice	people	to	separate	their	rational	capacities	from	their	passions.	I	argue	in	this	section	that	to	manipulate	passions	involves	the	separation	of	rationality	and	passion	such	that	subjects	are	coerced	into	exercising	one	at	the	expense	of	rendering	the	other	invisible.	 	 To	resist	the	forms	of	manipulation	I	have	in	mind,	it	would	be	helpful	for	students	to	learn	what	these	challenges	look	like.	This	requires	the	understanding	that	passions	are	constructed	as	well	as	cognitive	in	nature,	and	an	understanding	of	how	passions	can	be	mobilized	unproductively	or	uncritically.	Educators	should	also	teach	students	how	they	might	harness	their	passions	in	resistance	to	uncritical	mobilizations	of	passion.	This	requires	students	to	develop	the	capacity	and	disposition	to	evaluate	their	passions	rationally	and	critically,	and	to	attend	to	their	passions	to	evaluate	their	critical	reasoning.			 Teaching	students	to	understand	and	guide	their	own	passions,	and	to	resist	the	manipulation	of	their	passions	by	others,	involves	what	Zembylas	(2013)	calls	critical	emotional	reflexivity.	Emotional	reflexivity	demands	that	curricula	provide	space	for		 142 “teachers	and	students	[to]	critically	reflect	on	how	emotion	discourses	may	contribute	to	perpetuating	or	challenging	social	exclusions	and	injustices”	(p.	94).	Critical	emotional	reflexivity	asks	students	to	reflect	“specifically	how	emotions	can	be	engaged	as	critical	and	transformative	forces,”	specifically	as	they	relate	to	power	(in)equalities	(Zembylas,	2008).	Classroom	discussions	of	political	matters	will	inevitably	be	passionate,	and	it	is	crucial	that	students	learn	to	attend	to	the	ways	that	passions	shape	their	critical	responses	to	what	they	learn.	This	will	help	students	learn	to	identify	the	passions	they	are	experiencing	and	thus	how	to	channel	them	more	productively.	More	importantly	for	this	discussion,	critical	emotional	reflexivity	can	help	students	recognize	when	others	are	appealing	to	their	passions	in	hopes	of	mobilizing	them	for	political	gain.		The	ability	to	recognize	when	others	are	appealing	to	one’s	passions	is	vital	because	it	helps	people	decide	whether	this	appeal	is	worth	their	time	and	energy.	Demagogues,	for	instance,	often	appeal	to	emotions	like	anger,	pride,	or	fear	as	a	substitute	for	critical	reflection	on	an	issue.	Adding	to	Zembylas’	account	of	emotions	as	critically	transformative	forces,	I	mean	by	“critical	reflection”	the	sort	of	appraisal	deeming	whether	a	political	endeavour	is	consistent	with	core	ethico-political	principles,	and	also	worth	a	student’s	time	and	energy.	Critical	reflection	does	not	mean	that	students	ask	whether	they	are	feeling	the	“right”	kind	or	proportion	of	passions	according	to	some	external	standard,	but	rather	determine	for	themselves	what	their	own	standard	for	these	questions	should	be.	It	is	largely	to	feminist	scholarship	that	this	sort	of	reflexivity	can	be	considered	a	legitimate	pedagogical	tool,	especially	to	transform	consciousness.	In	particular,		 143 Boler’s	(1999)	account	of	how	analytic	reflection	can	“evaluate	the	complex	relations	of	power	and	emotion”	is	key	for	this	project	(p.	157).	The	development	of	critical	passions	counters	manipulative	appeals	by	putting	into	question	the	potential	lack	of	criticality	that	informs	the	mobilization	of	these	passions	as	well	as	the	conditions	necessary	for	these	appeals	to	be	considered	sensible	in	the	first	place.	A	leader’s	appeal	to	fear	the	“others”	who	seek	refuge	within	“our”	borders,	for	example,	can	be	countered	by	questioning	the	logic	of	the	arguments	that	influence	such	fearful	dispositions	(“are	they	really	dangerous?”),	considering	the	contingency	of	“our”	versus	“their”	territory,	or	by	throwing	into	question	the	socio-cultural	conditions	that	gave	this	leader	a	platform	in	the	first	place.		This	form	of	resistance	reminds	students	to	be	wary	of	attempts	to	separate	their	critical	capacities	from	their	passions,	and	especially	to	attend	to	the	evaluative,	moral	intelligence	that	is	bound	up	in	their	passions.	This	does	not	mean	that	all	students	will	become	less	fearful	of	refugees;	indeed,	they	may	determine	that	there	is	good	reason	to	fear	the	other.	It	does,	however,	provide	space	to	reflect	on	why	the	refugee	crisis	arouses	emotions	such	as	fear	or	pride,	or	dispositions	such	as	empathy	or	hatred.	In	this	sense,	I	am	arguing	for	increased	attention	to	passions	in	civics	curricula,	but	in	a	way	that	avoids	thick,	gendered,	or	culturally	specific	ideas	about	what	constitutes	“good”	or	“bad”	passions.	Political	passions	should	be	considered	good	or	bad	only	insofar	as	they	respect	liberal-democratic	societies’	thin,	core	ethico-political	values.	Boler’s	(1999)	call	for	a	feminist	politics	of	emotion	also	guides	this	project	in	a	helpful	direction.	A	feminist	politics	of	emotion	is	informed	by	the	mantra,	“the	personal		 144 is	political.”	It	asks	students	to	“articulate	and	publically	name	their	emotions,	and	to	critically	and	collectively	analyze	these	emotions	not	as	‘natural,’	‘private’	occurrences	but	rather	as	reflecting	learned	[power	structures]”	(pp.	112-113).55	In	so	doing,	students	learn	to	recognize	how	passions	are	both	a	means	of	social	control	and	of	resistance	to	said	control.	By	emphasizing	the	collective	and	public	nature	of	passions,	these	passions	are	politicized.	The	public	expression	of	political	passions	demonstrates	to	students	that	their	passions	are	not	merely	personal;	they	may	share	the	same	feelings	with	others.	This	is	particularly	helpful	for	those	who	feel	marginalized	in	the	current	structure,	and	who	may	believe	they	are	“crazy”	for	not	feeling	the	same	as	“everyone	else”	(p.	114).	Indeed,	the	public	expression	of	these	passions	is	necessary	for	subaltern	groups	to	form	what	Rancière	(2000/2004)	calls	enunciative	collectives	(p	36),	or	what	Fraser	(1990)	calls	subaltern	counterpublics.	In	both	instances,	shared	passions	can	stimulate	the	marginalized	to	create	or	foster	the	development	of	parallel	discursive	arenas	and	“alternative”	cultural	production.	Recall	that	passions	are	situated	to	do	so	because	they	provide	dissociation	from	the	existing	order	or	dominant	public	and	create	signifying	banners	under	which	people	can	unite.	For	example,	Spanish	Civil	War	veteran	Ted	Allan	(1939)	penned	his	novel,	This	Time,	a	Better	Earth,	to	garner	support	for	Canadian	communists	fighting	in	the	conflict.	It	appeals	not	only	to	readers’	anger	against	the	fascist	atrocities,	but	also	to	Canadians’	sense	of	guilt	for	ignoring	the	conflict	and	hope	for	a	brighter	future.	Most	importantly	for	our	purposes,	the	novel	counters	the	stigma	                                                55	Boler	is	more	specifically	concerned	with	“hierarchies	and	gendered	roles”	but	I	believe	it	is	possible	to	extend	this	concept	to	other	power	structures.		 145 against	Canadians	who	volunteered	in	Spain	(then,	an	illegal	and	unpopular	act)	by	fostering	a	sense	of	camaraderie	and	solidarity	with	“Norteamericano”	communist	communities.	These	sorts	of	collectives	provide	a	degree	of	legitimacy,	or	at	least	mutual	support,	for	subjects	to	explore	why	they	feel	the	way	they	do,	create	and	refine	language	with	which	to	express	their	passions,	agitate	together	for	recognition,	and	recast	their	political	identities	accordingly.	A	feminist	politics	of	emotion—that	is,	the	public	naming,	and	collective	analysis	of	emotions	as	sites	of	resistance—thus	helps	explain	the	importance	of	articulating	passions	to	resist	systemic	injustices.	The	capacity	to	resist	external	appeals	to	disregard	one’s	passions	is	less	bound	up	in	the	capacity	to	say,	“No,	I	feel	this	way	for	a	reason”	and	more	in	the	capacity	to	say,	“No,	we	feel	this	way	for	a	reason.	We,	who	heed	our	passions	insofar	as	they	recognize	the	injustices	done	to	us	or	to	others,	will	not	stand	for	this.”	Tired	portrayals	of	passions	as	private	terrain	are	a	means	of	disregarding	passions’	role	as	reasonable,	evaluative	appraisals.	They	presume	that	the	subject	is	irrational,	and	that	“the	system	is	fine	the	way	it	is;	it	works	for	us.	It’s	your	problem	if	you	feel	that	way.”	For	this	reason,	it	is	important	to	remind	students	that	their	passions	are	rational	and	intelligent,	and	that	they	are	not	merely	private	matters.		Ruitenberg	(2010b)	maintains	that	schools	must	leave	space	for	students	to	imagine	alternative	forms	of	collective	life:		Asking	students	to	imagine	the	society	in	which	they	would	like	to	live	can	lead	them	to	be	disappointed	with	or	angry	at	the	current	order,	but	this	disappointment	and	anger	are	signs	of	affective	engagement	with	an	alternative	social	imaginary,	and	should	not	be	feared	or	ruled	out	of	bounds.	(p.	50)		 146 In	so	doing,	students	may	find	solidarity	with	others	who	empathize	with	their	alternative	imagining,	and	thus	be	better	prepared	and	more	disposed	to	articulate	collective	disagreement	with	the	current	social	order.	By	witnessing	the	deconstruction	of	the	binary	between	reason	and	passion,	a	feminist	politics	of	emotion	brings	legitimacy	to	feelings	of	dissatisfaction	or	anger	with	the	current	order,	and	helps	students	resist	the	manipulative	assertion	that	“everything	is	fine.”	Leaving	space	for	alternative	imaginings	is	merely	one	means	of	collectively	questioning	any	injustices	of	the	status	quo.	Conclusion	Throughout	this	chapter,	I	have	theorized	passions	as	a	vital	component	of	the	capacity	to	dissent,	but	also	as	necessary	for	political	life	more	generally.	Most	importantly	for	this	thesis,	it	is	irresponsible	to	ignore	or	suppress	passions	when	they	will	inevitably	be	present	in	civics	classrooms	and	civic	life	more	generally.	Students	who	never	learn	to	channel	passions	productively	may	never	foster	the	disposition	to	engage	in	civic	life,	including	but	not	limited	to	the	disposition	to	voice	dissent	when	things	go	wrong.	