If you have teenagers in your life, they’ll probably have heard of the PSL scale. Or at least the language associated with it. Chad. Stacy. Normie. Subhuman.
The PSL scale is a pseudoscientific attractiveness rating system used by looksmaxxers, men in a part of the manosphere who sometimes use extreme methods to change their appearance. The scale purports to rank people into different categories based on their physical appearance, with looksmaxxers deeming that the higher up the scale a man is, the more attractive he will be to women.
The roots of this rating system lie in misogynistic online forums used by incels or involuntarily celibates, but now it’s all over social media, where teenage boys post photos of themselves, asking to be ranked. PSL apps are also available which will rate a person’s photograph, and give them AI-powered advice, sometimes for a fee, on how to “move up” the scale.
So how did the language of incels, and this one way of quantifying attractiveness and beauty, become so mainstream?
In this episode of The Conversation Weekly podcast, we speak to Jordan Foster, an associate professor of sociology at MacEwan University in Alberta, Canada, who researches social media, beauty and masculinity. He explains the origins of the PSL scale, where it fits into the manosphere, and how some looksmaxxing influencers are making money off it.
PSL is an abbreviation of three, now defunct, online incel forums. Foster says that a precise dialogue emerged from discussions on these forums about what features constitute attractiveness and beauty, which turned into a pseudoscientific rating system. “So there might be notions, for example, that a strong brow bone or a stronger jawline is going to communicate a certain amount of testosterone and that this is going to suggest something about your virility or your fitness.”
Foster suggests the idea that beauty can be quantifiable in this way emerged as some men came to terms with “a topic that has historically been taboo and feminised”. He says looksmaxxers realised that if they wanted to have a discussion about beauty, they needed to communicate it in a language that is traditionally more palatable for men. “How do you do that? Wrap it in the guise of science.”
Listen to The Conversation Weekly via any of the apps listed above, download it directly via our RSS feed or find out how else to listen here. A transcript of this episode is available via the Apple Podcasts or Spotify apps.
Jordan Foster receives funding from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada.
“Magic mushrooms” are consumed recreationally and for medicinal purposes around the world. These fungi gained their fame as “magic” because they produce chemical compounds (called psilocybin and psilocin) which have psychedelic effects.
The most famous species of these mushrooms, due to their global distribution and ease of cultivation, is Psilocybe cubensis, known primarily from its preferred habitat of dung-laden fields. It was first described from Cuba, but is found throughout the world.
However, there has been a long-standing question about its evolutionary history. Where did it originate, and how did it move around the globe?
We described a new species of magic mushroom in South Africa and Zimbabwe, now named Psilocybe ochraceocentrata, which has allowed us to investigate this question.
Our disciplines are mycology (the study of fungi) and evolutionary biology. In a recent paper, we report on what P. ochraceocentrata may tell us about the possible wild origins of Psilocybe cubensis.
Our findings used sophisticated methods to test whether P. cubensis could have arrived in the Americas along with European colonisation and cattle, a long standing hypothesis proposed by the Mexican mycologist and ethnomycologist Gastón Guzmán. We also investigated other possible scenarios, such as dispersal by environmental factors like wind, or ancient biological means such as large herbivore or insect migration.
Before this study, P. ochraceocentrata was already regularly collected. But it was assumed either to be P. cubensis or P. natalensis, sold under the name “Natal Super Strength”.
We have created a framework of unambiguous identification. Ultimately, our work does not fully resolve the evolutionary history question. But it provides a guide for future study to fully understand where these fungi evolved and how they may have travelled the world.
Knowing the origin of a species is important as it explains how historical, geological and climate factors shape the current distribution of life on Earth. This can be important for understanding how some traits evolved in response to their environment, where a species may become invasive, or possibly where to look for closely related species with traits of interest for medicinal research.
How was the study performed?
Fieldwork conducted over decades in Zimbabwe by researcher Cathy Sharp, and further observations in South Africa, yielded multiple collections of mushrooms similar to P. cubensis. All were associated with the dung of herbivores, including animals native to Africa. Some Psilocybe mushrooms use dung as a food source.
Our work showed that these “cubensis look-a-likes” were superficially similar but differed microscopically and at a molecular level. We chose to investigate this relationship further. Our approach involved:
field collection – studying specimens from the wild
genomics of museum specimens (museomics) – using molecular techniques on historically important specimens
phylogenetics – using genetic data to reconstruct how species are related through common ancestry
molecular dating – estimating a general time frame when two species may have diverged from one another
ecological niche modelling – predicting where a species can live based on environmental conditions.
This allowed us to study the natural history of P. cubensis and its close relative Psilocybe ochraceocentrata.
We found that P. ochraceocentrata and P. cubensis may have had a common ancestor living about 1.56 million years ago.
This corresponds with the global expansion of grasslands and the distribution of grazing herbivores. The world at this time would have been populated with migrating herbivores. Coprophilic fungi (fungi that grow on animal dung) could have moved with them globally, and then begun to evolve along independent paths.
Origin story
To complement our taxonomic and dating investigations, we wanted to see if we could find a plausible origin of P. cubensis. In previous studies, the lead author had identified that the closest relatives of P. cubensis all had native distributions across the Asian continent. There was very little overlap with species from the Americas.
With the addition of P. ochraceocentrata as the sister taxon (the closest relative), it became far more reasonable to suggest its evolutionary history is centred in Africa or Asia, not the Americas.
To test this, we used publicly available data from the popular public “citizen science” repository for biodiversity monitoring, iNaturalist. We then used mathematical modelling to hypothesise where these organisms might have occurred hundreds of thousands to millions of years ago.
Our work showed a lot of variability across time but partially favoured tropical and subtropical regions where large animals roamed. From this, we proposed a few scenarios of how P. cubensis split from the ancestor it shared with P. ochraceocentrata and became globally dispersed.
One theory is a natural disturbance via unknown animal or environmental vectors. In other words, something may have changed the environment and disrupted the population. For example, dung beetles could have eaten dung that had fungal spores in it, and could have crossed the ocean, taking the fungus with them. Or the spores may have been carried across the ocean on the wind. This is known to have happened with other fungi, such as Podospora.
Another possibility is migration via the Bering land bridge between Eurasia and the Americas. This is how many plants and animals moved between the continents.
Guzmán proposed that P. cubensis likely originated in Africa and was transported to the Americas via cattle transport during the colonisation events of the 1400s and 1500s. Our work suggests that this route was also possible.
The most likely scenario would be multiple introductions, and spore dispersal between populations in the Americas to retain genetic diversity.
What’s missing
Africa is one of the most biodiverse continents, and yet it is the most under-sampled for fungal diversity, due in part to a historical sampling bias of fungi from other parts of the world.
When it comes to Psilocybe, fewer than ten species are officially described from the African continent. Worldwide about 165 species are known.
Further studies are needed across the continent, to describe and map local fungal diversity and improve on current knowledge. Knowing more about the mushrooms that occur in a region tells us more about the ecology of the area, which is key to conservation efforts.
Natural history museums and herbariums were critical for this work and serve as an immeasurable biodiversity resource representing hundreds of years of scientific effort that both scientists and the general public can access.
The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Cities are often described as living archives of human memory. Walk through an old neighbourhood in an Islamic city like Fez in Morocco or Cairo in Egypt, and you can see layers of history in its streets and buildings. Traces of the past remain visible in everyday life