Additionally,	if	students	do	not	grasp	the	passionate	nature	of	the	political,	they	may	be	unprepared	to	exercise	dissent	through	channels	that	respect	core	ethico-political	values,	especially	if	those	channels	rely	on	affective	ties	to	a	collective.	Failing	to	teach	students	that	politics	qua	the	political	is	a	passionate	affair	may	also	leave	them	unable	to	resist	manipulations	of	their	passions	for	political	gain.	Civics	curricula	will	be	unable	to	counter	these	outcomes	unless	they	witness	the	deconstruction	of	the	binary	between	reason	and	passion	that	many	deliberative	theories	uphold. 		 147 Chapter	Five:	Evaluating	B.C.’s	and	Ontario's	Civics	Curricula	 		 In	my	youth,	it	was	my	good	luck	to	have	a	few	good	teachers,	men	and			 women,	who	came	into	my	head	and	lit	a	match.	 —Yann	Martel	  We	are	right	to	admire	the	teachers	who	spark	inspiration	in	students’	minds.	But	to	kindle	that	flame	and	keep	it	alight	is	a	much	more	difficult	task,	and	teachers	cannot	accomplish	it	alone.	I	began	this	project	in	hopes	of	contributing	to	a	culture	of	critical	participation	in	Canadian	democratic	life,	envisioning	how	formal	schooling	and	the	external	curriculum	might	move	students	to	develop	an	impassioned	consciousness	for	dissent.	Since	that	time,	many	events	in	Canada	and	around	the	world	have	underscored	the	importance	of	this	work.	Most	recently,	Black	Lives	Matter	(B.L.M.)’s	show	of	civil	disobedience	at	Toronto’s	Pride	Parade	highlighted	how	dissent	can	be	legal,	peaceful,	political,	impassioned,	deliberative,	embodied,	and	productive,56	yet	still	dismissed	as	“unreasonable”	(Gollom,	2016).	Within	a	few	short	days,	B.L.M.	and	Pride	alike	were	shamed	in	the	media	(Jamieson,	2016)	and	B.L.M.	Toronto	was	“flooded	with	hate	mail”	(Black	Lives	Matter	flooded,	2016).			 The	issue	for	this	chapter	is	not	whether	B.L.M.'s	most	controversial	demand	in	this	protest,	namely	the	barring	of	police	floats	from	the	parade,	should	be	met	by	Pride	Toronto.	Rather,	it	is	the	(in)ability	of	many	Canadians	to	treat	this	demand	as	legitimate	and	to	consider	those	with	whom	they	disagree	as	adversaries	instead	of	enemies.	In	light	of	the	antagonistic	attitudes	cited	above,	and	similar	attitudes	                                                56	The	productiveness	of	this	protest	is	still	disputed;	while	Toronto	Pride’s	executive	director	initially	agreed	to	demands	to	bar	police	floats	from	participation,	he	has	since	backtracked	on	this	promise,	stating	he	only	agreed	to	“get	the	parade	moving	again”	(Gollom,	2016).			 148 elsewhere	since	undertaking	this	project,	I	have	only	strengthened	my	conviction	that	schools	should	help	instil	an	impassioned	consciousness	for	dissent.	The	critiques	I	have	advanced	in	the	previous	two	chapters	are	designed	to	contribute	to	such	a	consciousness,	but	there	must	be	curricular	space	to	accomplish	these	aims.			 The	first	of	these	critiques	focuses	on	the	capacity	of	deliberative	models	to	open	curricular	spaces	for	students	to	learn	the	skills	and	dispositions	to	dissent	when	they	perceive	injustices	in	civic	life.	The	second	critiques	deliberative	models’	ability	to	create	curricular	space	for	students	to	harness	and	channel	their	political	passions,	especially	as	they	pertain	to	dissent.	These	critiques	form	the	basis	for	the	normative	standards	I	use	in	this	chapter	to	evaluate	B.C.	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula.		In	light	of	these	critiques,	the	evaluative	questions	I	am	concerned	with	are:		2. How	do	the	conceptions	of	democracy	that	underpin	British	Columbia	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula	open	or	close	spaces	for	dissent?	3. How	do	the	conceptions	of	democracy	that	underpin	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula	open	or	close	spaces	for	passionate	responses	to	political	issues?	Together,	these	help	answer	my	primary	research	question,	which	is,	“Insofar	as	they	are	informed	by	deliberative	models	of	democracy,	how	might	civics	curricula	in	Ontario	and	B.C.	foster	or	limit	students’	ability	to	engage	in	dissent?”	I	will	begin	to	answer	these	questions	by	reiterating	the	normative	standards	I	have	developed	in	the	previous	two	chapters.	I	will	then	examine	the	degree	to	which	each	curriculum	meets	these	standards	before	offering	some	concluding	thoughts.		 		 149 Normative	Standards	for	Curricular	Evaluation		 Before	outlining	specific	normative	standards,	I	would	like	to	remind	readers	here	of	four	provisions	that	I	have	outlined	throughout	this	thesis,	all	of	which	can	ensure	these	standards	are	most	easily	implemented.	First,	I	presume	that	civics	curricula	actively	attempt	to	instil	in	students	a	desire	to	engage	in	civic	life	rather	than	treat	them	as	passive	recipients	of	rights	who	fulfill	civic	responsibilities	without	question.	This	means	curricular	values	and	content	must	be	aligned	with	a	commitment	to	participatory	parity.	Second,	I	propose	that	curricula	adopt	a	semi-archic	perspective	to	avoid	constraining	students’	engagement	with	civic	life	(see	Biesta,	2011).	This	will	prepare	students	to	engage	in	civic	life	in	any	of	its	liberal-democratic	forms	because	it	instills	in	them	a	desire	for	the	core	ethico-political	values	that	underpin	liberal	democracies,	rather	than	for	any	particular	democratic	models	or	institutions.	Moreover,	this	can	foster	students’	yearning	for	more	democratic	modes	of	human	togetherness,	both	within	the	current	order	and	in	imagined,	clearly	differentiated	alternatives.		Third,	and	related	to	this,	I	have	developed	these	standards	in	view	of	a	critical-radical,	agonistic	model	of	democracy.	My	intention	in	doing	so	is	to	ensure	curricula	make	space	for	students	to	explore	this	perspective	as	one	among	many	rather	than	adopt	a	critical-radical	or	agonistic	model	exclusively	(or	ignore	these	perspectives	outright).	This	includes	teaching	the	strengths	and	limitations	of	agonistic	models	just	as	would	be	done	with	other	models	of	democracy.	Fourth,	I	have	argued	that	curricula	should	instill	in	students	an	impassioned	consciousness	for	acts	of	political	dissent.	This	is	not	an	evaluative	criterion	but	a	framework	that	takes	three	normative	statements	as		 150 given:	(i)	dissent,	conceived	broadly,	can	be	an	acceptable,	effective,	and	sometimes	uniquely	appropriate	means	of	engaging	in	civic	life;	(ii)	political	life	is	invariably	a	passionate	affair;	and	(iii)	both	dissent	and	passions	should	be	given	critical	attention	in	civics	curricula.	The	more	specific	evaluative	standards	I	argue	for	are	scattered	throughout	the	previous	chapters,	and	they	touch	on	a	wide	variety	of	issues.	As	such,	I	summarize	and	organize	them	here	into	eight	standards	for	clarification.	In	order	to	open	spaces	for	dissent,	as	I	have	argued	is	valuable,	curricula	should:	1. Teach	dissent	as	a	positive	right.	2. Teach	what	it	means	to	channel	impassioned	dissent	productively	(i.e.	dissent	in	line	with	core	ethico-political	values).	3. Discuss	the	legal	implications	of	dissent.	4. Leave	space	for	the	consideration	of	democratic	politics	as	a	conflictual	affair.	5. Help	students	identify	which	passions	are	valuable	for	democratic	life.	6. Teach	how	passions	are	collectively	constructed	and	how	they	can	be	mobilized	collectively.	7. Teach	for	“reasoned”	and	“impassioned”	forms	of	communication	alike.	8. Make	explicit	the	role	passions	play	in	dissent,	in	both	its	everyday	and	political	forms.	I	discuss	each	of	these	criteria	in	greater	detail	in	the	subsequent	section,	in	which	I	determine	the	degree	to	which	the	models	of	democracy	that	inform	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	curricula	open	or	close	spaces	for	dissent.			 151 Evaluation	1. Teaching	dissent	as	a	positive	right	This	criterion	demands	that	curricula	actively	foster	the	critical	and	moral	capacities	for,	and	the	disposition	to,	dissent	when	students	perceive	injustices	in	civic	life.	They	should	pay	special	attention	to	students’	ability	to	articulate	disagreement	with	others.	Curricula	should	also	prepare	students	to	express	dissent	on	“everyday”	matters	as	well	as	political	matters	(those	dealing	with	claims	to	or	infringements	on	core	rights,	especially	those	that	extend	the	aesthetics-political	field	and	transform	political	grammar).	As	I	explain	earlier,	by	“political	grammar,”	I	refer	to	the	language	with	which	political	claims	(e.g.,	to	justice,	core	democratic	principles)	might	be	meaningfully	articulated	between	the	empowered	and	disempowered.	B.C.’s	curriculum	(2005)	is	moderately	effective	at	treating	dissent	as	a	positive	right.	It	includes,	for	instance,	deliberative	and	non-deliberative	forms	of	dissent	in	a	list	of	suggested	means	of	civic	engagement	(p.	41).	This	curriculum	frames	dissenting	activities	among	other	forms	of	“civic	discourse”	and	there	is	no	guarantee	that	teachers	will	move	beyond	a	descriptive	approach	to	discuss	how,	when,	or	why	they	might	be	effective.	Nevertheless,	the	curriculum	offers	two	suggestions	for	assessment	activities	that	frame	non-deliberative	dissent	as	a	positive	right	(pp.	95,	102).	Its	suggested	mock	trial	activity	asks	students	to	draw	on	a	historic	example	of	mass	protest	in	Canada	and	to	analyze	what	the	outcome	was,	how	effective	this	means	was,	determine	alternative	forms	of	civic	action	that	could	also	be	effective,	and	“the	ways	in	which	the	protest	may	have	had	a	positive	impact,	even	if	the	protest	was	‘shut	down’”	(p.	102).	Its	suggested	quick-writing	and	debate	activity	on	civil	disobedience	asks	students	to	reflect	on		 152 causes	for	which	they	would	be	prepared	to	protest	about	and	even	to	“break	the	law	and	perhaps	be	arrested…	and/or	go	to	jail”	(p.	95).	It	also	asks	that	students	reflect	on	the	causes	of	the	1993	Clayoquot	Sound	protest,	including	the	power	relations	and	ethical	questions	involved	in	the	dispute.	Together,	these	factors	make	space	for	dissent	to	be	treated	as	a	positive	right	in	the	B.C.	curriculum.	Notwithstanding,	there	is	substantial	room	for	improvement	here.	While	there	are	sections	of	this	curriculum	dedicated	to	in-depth	discussions	of	dissent	and	disagreement,	it	is	telling	that	these	are	merely	suggestions	for	assessment	activities	that	teachers	may	choose	to	use	(or	not	use).	These	suggestions	aside,	there	is	no	section	of	the	curriculum	that	requires	educators	to	discuss	when,	how,	and	why	dissent	might	be	appropriate.	While	the	document	asks	educators	to	“help	students	understand	that	debate	and	controversy	are	part	of	the	processes	of	civic	discourse	in	a	democratic	society”	(p.	47),	it	does	not	suggest	that	debate	and	controversy	can	be	productive.	Instead,	controversy	is	framed	as	something	to	be	avoided	despite	its	inevitability.	In	a	similar	vein,	the	curriculum	instils	an	understanding	of	the	various	political	ideologies	(e.g.,	liberalism,	fascism,	etc.),	but	circumscribes	how	these	positions	might	conflict	with	one	another.	It	suggests	that	ideological	conflicts	are	to	be	resolved	through	party	politics,	but	gives	no	mention	of	less	formal	strategies	(pp.	68-69,	72).	Moreover,	the	overwhelmingly	deliberative	focus	of	the	rest	of	the	curriculum	does	not	give	readers	the	sense	that	dissent	is	a	normal	course	of	civic	action.	As	Ruitenberg	(2015)	points	out,	the	B.C.	curriculum’s	deliberative	democratic	underpinning	“de-emphasizes	the	egalitarian,	constitutive	aspect	of	citizenship,	which	positions	the	citizen	not	as	rational,	deliberative	contributor	to	the	state	but	as	a	critical		 153 assessor	of	the	state	and	potentially	in	disagreement	with	it”	(p.	5).	Said	differently,	the	consensus-oriented	nature	of	the	text,	with	its	emphasis	on	contributing	to	the	social	and	political	order	rather	than	bringing	it	into	question,	largely	treats	dissent	as	an	afterthought.	Educators	can	certainly	interpret	the	document	to	treat	dissent	as	a	positive	right,	but	this	may	not	be	their	initial	impression.	Ontario’s	curriculum	(2013)	fares	quite	poorly	in	this	regard,	treating	dissent	as	a	negative	right.	To	begin	with,	dissent	is	rarely	mentioned	in	the	curriculum,	and	where	it	is,	it	is	listed	as	one	among	many	options	for	civic	engagement.	Moreover,	the	skills,	attributes,	and	dispositions	it	inculcates	among	students	highlight	its	aspiration	to	create	informed	citizens	who	cooperate	and	collaborate	for	social	cohesion	(p.	10).	These	are	desirable	aspects	of	civic	life	to	be	sure,	but	virtually	devoid	of—and	even	antithetical	to—a	view	of	society	that	views	conflict	or	dissent	as	productive.	In	addition,	the	curriculum	teaches	the	communicative	skills	and	dispositions	to	articulate	ideas	with	others,	but	it	appears	that	these	skills	are	intended	to	be	used	in	“pro-social”	problem-solving	contexts	rather	than	to	articulate	collective	demands.	The	curriculum	attends	to	power	dynamics	and	uneven	influence	among	actors,	but	nowhere	does	it	suggest	how	these	power	relations	can	be	contested	in	view	of	a	more	equitable	society.	Given	the	highly	deliberative	tone	elsewhere	in	the	document,	it	seems	as	though	citizens	are	expected	to	reduce	power	inequalities	themselves	through	deliberative	means.	Overall,	the	curriculum	does	not	explicitly	open	spaces	for	discussions	of	when,	why,	and	how	dissent	can	be	appropriate	or	valuable,	suggesting	simply	that	dissent	is	one	means	of	engaging	in	civic	action.	It	does,	however,	suggest	that	people	engage	in	civic	action	for	“everyday”	and	political	reasons	alike.	Ontario’s		 154 curriculum	does	not	close	spaces	for	discussion	of	dissent	as	a	positive	right.	However,	the	text	gives	no	indication	that	such	discussion	should	be	included.		2. Teaching	what	it	means	to	channel	passions	productively,	especially	for	dissent.	This	criterion	demands	that	curricula	teach	which	channels	are	available	for	students	to	exercise	civic	and	political	passions	productively	(meaning	that	they	are	in	line	with	the	core	ethico-political	values	of	a	liberal	democracy).	Channels	providing	space	for	dissent	are	particularly	important.	Where	channels	are	inaccessible,	curricula	should	provide	channels	of	their	own.	These	channels	should	be	sensitive	to	the	diverse	means	of	civic	and	political	engagement	that	various	individuals	and	groups	have	found	accessible	and	effective.	This	must	include	productively	impassioned	forms	of	engagement,	especially	dissent.	The	passions	that	curricula	inculcate	should	not	aim	for	control	of	passions,	but	should	aim	instead	to	open	as	many	avenues	for	the	productive	expression	of	passions	as	possible.	In	addition,	they	should	not	advocate	violence,	but	should	open	spaces	for	discussions	of	whether	civil	disobedience	can	be	appropriate	or	effective.		Curricula	should	also	make	clear	that	students	must	respect	those	they	disagree	with	and	dissent	from,	as	long	as	their	opponents’	positions	are	in	line	with	core	ethico-political	principles.	This	includes	making	clear	why	students	might	disagree	with	some	positions	so	as	to	help	them	determine	which	channels	are	appropriate	for	dissent.	Specifically,	to	help	determine	which	channels	are	most	appropriate,	curricula	should		 155 help	students	decide	whether	they	disagree	with	their	opponents	because	they	are	acting	unreasonably,57	or	because	they	simply	interpret	core	principles	differently.		B.C.’s	curriculum	(2005)	puts	ample	focus	on	respect	as	an	attribute	of	good	citizens,	including	respect	for	privacy,	diversity,	differing	viewpoints,	others’	contributions,	and	rights	and	freedoms.	It	is	dedicated	to	promoting	an	open	and	inclusive	environment,	and	there	is	good	reason	to	believe	the	document	fosters	this	endeavour.	The	text	is	nevertheless	vague	about	what	sorts	of	differences	students	should	expect	to	encounter	in	a	given	classroom,	limiting	this	to	a	vague	discussion	of	the	“beliefs	and	values	[that]	might	affect	their	position”	and	the	“challenges	of	reconciling	diverse	value	systems”	(p.	39).	Although	it	is	unclear	whether	there	are	some	beliefs	and	values	that	have	no	place	in	the	B.C.	civics	classroom,	the	document’s	frequent	references	to	various	human	rights	codes	suggest	that	beliefs	and	practices	violating	these	codes	should	be	constrained	accordingly.	While	this	establishes	a	loose	framework	for	the	limits	of	what	should	or	should	not	be	up	for	discussion	in	a	liberal	democracy,	the	document	does	little	to	teach	students	why	they	might	disagree	with	one	another.	I	maintain	that	the	link	between	differing	viewpoints	and	the	limits	of	acceptable	beliefs	and	values	should	be	made	clearer,	so	that	it	is	clear	which	political	channels	should	be	opened	or	closed	for	dissent	while	still	enabling	respectful	disagreement.	The	document	already	lists—and	in	some	case,	discusses	in	depth—many	channels	available	for	citizens	to	exercise	dissent.		                                                57	Unreasonableness	should	not	be	equated	with	irrationality.	Opponents	cannot	remain	respectful	of	one	another	if	treat	each	other	as	irrational.	Unreasonableness	refers	to	unwillingness	to	listen	to	the	other’s	position	or	change	one’s	views	accordingly.		 156 Altogether,	it	seems	to	me	that	the	B.C.	curriculum	creates	space	for	students	to	determine	which	channels	can	express	disagreement,	but	it	is	limited	in	two	key	respects.	First,	as	noted	above,	I	believe	its	discussion	of	direct	action	in	the	forms	of	protest	and	civil	disobedience	should	be	made	compulsory	rather	than	a	suggested	assessment	activity.	Second,	the	document	largely	favours	deliberative	channels	for	dissent,	but	it	provides	inadequate	attention	to	many	impassioned	forms	of	expression	that	marginalized	groups	have	used	to	form	counterpublics	by	transforming	or	countering	the	common	grammar	of	sensibility.	Those	related	to	cultural	production	(e.g.,	songs,	poetry,	dance,	book	clubs,	etc.)	are	particularly	important	yet	notably	absent.		Ontario’s	curriculum	at	once	opens	and	closes	spaces	for	students	to	learn	to	channel	dissent	productively.	Its	non-prescriptive	nature	leaves	ample	space	for	these	discussions	to	occur,	and	it	suggests	a	wide	variety	of	means	students	might	engage	with	civic	life	to	protect	or	contribute	to	the	common	good.	These	include	more	creative,	countercultural	forms	that	B.C.’s	leaves	out,	such	as	writing	a	protest	song	(p.	150).	However,	even	when	the	document	suggests	activities	related	to	“direct	action”	that	express	disagreement	(e.g.,	boycotts,	demonstrations),	it	tends	to	neutralize	them.	First,	the	curriculum’s	consensus-oriented	nature	presumes	that	these	acts	will	not	throw	into	question	what	constitutes	the	common	good.	Second,	the	text’s	fairly	thick	understanding	of	the	common	good	and	its	notions	of	how	ideal	citizens	should	act	within	the	current	order	are	not	conducive	to	channelling	disagreement	in	view	of	counter-hegemonic	alternatives.			 157 Still,	like	B.C.’s	curriculum,	Ontario	makes	fairly	clear	what	expectations	there	are	of	students	to	be	respectful	of	those	with	whom	they	disagree.	Both	documents	inadequately	define	the	parameters	of	what	constitutes	appropriate	limits	on	values	and	beliefs	in	a	liberal	democracy.	The	curriculum	never	explicitly	defines	these	values	outside	references	to	formal	declarations	of	human	rights.	Accordingly,	references	to	dissent	in	the	form	of	direct	action	appear	reserved	for	these	rights	infringements	and	less	appropriate	for	“everyday”	dissent.	The	curriculum	is	better	prepared	to	open	and	provide	channels	to	deliberative	forms	of	dissent,	especially	in	so-called	“reasoned,”	argumentative	discussions.	As	such,	I	suggest	that	direct	action	channels	be	opened	for	less	explicitly	“political”	dissent;	these	channels	are	particularly	useful	where	inequalities	give	those	in	power	few	incentives	to	be	reasonable	about	dissenters’	demands	(Young,	2001).	Particularly	concerning	is	that	Ontario’s	curriculum	makes	no	reference	to	civil	disobedience.	Should	students	exercise	non-deliberative	dissent	in	the	forms	of	direct	action	and	civil	disobedience,	it	is	likely	they	will	lack	the	knowledge	of	how	to	do	so	effectively,	what	the	ethical	implications	of	their	actions	may	be,	and	what	risks	they	pose	to	themselves	or	others	in	so	doing.	I	suggest	that,	following	B.C.’s	example,	Ontario	create	space	for	students	to	determine	whether	there	are	occasions	where	breaking	the	law	may	be	a	form	of	productive	civic	action.	However,	unlike	B.C.,	Ontario	should	make	these	spaces	explicit	and	ensure	that	students	are	aware	of	the	potential	effectiveness	and	implications	of	civilly	disobedient	actions.			 158 3. Addressing	legal	questions	Civics	curricula	should	explain	why	laws	are	important	and	citizens	have	good	reason	to	respect	most	of	them.	Ideally,	this	would	include	a	discussion	of	how	the	legislative	and	judicial	branches	work,	with	particular	attention	to	how	laws	are	made	and	enforced.	However,	it	should	also	be	made	clear	that	the	legislative	branch	does	not	have	a	monopoly	on	morality,	and	that	laws	are	fallible	because	they	are	human	constructs.	Curricula	should	also	ensure	students	are	aware	of	the	legal	risks	of	dissent,	and	especially	that	marginalized	groups	are	likely	to	face	greater	risks.		B.C.	and	Ontario	are	both	committed	to	ensuring	that	students	uphold	the	law	and	recognize	that	their	rights	and	responsibilities	are	enshrined	in	the	legal	system.	Both	also	teach	about	how	laws	are	formed	and	upheld,	and	how	these	processes	are	influenced	by	various	beliefs	and	power	dynamics.	While	these	factors	imply	that	laws	enshrine	certain	ethics,	values,	and	beliefs	over	others,	this	imbalance	is	not	made	explicit	in	Ontario’s	curriculum.	In	B.C.’s	suggested	discussion	of	civil	disobedience,	however,	it	acknowledges	that	laws	can	or	should	sometimes	be	called	into	question.		Thus,	both	curricula	currently	leave	space	for	these	discussions	to	occur,	but	I	suggest	that	the	human	construction	of	laws	be	made	explicit	and	compulsory	in	view	of	providing	students	more	political	efficacy.	This	suggestion	is	aligned	with	contemporary	deliberative	theory	(Gutmann	&	Thompson,	1996),	and	can	also	provide	more	space	for	counter-hegemonic	alternatives	to	current	interpretations	of	core	values,	as	post-deliberative	models	favour.	Ontario’s	more	deliberative	outlook	on	civil	disobedience	and	the	limitations	of	laws	provides	insufficient	space	to	throw	dominant,	“shared”	conceptions	of	justice	into	question.	Thus,	while	students	should	understand		 159 why	laws	are	important	and	reflect	many	shared	concerns	and	even	common	goods	in	society,	they	should	recognize	that	the	law	does	not	have	a	monopoly	on	morality.	In	another	vein,	both	curricula	disavow	political	violence,	as	they	should.	What	they	fail	to	discuss	is	how	students	face	uneven	risks	when	exercising	dissent—even	non-violent	dissent—both	in	the	judicial	system	and	in	the	possibility	of	personal	harm.	I	recommend	that	both	curricula	explicitly	discuss	these	risks	with	students,	focusing	especially	on	the	trends	of	unevenly	dispersed	justice	for	marginalized	groups.	Historical	and	contemporary	examples	should	be	used	here,	but	educators	should	open	these	discussions	non-prescriptively	to	avoid	overt	bias.	One	recent,	historical	example	includes	the	women	arrested	at	the	Clayoquot	Sound	protests	of	1993,	who	faced	intimidation	and	sexual	harassment	behind	bars	(MacIsaac	&	Champagne,	1994,	in	Walter,	2007,	pp.	259-260).			4. Leaving	space	for	the	consideration	of	democratic	politics	as	a	conflictual	affair	To	repeat	my	assertion	above,	despite	my	normative	views,	curricula	should	not	espouse	agonistic	models	of	democracy	alone.	They	should	instead	provide	space	for	the	strengths	and	limitations	of	major	democratic	models.	As	such,	curricula	should	make	clear	that	what	is	“reasonable”	can	be	determined	by	political	communities,	but	should	also	make	students	aware	that	universal	conceptions	of	reason	and	justice	can	have	constraining	and	exclusionary	effects	on	decision-making.	Similarly,	the	curricula	should	substantively	discuss	with	students	whether	civic	and	political	life	can	ever	be	neutral	or	objective.	All	models	of	democracy	aim	to	minimize	political	inequalities,	but	to	varying	degrees.	While	aggregative	models	consider	the	“one	person,	one	vote”		 160 principle	a	sufficient	guarantor	of	equality,	virtually	all	post-deliberative	and	many	deliberative	models	pursue	equity	by	minimizing	power	inequalities	of	culture,	class,	and	the	like.	Thus,	curricula	should	discuss	how	equality	and	equity—a	distinction	already	present	in	these	curricula—provide	different	interpretations	of	how	to	contest	power	inequalities.	They	should	also	critically	explore	with	students	how	power	inequalities	can	be	minimized.	Moreover,	any	conception	of	the	common	good	should	be	grounded	in	the	core	ethico-political	principles	of	liberal	democracies	so	that	students	can	determine	for	themselves	whether	additional	guiding	principles	are	appropriate	for	their	local,	provincial,	state,	and	global	communities.	No	realm	of	discussion	consistent	with	core	principles	should	be	considered	“unchallengeable.”	Curricula	should	also	include	a	basic	definition	of	what	hegemony	is	and	how	it	operates.58	This	should	open	space	for	students	to	question	whether	or	not	the	assumptions	underlying	the	current	order	(for	instance,	the	goods	outlined	in	the	constitution)	are	best	for	everyone,	along	with	a	description	of	how	the	amendment	formula	permits	for	constitutional	amendments.	Neither	curriculum	provides	much	space	for	considerations	of	democratic	life	as	an	inherently	conflictual	affair.	Neither	text	forecloses	this	possibility,	but	their	consensus-oriented	nature	(especially	B.C.),	as	well	as	their	fairly	communitarian	notions	of	ideal	citizens’	character	and	thick	notions	of	the	common	good	(especially	in	Ontario)	are	more	likely	to	sway	discussion	in	favour	of	democratic	cohesion.	Despite	                                                58	B.C.	has	already	introduced	discussions	of	hegemony	into	its	Grade	12	Social	Justice	course	(B.C.	Ministry	of	Education,	2008).	However,	this	course	is	an	elective,	and	not	widely	available	across	the	province.	I	have	made	note	of	it	here	to	suggest	that	this	concept	can	be	appropriate	for	secondary-aged	students.		 161 these	deliberative	tendencies,	neither	curriculum	discusses	to	a	significant	degree	whether	and	how	reason	is	constructed.	This	is	perhaps	unsurprising	for	students	in	Grade	10	(Ontario)	and	Grade	11	(B.C.).	However,	I	maintain	that	students	at	this	level	are	prepared	to	understand	that	some	views	can	be	dismissed	as	irrational	even	when	they	are	perfectly	valid.	For	example,	a	student’s	demand	to	be	addressed	with	a	pronoun	outside	the	male-female	gender	binary	(e.g.,	“they,”	“ze,”	etc.)	does	not	mean	the	student	is	merely	“seeking	attention.”	They	likely	have	legitimate	reasons—intimately	tied	to	their	passions—to	eschew	the	binary,	even	though	others	may	dismiss	this	demand	as	irrational.	It	may	be	challenging	to	explain	to	students	of	this	level	that	Canadian	discourse	of	“reasonableness”	tends	to	favour	masculinist	and	European	views.	However,	they	might	be	asked	who	has	typically	enacted	major	decisions	and	laws	in	Canada,	and	why	they	might	favour	some	groups	and	individuals	over	others.	Both	curricula	already	include	these	discussions.	However,	I	maintain	that	curricula	can	do	more	still.	Both	provinces	should	also	explain	how	this	relates	to	a	basic	conception	of	hegemony	in	order	to	show	students	that	laws	and	presumptions	about	the	common	good	can,	but	do	not	necessarily,	reflect	everyone’s	best	interests.		These	discussions	can	be	linked	to	questions	of	pluralism	and	diversity	in	society,	but	in	a	way	that	makes	clear	that	decision-making	involving	deep	differences	virtually	always	results	in	some	people	being	excluded	from	these	decisions.	In	line	with	other	criteria	here,	there	should	be	space	to	explore	which	channels	are	appropriate	for	those	who	might	be	excluded	to	voice	their	disagreement.	Even	if	these	discussions	are	watered	down	to	make	them	appropriate	for	students	at	this	level,		 162 educators	can	at	least	provide	a	vocabulary	for	students	to	understand	these	discussions	when	they	are	better	prepared	to	do	so.	For	instance,	educators	might	point	to	the	exclusion	of	Indigenous	languages	such	as	Inuktitut	from	Canada’s	official	bilingualism	policy,	and	ask	what	arguments	can	be	made	for	and	against	their	inclusion.	More	importantly,	students	should	be	asked	to	consider	who	enacted	the	official	bilingualism	policy,	what	the	socio-cultural	and	historical	context	of	that	decision	was,	why	this	policy	remains	unchanged,	and	what	role	concepts	such	as	“dominant	culture,”	“reasonable	accommodation,”	and	“systemic	discrimination”	play	(or	do	not	play).		5. Helping	students	learn	which	passions	can	be	important	for	civic	life	Curricula	should	not	treat	reason	and	passion	as	separate	or	hierarchal	entities,	but	instead	deconstruct	the	reason-passion	binary	either	implicitly	or	explicitly.	They	should	foster	the	understanding	that	specifically	“political	passions”	are	expressed	on	behalf	of	a	collective	rather	than	to	address	personal	affronts,	and	that	they	are	connected	to	a	“substantive	vision	of	a	just	society”	(Ruitenberg,	2009,	p.	277).	The	texts	should	include	attention	to	principle-dependent	passions	as	well	as	those	that	disrupt	existing	“scripts”	of	democratic	citizenship.	These	passions	may	be	considered	acceptable	whether	or	not	they	are	“pro-social,”	as	long	as	they	remain	consistent	with	the	core	principles	of	a	liberal	democracy.	Curricula	should	not	advocate	for	any	particular	passion	over	another,	as	long	as	those	passions	can	be	considered	“political.”		 163 Finally,	they	should	include	ample	space	for	critical	emotional	reflexivity	(Zembylas,	2013).59	The	B.C.	curriculum	(2005)	is	concerned	with	the	“affective	domain”	of	learning,	which	“concerns	attitudes,	beliefs,	and	the	spectrum	of	values	and	value	systems”	(p.	21).	Of	particular	interest	here	are	the	“attitudes”	that	B.C.	attempts	to	inculcate,	since	this	term	most	closely	matches	what	I	have	called	here	civic	and	political	“dispositions.”	British	Columbia’s	conception	of	appropriate	civic	attitudes	is	highly	consistent	with	deliberative	dispositions	(p.	34).	I	am	concerned	that	these	attitudes	are	too	narrowly	focused	on	deliberative	procedure,	especially	reasonableness,	and	do	not	openly	avow	commitments	to	attitudes	that	are	not	necessarily	“pro-social”	in	deliberative	terms.	For	instance,	they	do	not	give	attention	to	students’	willingness	to	voice	disagreement	or	their	disposition	to	articulate	demands	with	others,	as	post-deliberative	models	might.	Furthermore,	the	lack	of	space	for	the	treatment	of	passions	privileges	a	rationalist	view	of	democratic	life	over	a	passionate	one.	This	is	highlighted	by	the	front	matter	assertion	that	“domains	of	learning	and,	particularly,	cognitive	levels,	inform	the	design	and	development	of	the	Graduation	Program	examination	for	this	course”	(p.	21,	emphasis	mine).	Aside	from	empathy	and	care—often	considered	“pro-social”	emotions—the	B.C.	curriculum	makes	no	references	to	specific	political	passions	such	as	anger,	love,	hope,	and	the	like.	This	leaves	space	to	consider	any	emotion	as	a	political	passion,	but	it	is	far	                                                59	Recall	that	for	Zembylas,	emotional	reflexivity	demands	that	curricula	provide	space	for	“teachers	and	students	[to]	critically	reflect	on	how	emotion	discourses	may	contribute	to	perpetuating	or	challenging	social	exclusions	and	injustices”	(p.	94).	Critical	emotional	reflexivity,	asks	students	to	reflect	“specifically	how	emotions	can	be	engaged	as	critical	and	transformative	forces,”	particularly	as	they	pertain	to	power	relations	(Zembylas,	2008).		 164 more	likely	that	these	discussions	will	fall	to	the	wayside	due	to	the	rationalist	democratic	consciousness	that	these	curricula	(and,	I	believe,	most	Canadians)	espouse.	Similarly,	B.C.’s	promotion	of	traditionally	pro-social	civic	emotions	over	more	disruptive,	political	ones	may	lead	discussions	to	be	framed	through	a	deliberative	lens	and	creates	little	space	for	the	post-deliberative	model	I	advocate	for	here.	Finally,	the	absence	of	space	for	discussions	of	passion	in	B.C.’s	curriculum	does	not	actively	open	spaces	for	critical	emotional	reflexivity.	It	does	not	open	spaces,	for	instance,	for	students	and	teachers	to	reflect	on	how	their	passions	can	be	constructed	according	to	certain	ideologies	or	how	they	can	be	mobilized	for	political	power.	This	absence	will	almost	certainly	leave	students	underprepared	to	understand	which	political	passions	can	be	important	for	civic	and	political	life.	Ontario’s	curriculum	(2013)	fares	no	better	since	its	references	to	passions	are	scant	overall.	It	makes	explicit	that	the	dispositions	and	emotions	of	caring,	dignity,	empathy,	and	trust	are	all	vital	for	healthy	relationships,	but	this	is	a	very	short	list.	Moreover,	like	B.C.’s	preferred	civic	emotions,	all	of	these	passions	are	typically	considered	pro-social	from	a	consensus-oriented	standpoint.	The	text	does	not	make	explicit	that	other	passions,	especially	those	that	disrupt	pre-established	scripts	of	citizenship,	can	be	valuable	as	well.	Overall,	the	curriculum	opens	virtually	no	spaces	for	critical	emotional	reflexivity.	Unlike	B.C.,	however,	it	does	not	explicitly	avow	a	commitment	to	cognitive	demands	over	emotional	ones.	Instead,	it	considers	these	concepts	distinct	yet	connected	(p.	4).	Despite	this	avowed	commitment	to	fostering	students’	cognitive	and	emotional	development,	the	text	opens	virtually	no	space	for		 165 students	to	learn	which	civic	passions	can	be	appropriate	or	valuable	for	civic	and	political	life.			6. Considering	how	passions	are	collectively	constructed	and	how	they	can	be	mobilized	collectively	Curricula	should	make	clear	that	the	ways	passions	are	constructed	and	expressed	are	not	only	biological	and	embodied,	but	also	influenced	by	collective	norms	and	circumstances.	Moreover,	they	should	demonstrate	how	passions	can	be	mobilized	by	collectives	for	particular	civic	and	political	purposes,	including	in	manipulative	forms	(e.g.,	by	demagogues	or	for	blind	patriotism).	This	standard	demands	that	students	learn	to	express	emotions	publicly	rather	than	internalizing	them	privately	(see	Boler,	1999).	This	underscores	the	importance	of	teaching	the	role	of	allies	and	accomplices60	in	a	social	justice	context.	Neither	curriculum	deals	extensively	with	how	passions	are	collectively	constructed	and	mobilized.	Neither	makes	clear	whether	passions	are	embodied,	biological,	public,	or	private,	although	Ontario’s	provides	a	significant	number	of	examples	of	embodied	channels	through	which	political	passions	can	be	expressed	(more	on	this	below).	Each	curriculum	should	make	explicit	that	passions	come	in	all	of	these	forms	and	that	each	can	be	channelled	differently.	In	addition,	if	we	consider	Ontario’s	(2013)	references	to	values	and	beliefs	as	impassioned	as	does	B.C.	(2005),	this	consideration	opens	more	space	for	the	understanding	of	passions	as	constructed	                                                60	“Accomplice”	may	be	a	more	appropriate	word	than	“ally,”	since	“accomplices	put	their	body	on	the	line”	(Cayungal,	cited	in	Plaut,	2016).		 166 terrain.	Ontario	should	make	explicit	whether	values	and	beliefs,	phenomena	it	considers	individual	and	social	(p.	183),	are	also	impassioned	phenomena	(and	I	maintain	that	they	are).	However,	both	curricula	need	to	dedicate	clearly	demarcated	space	to	this	discussion,	along	with	why	passions’	collectively	constructed	nature	is	important.	This	should	include	understandings	that	collectively	constructed	passions	can	be	empowering	as	well	as	manipulative.	These	topics	will	provide	a	backbone	for	the	existing	discussions	in	both	curricula	about	how	passions,	expressed	as	values	and	beliefs,	can	be	mobilized.	They	will	also	create	more	space	to	teach	the	importance	of	allies	in	social	justice	movements.	Here,	too,	curricula	should	ensure	that	specific	emotions—not	just	impassioned	values	and	beliefs—can	be	constructed	and	mobilized	collectively.			 7. Teaching	for	“reasoned”	and	“impassioned”	forms	of	communication	alike.		Curricula	should	recognize	that	all	forms	of	communication	are	at	once	rational	and	impassioned,	and	that	those	considered	“impassioned”	have	equal	merit	in	civic	life.	Curricula	should	inculcate	the	skills	and	dispositions	necessary	to	express	and	understand	forms	of	communication	generally	considered	more	impassioned	(e.g.,	greeting,	storytelling,	rhetoric).	B.C.’s	curriculum	(2005)	emphasizes	highly	rational,	cognitively	oriented	forms	of	communication	such	as	argumentation	and	debate	in	its	curriculum.	Openly	committing	to	the	“cognitive	domain”	of	students’	development	over	the	affective	domain	(p.	21),	the	skills	B.C.	asks	students	to	develop	largely	are	largely	framed	through	a	deliberative	lens	as	dispassionate.	The	more	passionate	aspects	of	supposedly	“rational”	forms	of	argumentation—such	as	the	“heated”	nature		 167 of	an	argument	or	the	partisan	nature	of	a	debate—are	given	virtually	no	space	in	the	document.	Students	are	not	asked	to	develop	the	more	creative	or	embodied	skills	associated	with	more	impassioned	forms	of	communication,	and	considerations	of	passion	in	this	regard	are	nearly	always	relegated	to	the	sidelines.	The	emphasis	on	respect	for	differences	leaves	space	to	consider	more	passionate	forms	of	communication,	but	does	little	to	develop	the	skills	required	to	exercise	them.	Overall,	then,	it	is	highly	unlikely	that	relatively	impassioned	forms	of	communication	or	their	corresponding	skill-sets	will	receive	much	consideration	in	this	curriculum.			 Ontario’s	(2013)	curriculum	leaves	more	space	for	these	sorts	of	considerations,	advocating	relatively	impassioned	and	cognitive	forms	of	communication	with	fairly	equal	frequency.	Like	B.C.,	however,	Ontario’s	curriculum	focuses	on	cognitive	and	rational	skills	instead	of	more	creative	and	embodied	ones.	This	may	leave	students	comparatively	unprepared	to	exercise	relatively	impassioned	forms	of	communication.	For	instance,	the	curriculum	teaches	quite	heavily	for	logical	argumentation	skills,	which	can	easily	be	put	to	use	in	debate.	Although	the	same	document	contends	that	a	relatively	impassioned	form—a	protest	song—can	be	a	useful	form	of	communication,	it	does	not	attempt	to	inculcate	corresponding	skills	and	capacities	(e.g.,	creative	attributes,	comfort	with	public	performance)	that	are	also	useful	for	civic	life.	The	relatively	rationalist	skills	emphasized	elsewhere	do	little	to	prepare	students	to	engage	in	embodied	communication.	Consider,	for	example,	a	sit-in,	where	a	dissenter’s	body	is	the	primary	means	of	communication.	I	suggest	that	Ontario	continue	to	emphasize	traditionally	rationalist	and	impassioned	forms	of	communication	equally,	but	include	a	greater	diversity	of	forms	of	communication	in	its	examples.	Furthermore,	the	text		 168 should	emphasize	the	skills	and	capacities	necessary	to	engage	in	comparatively	impassioned	forms	of	communication.		 8. Making	explicit	the	role	passions	play	in	dissent,	in	both	its	everyday	and	political	forms	Curricula	should	make	clear	that	passions	are	useful	for	everyday	engagements	in	civic	life	but	also	for	expressions	of	dissent.	As	part	of	this	understanding,	they	should	inculcate	the	ability	to	imagine	alternative	forms	of	democratic	togetherness	and	the	role	of	public	passions	in	creating	and	strengthening	identities.	Furthermore,	this	requires	them	to	provide	space	for	students	to	explore	subject	positions	and	undergo	subjectification	through	their	reason	and	their	passions.	To	do	so,	curricula	should	teach	that	political	identities	are	fluid	and	can	be	strategically	articulated	with	others.	This	in	turn	requires	space	for	students	to	explore	what	views	they	consider	friendly	or	adversarial,	a	process	involving	self-assessment	and	critique.			 British	Columbia’s	(2005)	curriculum	does	a	poor	job	in	this	regard.	Its	references	to	dissent	do	not	suggest	that	it	is	a	passionate	affair	so	the	document	is	ill	prepared	to	teach	which	roles	passions	might	play	in	students’	decisions	to	dissent.	This	is	not	to	say	it	precludes	imaginings	of	alternative	forms	of	collective	life.	Rather,	the	document	encourages	students	to	understand	the	various	“isms”	of	the	political	world	(e.g.,	socialism,	conservatism,	etc.)	in	terms	of	the	political	spectrum	and	existing	parties.	This,	however,	is	limited	in	two	regards:	first,	the	curriculum	openly	avows	a	commitment	to	deliberative	democracy	so	students	are	limited	in	what	they	might	imagine.	Second,	this	process	is	not	presented	as	a	passionate	endeavour	so	students		 169 may	lose	out	on	the	opportunity	to	articulate	shared	hopes	or	collective	frustrations	with	others.		Students’	political	identities	are	instead	treated	as	static,	and	their	cultural	and	linguistic	backgrounds	as	synonymous	with,	or	determinants	of	these	identities.	The	curriculum	does	move	in	a	helpful	direction	here	when	it	asks	students	to	“conduct	a	self-assessment	of	their	own	beliefs	and	values,	and	give	examples	of	how	these	might	affect	their	position	and	decisions	on	a	range	of	issues”	(p.	39).	Notwithstanding,	the	document	does	not	discuss	how	identities	can	be	fluid,	formed	by	political	passions,	or	mobilized	in	view	of	forming	or	strengthening	collective	political	identities.	I	suggest	that	the	B.C.	curriculum	take	these	factors	into	account;	it	should	reframe	identity	formation	as	an	impassioned	and	fluid	process,	and	openly	discuss	with	students	how	identities	are	important	for	individual	and	collective	engagement,	especially	dissent.		 Ontario’s	(2013)	curriculum	also	fails	to	treat	dissent	as	an	impassioned	process,	but	its	comparatively	strong	emphasis	on	impassioned	identity	formation	provides	a	fairly	strong	foundation	for	doing	so.	While	the	document	does	not	foreclose	the	treatment	of	dissent	as	an	impassioned	process	(and	references	to	dissent	are	scarce),	it	does	little	to	open	discussion	in	this	vein.	For	instance,	students	are	asked	to	reflect	on	how	they	can	enact	civic	change,	but	the	emphasis	is	on	contributing	to	the	existing	order	rather	than	imagining	alternative	forms	of	democratic	life.	This	leaves	out	two	impassioned	elements	of	civic	change.	First,	these	imaginings	are	often	tied	to	students’	dissatisfaction	with	(elements	of)	the	current	order,	and	any	articulations	of	their	grievances	are	inevitably	charged	with	passion.	Second,	these	imaginings	make	space	for	identity	formation	along	partisan	and	thus	passionate	lines.	The	absence	of	these		 170 understandings	in	the	current	curriculum	may	limit	students’	imaginings	to	“friendly,”	deliberative	alternatives	to	the	status	quo,	or	leave	them	unprepared	to	channel	any	adversarial	passions	through	legitimate	political	channels.		I	argue	that	Ontario	should	make	spaces	for	impassioned	exercises	of	dissent	by	combining	its	emphasis	on	identity	formation—in	which	it	acknowledges	passions	play	a	role—with	discussions	of	dissent.	Ontario	already	treats	students’	identities	as	fluid	and	malleable,	which	can	foster	the	strategic	articulation	of	students’	democratic	subjectivities.	However,	the	document	largely	frames	identity	formation	as	a	personal	matter,	and	references	to	collective	identity	treat	identity	formation	as	static	(e.g.,	synonymous	with	cultural	background).	To	ensure	that	students	can	articulate	shared	passions	and	strengthen	their	collective	democratic	subjectivities,	Ontario’s	curriculum	should	emphasize	how	identity	formation	can	occur	as	a	collective	and	impassioned	process.	This	should	highlight	the	role	of	(counter-)publics	in	subjectification,	examples	of	which	include	reading	groups,	gay-straight	alliances,	punk	concerts,	and	the	like.	It	should	also	demonstrate	how	students’	identities	can	be	bound	up	in	shared	antagonisms	or	substantive	notions	of	social	justice	to	act	as	“allies”	with	one	another.	To	facilitate	this,	Ontario	should	also	ask	students	to	reflect	on	which	views	they	consider	friendly	or	adversarial	and	how	best	they	can	express	impassioned	disagreements	through	legitimate	political	channels.		Conclusion	In	Chapter	Two,	I	conducted	a	qualitative	thematic	analysis	on	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula	and	determined	that	both	are	primarily	underpinned	by		 171 deliberative	models	of	democracy.	Both	documents	also	leave	space	for	educators	to	interpret	them	according	to	other	models	of	democracy	(especially	post-deliberative	ones).	However,	the	primarily	deliberative	nature	of	the	curricula	constrains	how	civic	dissent,	and	especially	the	passionate	demands	of	dissent	might	be	taught.	My	critiques	of	deliberative	democracy	in	Chapters	Three	and	Four	develop	normative	standards	for	the	partial	evaluation	of	civics	curricula.			 In	this	chapter,	I	have	drawn	out	these	evaluative	standards	and	applied	them	to	B.C.	and	Ontario’s	curricula.	I	have	determined	that	both	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	civics	curricula	are	currently	limited	in	their	ability	to	prepare	students	to	exercise	dissent	or	channel	their	political	passions	through	legitimate	channels.	Some	of	the	shortcomings	I	address	in	this	chapter	are	simply	due	to	absences	in	both	curricula’s	treatments	of	dissent	and	political	passion,	perhaps	due	to	normative	considerations	of	what	policymakers	deem	important	or	because	these	topics	are	underexplored	in	civic	education	literature	more	generally.	However,	many	curricular	limitations	are	tied	to	the	documents’	deliberative	democratic	underpinnings.		To	begin	with,	both	documents	are	more	closely	aligned	with	an	“education	for	democracy”	rather	than	“democracy	studies.”	That	is,	both	educate	for	a	particular	model	of	democracy—a	deliberative	model—instead	of	teaching	students	about	various	models	of	democracy	to	help	them	decide	which	is	most	appropriate.	In	B.C.’s	case,	this	commitment	is	overt,	while	it	is	implicit	in	Ontario’s	case.61	In	both	curricula,	we	have	seen	how	educating	for	one	particular	model	of	democracy	limits	how	discussions	of	                                                61	I	maintain	students	should	be	aware	that	deliberative	democracy	is	dominant	in	Canada,	but	that	there	are	alternatives	to	the	status	quo	that	also	deserve	consideration.		 172 dissent	and	especially	of	political	passions	can	be	framed.	This	is	particularly	evident	in	the	types	of	skills	and	dispositions	students	are	taught	to	embody,	the	ways	they	are	taught	to	engage	with	civic	and	political	life,	and	the	absences	of	aggregative	and	post-deliberative	concerns	alike	in	the	curriculum.	For	these	reasons,	I	hold	that	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	curricula	would	benefit	from	adopting	a	semi-archic	perspective	in	which	they	educate	for	more	democratic	modes	of	human	togetherness	rather	than	for	a	particular	model	of	democracy.		More	concerning	for	the	purposes	of	this	study,	however,	is	how	the	curricula’s	specifically	deliberative	underpinnings	close—or	at	least,	do	not	explicitly	open—spaces	for	attending	to	dissent.	Deliberative	models’	consensus	orientations	and	rationalist	view	of	democratic	life	are	particularly	constraining	in	these	regards.	As	we	have	seen,	these	elements	are	characteristic	of	both	curricula,	albeit	to	different	degrees.	Their	consensus	orientation	leaves	little	room	for	post-deliberative	conceptions	of	democratic	life	as	an	inherently	conflictual	affair.	Accordingly,	students	may	not	learn	to	exercise	dissent	when	they	disagree	with	dominant	interpretations	of	core	ethico-political	principles.	A	consensus	orientation	may	fail	to	provide	the	skills	and	dispositions	to	treat	dissent	as	a	positive	right,	and	students	might	be	left	underprepared	to	imagine	and	act	for	clearly	differentiated	modes	of	democratic	togetherness.	Both	provinces	aim	to	resolve	problems	and	reconcile	differences,	with	little	indication	that	difference	can	be	a	resource.		At	its	roots,	a	consensus	orientation	can	also	be	highly	exclusionary	and	mask	existing	conflict.	This	consensus	orientation	is	evident	in	the	way	that	B.C.	treats	dissent	as	an	afterthought	and	a	tool	in	service	of	the	common	good.	Similarly,	Ontario	tends	to		 173 instil	a	thick	conception	of	the	common	good	along	with	“pro-social”	dispositions	among	its	students.	A	consensus	orientation	may	even	be	dangerous	by	foreclosing	spaces	for	political	subjects	to	express	dissent	through	legitimate	political	channels.	While	neither	curriculum	forecloses	these	spaces,	neither	is	particularly	helpful	for	opening	these	spaces,	either.	Deliberative	models’	rationalist	view	of	democratic	life	is	problematic	because	it	tends	to	universalize	understandings	of	the	common	good	and	disregard	alternative,	yet	equally	valid,	understandings	of	core	ethico-political	principles.	The	deliberative	underpinnings	of	both	curricula	may	go	so	far	as	to	preclude	deep,	partisan	discussion	of	clearly	differentiated	alternatives.	This	rationalist	view	may	leave	students	unprepared	to	channel	the	passions	they	will	inevitably	experience	when	engaging	with	civic	and	political	life.	Each	province’s	wariness	of	passions	more	generally	is	indicative	of	this	attitude.		The	same	can	be	said	for	the	corresponding	absence	of	any	form	of	critical	emotional	reflexivity	in	both	curricula.	A	rationalist	view	may	also	dismiss	certain	forms	of	communication	and	engagement	as	invalid	or	counterproductive,	and	these	exclusions	are	particularly	detrimental	to	marginalized	groups.	Although	Ontario	is	stronger	in	this	regard,	B.C.	sharply	privileges	rationalist	modes	of	communication	and	engagement	over	more	impassioned	or	embodied	forms.	Furthermore,	a	lack	of	attention	to	the	passionate	nature	of	democratic	politics	can	leave	students	without	an	understanding	of	how	political	identities	can	be	collectively	articulated,	strengthened,	and	mobilized.	Without	this	understanding,	their	passions	may	also	be	subject	to		 174 manipulation	by	others	for	political	gain,	especially	if	curricula	treat	passions	as	separate	from	and	subordinate	to	reason.		Throughout	this	thesis,	I	have	developed	normative	arguments	for	the	importance	of	teaching	political	dissent	and	political	passions	in	Canadian	civics	curricula.	These	arguments	form	the	basis	for	a	critical-radical	evaluation	of	Canadian	civics	curricula.	I	have	also	made	the	case	that	teaching	for	deliberative	models	of	democracy	alone	will	insufficiently	prepare	students	to	meet	these	criteria.	I	conclude	that,	overall,	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	secondary-level	civics	curricula	do	not	adequately	provide	students	the	skills	and	dispositions	necessary	to	meet	the	criteria	I	have	outlined.	This	is	largely,	but	not	entirely,	due	to	the	deliberative	models	of	democracy	that	inform	each	document.	In	particular,	the	consensus	orientations	and	rationalist	perspectives	characteristic	of	deliberative	models	tend	to	foreclose	spaces	for	teaching	productive	dissent	and	political	passions.		This	is	not	to	say	that	either	curriculum	fails	to	teach	the	importance	of	dissent	or	political	passions.	Indeed,	both	curricula	are	sufficiently	non-prescriptive	for	educators	to	interpret	them	in	ways	that	open	discussions	of	dissent	and	political	passion.	Nor	are	deliberative	models	wholly	flawed;	rather,	they	should	be	applauded	for	navigating	the	sticky	terrain	of	popular	sovereignty	and	re-inscribing	within	it	a	deep	and	empowering	faith	in	participants	to	advocate	for	their	own	interests.	Despite	these	strengths,	I	have	offered	a	critique	of	deliberative	democracy	because	of	my	normative	belief	that	they	are	no	longer	the	best	suited	to	address	the	most	complex	demands	of	Canada’s	contemporary,	liberal-democratic	society.	I	respect,	however,	that	many	believe	deliberative	democracy	to	be	the	most	promising	model	of	democracy,		 175 and	that	this	understanding	is	rooted	in	a	different	interpretation	than	my	own	of	the	core	ethico-political	principal	of	equality.		My	core	concern	is	that	a	predominantly	deliberative	focus	in	civic	education	can	easily	fail	to	create	space	for	critical-radical	perspectives,	which	I	believe	can	encourage	and	help	prepare	students	to	engage	in	civic	life	more	effectively	and	productively.	I	contend	that	critical-radical	perspectives	provide	alternative	interpretations	of	democratic	principles	and	make	way	for	more	open	and	equitable	modes	of	democratic	togetherness,	and	should	be	included	in	Canadian	civics	curricula.	Thus,	I	hold	that	B.C.	and	Ontario	should	adopt	a	semi-archic	perspective	so	as	to	help	students	determine	for	themselves,	with	an	adequate	understanding	of	the	major	democratic	models,	which	view	of	civic	and	political	life	they	favour.	This	perspective	can	make	space	for	aggregative,	deliberative,	and	post-deliberative	models	of	democratic	life	alike	to	play	a	more	explicit	role	in	both	curricula.	Taken	together,	these	models	will	better	empower	students	to	collectively	bring	more	inclusive,	critical,	and	socially	just	visions	of	civic	life	into	being.			 Further	questions	remain.	First,	there	is	the	concern	of	implementing	these	ideas	at	the	classroom	level.	If	civics	curricula	are	designed	to	teach	the	productive	potential	of	democratic	conflict,	how	can	we	ensure	that	teachers	feel	comfortable	opening	spaces	for	conflict	in	the	classroom?	Educators	might	be	tempted	to	mitigate	conflict	or	relegate	it	to	the	sidelines	for	fear	of	alienating	students	and	losing	control	of	the	class	to	“mere	retribution	and	anarchy”	(Stitzlein,	2012,	p.	148).	However,	it	may	be	possible	to	minimize	these	risks	by	employing	“democratic”	pedagogic	strategies,	that,		 176 among	other	characteristics,	leave	conflict	management—including	the	ability	to	direct	conflict	to	the	appropriate	channels—in	students’	hands.			 Teachers’	role	might	be	to	create	the	conditions	for	students	to	explore	conflict	respectfully	and	according	to	the	core	ethico-political	principles	of	liberal	democracy,	and	to	arbitrate	only	when	students	overstep	those	boundaries.	This	way,	classrooms	can	remain	spaces	for	students	to	explore	ideas	while	learning	to	apply	conflict	management	skills	in	the	“real”	civic	world.	One	pedagogic	tool	is	particularly	strong	as	a	means	of	democratizing	civic	education	and	demonstrating	to	students	the	centrality	of	conflict	in	political	life.	The	Civic	Mirror	(2006)	asks	students	to	simulate	their	own	nation	to	foster	experiential	learning.	Students	in	these	simulations	are	asked	to	draw	up	a	mock	society,	including	designing	a	constitution,	electing	officials,	running	their	economy,	and	trying	accused	criminals.	This	encourages	students	to	manage	consensus	and	conflict	alike,	while	also	opening	spaces	for	critical—and	perhaps	impassioned—reflection	on	their	experiences.	Note	that	this	guide	only	includes	state-based	conceptions	of	democratic	politics.	The	Civic	Mirror	has	created	modules	designed	specifically	for	Ontario’s,	BC.’s,	and	Alberta’s	civic	and	social	studies	curricula,	and	is	well	suited	to	advance	many	of	the	normative	aims	outlined	throughout	this	thesis.			 Pre-service	and	in-service	teacher	education	programs	should	also	play	a	role	in	discussing	teachers’	(dis)comfort	with	the	expression	of	political	passions	and	dissent	in	the	classrooms.	Although	many	other	strategies	exist,	I	have	in	mind	Boler’s	(1999)	call	to	engage	with	a	pedagogy	of	discomfort	for	both	students’	and	teachers’	sake.	Teacher	education	might	foster	teachers’	dispositions	to	embrace	their	own	discomfort	by	creating	space	for	political	passions	and	dissent	in	their	classrooms,	even	though		 177 doing	so	can	leave	them	exposed	to	certain	risks	(of	“losing	control,”	of	exposing	students	to	discomfort,	etc.).62	Here,	both	student	and	teacher	stand	to	benefit;	this	disposition	can	help	teachers	experience	first-hand	how	consensus-oriented	and	rationalist	approaches	to	democracy	have	constrained	their	thinking,	perhaps	unsettling	long-held	assumptions.	It	can	also	foster	trust	between	student	and	teacher	since	both	are	navigating	potentially	unexplored	territory	together.	This	is	merely	one	space	where	teacher	education	might	intervene;	what	other	possibilities	might	we	imagine?	Yet	another	question	arises	here:	How	might	educators	navigate	this	dilemma	in	culturally	diverse	classrooms?	I	have	advocated	for	the	shared,	collective	expression	of	political	passions,	but	public	expressions	of	emotion	are	not	considered	appropriate	in	every	culture.	Here,	we	may	consider	once	again	how	a	pedagogy	of	discomfort	can	open	spaces	for	self-exploration	and	risk-taking.	If	students	are	unprepared	to	step	out	of	the	comfort	of	keeping	passions	private,	teachers	might	merely	invite	them	to	share	their	passions	without	adding	pressure	to	do	so	(for	instance,	by	grading	them	on	this	expression).	The	nature	of	students’	exploration	is	key	here:	for	some	students,	self-reflections	might	be	a	better	means	of	exploring	passions	than	group	sharing.	There	are	also	macro-level	questions	that	remain	about	civic	education:	is	the	amount	of	space	allotted	to	civic	education	in	secondary	schools	sufficient	to	address	the	issues	I	have	discussed	here,	as	well	as	the	limitations	that	other	policymakers,	scholars,	and	communities	have	identified?	My	own	experience	in	Ontario’s	secondary	                                                62	This	approach	underscores	that	learning	is	always	a	risky	and	potentially	uncomfortable	process	since	it	continually	threatens	to	violate	students’	sovereignty	by	challenging	“who	and	where	our	students	are”	(see	Biesta,	2006,	pp.	27-29).		 178 school	system	and	my	work	to	educate	the	general	public	about	civic	and	political	issues	in	Canada	suggests	otherwise.	Recall	also	that	Ontario’s	Civics	10	course	is	compulsory,	but	only	worth	half	a	credit.	B.C.’s	Civic	Studies	11	is	not	compulsory,	and	boasts	a	far	lower	enrolment.	In	2014/15,	only	852	(1.5	percent)	of	B.C.’s	56,661	Grade	11	students	completed	the	Civic	Studies	11	exam,	as	compared	to	the	42,502	(75	percent)	who	completed	the	alternative	exam	in	Social	Studies	11	(B.C.	Ministry	of	Education,	2015).		Much	of	the	existing	content	of	both	courses	is	fundamental,	but	admittedly	basic.	Take,	for	example,	the	amount	of	space	dedicated	(in	both	curricula)	to	the	three	branches	of	government,	Canadian	identity,	and	rights	and	responsibilities.63	Many	of	these	topics	might	better	be	addressed	at	an	earlier	level,	and	the	overlap	between	elementary	and	secondary	content	minimized,	to	create	space	for	more	critical	thinking	at	the	secondary	level.	The	existing	structure	of	both	provinces’	elementary-level	Social	Studies	curricula	equips	them	to	implement	these	changes.		 This	thesis	has	also	left	a	major	issue	untouched:	many	are	uneasy	with	the	concept	of	citizenship	and	its	exclusionary	or	even	oppressive	nature.	Fraser	(2009),	for	instance,	discusses	how	political	exclusion	often	occurs	as	a	result	of	misframing	who	is	entitled	to	justice.	Although	the	normalcy	of	Westphalian	justice	grammar	(i.e.	justice	allocated	according	to	people’s	shared	citizenship/nation-state)	has	long	been	contested,	many	decision-makers	still	cling	to	the	concept	of	citizenship	as	the	most	appropriate	frame	for	justice	claims.	Framing	justice	claims	through	citizenship	status	                                                63	I	am	not	suggesting	that	these	topics	are	unimportant;	each	one	undoubtedly	is.	However,	I	believe	they	are	basic	enough	to	teach	at	the	elementary	level	and	merely	revised	at	the	secondary	level	to	leave	more	space	for	deeper	investigation.		 179 is	not	only	inaccurate,	Fraser	argues,	but	it	can	easily	exclude	people	who	are	subjected	to	a	decision.	To	which	body,	for	example,	can	Temporary	Foreign	Workers	in	Canada	voice	justice	grievances	without	fear	of	reprisal	if	they	are	not	afforded	the	same	labour	rights	as	Canadian	citizens?	Indigenous	scholars	have	troubled	the	concept	of	citizenship	further.	Taiaiake	Alfred	(2009)	summarizes	the	prevailing	Indigenous	views	on	citizenship.	Traditional	circles	have	failed	to	rationalize	Indigenous	sovereignty	in	the	language	of	citizenship,	he	argues,	due	to	the	incommensurable	disconnect	between	a	“rights-based	liberal	philosophical	orientation	and	the	fundamentals	of	Indigenous	teachings	and	worldviews”	(p.	11).	Other,	more	statist	attempts	to	bridge	Indigenous	and	liberal	notions	of	identity/political	organization/governance	fail	to	recognize	that	collective	Indigenous	identity	is	based	on	kinship	or	clan	ties	rather	than	loyalty	to	the	state.	For	Alfred,	these	perspectives	constitute	assimilation.	Others,	still,	recognize	that	citizenship	is	a	vehicle	for	rights-claiming,	but	eschew	statist	lenses	of	citizenship	in	favour	of	more	cultural	ones	(pp.	15-16).	These	arguments,	alongside	the	critical	perspectives	espoused	by	thinkers	such	as	Fraser	(2009),	open	an	important	line	of	inquiry	revolving	around	the	question:	what	are	the	limitations	of	teaching	for	dissensual	citizenship	when	citizenship	is	itself	an	exclusionary	concept?		My	thinking	about	this	term	has	evolved	along	with	my	argument.	It	may	be	that	the	term	“political	subject”	offers	a	more	inclusive	and	more	accurate	view	of	democratic	actors	than	does	“citizenship.”	This	language	contests	the	antiquated	primacy,	in	liberal	theory,	of	actors’	relationship	to	the	nation-state	as	their	primary		 180 relational	institution.	Moreover,	“political	subject”	refocuses	justice	claims	toward	those	subjected	to	a	given	decision	instead	of	those	holding	a	specific	and	exclusive	status.	Finally,	there	are	other	questions	I	intend	to	pursue	that	I	do	not	have	the	scope	or	space	to	address	here.	I	have	alluded	to	the	need	to	develop	comprehensive	evaluative	critiques	of	civics	courses.	Which	other	elements	of	civics	curricula	open	or	close	spaces	for	teaching	dissent	in	civic	education?	These	might	include	the	models	of	citizenship,	structures	of	governance,	understandings	of	Canada’s	international	role,	and	conceptions	of	legal	frameworks	that	underpin	civics	courses.	We	should	also	consider	how	aggregative,	deliberative,	and	post-deliberative	models	of	democracy	create	or	limit	space	in	civic	education	for	civic	and	political	concerns	other	than	dissent	or	engagement.	For	example,	how	might	they	create	or	limit	space	for	various	conceptualizations	of	the	public	sphere?	For	cultural	pluralism?	For	gender-inclusive	understandings	of	citizenship?	Clearly,	there	is	still	much	work	to	be	done	to	create	inclusive	and	critical	civics	courses	for	Canadian	students.	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Teaching	Education,	24(1)	84-96.	doi:	10.1080/10476210.2012.704508 		 201 Appendices	Appendix	A	-	Themes	for	Qualitative	Thematic	Analysis		 Aggregative	 Deliberative	 Post-deliberative	Preference	Formation	 -	Exogenous	to	political	process	-	Majority	rule	 -	Endogenous	to	political	process.		-	Justify	and	refine	positions	-	Occurs	in	the	public	sphere	-	Endogenous	to	political	process		-	Justify	and	refine	positions		-	Occurs	in	multiple	public	spheres	Rationality	and	Passion	 -	Actors	are	rational	(self-interested)	-	It	is	irrelevant	whether/how	reason	is	constructed	-	Passion	does	not	figure	into	this	model	-	Actors	are	rational	(self-interested)		-	Reason	is	universal	or	communitarian	-	Terms	of	reasonableness	are	legitimate	if	constructed	through	deliberative	means	-	There	are	rational	solutions	to	nearly	all	issues		-	Issues	that	are	rationally	incommensurable	should	be	kept	private	-	Actors	are	rational	(self-interested)	-	Reason	is	constructed	and	can	never	be	neutral	or	objective	-	There	are	rational	solutions	to	most	but	not	all	issues	-	Issues	that	are	rationally	incommensurable	should	be	given	space	in	public	and/or	decided	through	passionate	means	Means	of	Communication	and	Participation	 -	Voting	is	the	crux	of	democratic	life	-	Discussion	helps	pool	options	- Public	sphere	refines	public	opinion(s)	- Reasonableness	valued	-	Passionate	rhetoric	and	embodied	forms	acceptable	but	not	preferred	-	Preference	for	deliberative	means	in	ideal	conditions	-	Protest,	boycotts,	and	non-violent	civil	disobedience	are	acceptable	if	they	advance	deliberation	and	respect	shared	principles	- Public	spheres	refine	public	opinions	- Reasonableness	valued	-	Passionate	rhetoric	and	embodied	forms	equally	valuable	as	rational	argumentation	-	Deliberative	means,	boycotts,	protests,	and	non-violent	civil	disobedience	all	equally	acceptable	if	they	respect	core	democratic	principles		 202 Inclusion	and	Political	Equality	 -	All	citizens	get	one	vote,	formally	equal	voice	-	Heavy	burden	of	proof	of	discrimination	to	overturn	decisions		-	Disagreement	helps	refine	decision-making	but	is	treated	as	a	problem	to	be	resolved	-	Attend	to	power	inequalities		-	Aim	for	more	minimal	conception	of	substantive	inclusion	-	Disagreement	helps	refine	decision-making	and	difference	is	a	resource	-	Attend	to	power	inequalities	-	Aim	for	maximal	substantive	inclusion	possible		Consensus	and	Conflict	 -	Majority	rule	valued;	compromise	and	consensus	unnecessary	-	Common	good	is	majority	good	-	Consensus-building	and	compromise	are	desirable	and	virtually	always	possible	-	Fairly	thick	conception	of	common	good		-	Consensus	only	desirable	if	power	relations	are	equal,	which	is	virtually	impossible	-	Compromises	or	uneven	decisions	are	possible	but	always	provisional	-	Thin	conception	of	common	good					 									  	 203 Appendix	B	-	Frequency	of	Preference	Formation	Terms	in	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	Civics	Curricula		Keyword	 Frequency	British	Columbia	 Ontario	Argue,	arguing,	(reasoned)	argument,	argumentation	 30	 2	Articulate	 6	 0	Assess,	assessing,	assessment,	self-assess	 47	 18	Bias	(detecting,	distinguishing	bias)	 6	 6	*Challenge,	be	challenged	 1	 3	Engage,	engaged,	engaging,	(civic)	engagement	 11	 33	Communicate,	communication	 29	 36	Compromise	 9	 0	Consensus,	consensus	building	 13	 0	Consider,	consideration	 31	 12	Contend	 0	 0	Critical,	critical	thinking,	critically,	criticize,	critique	 34	 43	Debate	 38	 4	Defend,	defending	 18	 0	Deliberate	(individually	and	with	others),	deliberation,	deliberative		 27	 0	Dialogue,	dialectical	 2	 0	Discourse	 17	 0	Discuss,	discussion	 60	 13	Evaluate,	evaluating	 34	 13	Evidence	 12	 21		 204 Explore	new	ideas	 0	 1	Influence,	influential	 25	 9	Inform,	information,	informed	 149	 87	Interests,	interest	group	 17	 5	Judge,	judgment		 0	 13	Justification,	justify	 3	 0	Listen,	listening	 4	 5	Literacy,	media	literacy,	literate	 6	 46	Majoritarian,	majority,	majority	rule	 11	 1	Mediate,	mediation	 5	 0	Metacognitive,	metacognition	 0	 1	Minority,	minorities	 1	 1	Negotiate,	negotiation	 13	 1	Observe	 0	 1	Object,	objection	 8	 0	Open-minded,	openness	 11	 7	Paraphrase,	paraphrasing	 1	 0	Participate,	participation	 60	 25	Pluralism,	pluralist	 0	 2	Plurality	 0	 0	Reassess,	reassessing	 2	 0	Reach	(supportable	conclusions),	reach	reasoned	decisions	 2	 5	Refine	 1	 0	Reflect,	reflection	 23	 0	Research	 68	 8	Respect	 30	 27	Respond	 16	 4		 205 Appendix	C	-	Frequency	of	Rationality	and	Passion	Terms	in	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	Civics	Curricula 	Keyword	 Frequency	British	Columbia	 Ontario	*Affect,	affective	 3	 0	*Care,	caring	 4	 4	Compassion	 0	 1	Dignity	 4	 1	Emotion,	emotional	 9	 6	Empathy,	empathetic	 3	 7	Passion	 0	 0	Passionate	 0	 1	Metacognition	 0	 1	Rational	 0	 0	Rationale	 5	 1	Reason,	reasons,	reasoned,	reasoning	 9	 10	Reasonable	 1	 0	Trust	 0	 1		*	Indicates	that	results	were	excluded	if	they	appeared	in	a	non-civic	context.	For	example,	“Students	will	be	evaluated	on…”	was	excluded	while	“Students	learn	to	evaluate	civic	decisions”	was	included.			  	 206 Appendix	D	-	Frequency	of	Terms	Related	to	Inclusion	and	Political	Equality	in	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	Civics	Curricula		Keyword	 Frequency	British	Columbia	 Ontario	Accept,	acceptance,	accepting	 1	 3	Antidiscrimination	 0	 1	*Background	(cultural,	ethnic,	etc.)	 0	 4	Bicultural,	biculturalism	 3	 0	Beliefs	 14	 38	Culture,	cultural	 38	 29	Custom	 0	 3	Discriminatory,	discrimination	 4	 3	*Disadvantaged	 1	 0	Diverse,	diversity	 13	 24	Dominant	 1	 0	Equality,	equal	 16	 7	Equity,	equitable	 1	 14	Exclude,	exclusion,	exclusive,	exclusiveness,	exclusivity	 1	 0	Influence,	influential	 17	 7	*Interests,	interest	group	 17	 5	*Fair,	fairness,	unfair	 16	 17	*Include,	inclusion,	inclusive,	inclusiveness,	inclusivity	 1	 27	Inequality,	unequal	 0	 3	Inequity,	inequitable	 0	 2	Majority,	majority	rule	 11	 1		 207 Minority,	minorities	 1	 1	Multicultural,	multiculturalism	 6	 3	Participation	 60	 25	Perspectives	 15	 50	Pluralism,	pluralist	 0	 2	Position	 37	 29	Power	 23	 9	Practices	 2	 8	Preference	 1	 1	Privileged	 0	 0	Social	justice	 0	 7	Stakeholder	 4	 7	Systemic	barriers	 0	 1	Tradition,	traditional	 0	 10	Underprivileged	 0	 0	View,	viewpoint	 33	 17				  	 208 Appendix	E	-	Frequency	of	Terms	Related	to	Consensus	and	Conflict	in	B.C.’s	and	Ontario’s	Civics	Curricula		Keyword	 Frequency	British	Columbia	 Ontario	*Agree,	agreement,	mutually	agreeable	 7	 0	Collaborate,	collaboration,	collaborative	 11	 12	Cooperation,	co-operation	 5	 6	*Conflict	 7	 4	Consensus	 13	 0	Constructive	dialogue	 1	 0	*Common	 4	 2	Common	good	 12	 14	Compromise	 9	 0	Controversy,	controversial	 8	 2	Disagree,	disagreement	 3	 0	Dispute	 26	 0	*Different,	difference	(e.g.,	differences	in	beliefs,	positions)	 8	 31	Dissent	 0	 0	*Fundamental	activities,	fundamental	principles	 11	 0	Mediate,	mediation	 5	 0	*Oppose,	opposition	 4	 2	Problem	 11	 0	Problem	solving,	problem	solvers,	solve	problems	 1	 18	Reconcile,	reconciliation	 6	 0		 209 *Resolution,	resolve,	solution	 23	 7	*Similar,	similarities	(e.g.,	of	beliefs,	positions)	 3	 1	Social	cohesion	 0	 1			*	Indicates	that	results	were	excluded	if	they	appeared	in	a	non-civic	context.	For	example,	“Students	are	expected	to	demonstrate…”	was	excluded	while	“protest	movements	and/or	demonstrations”	was	included.	

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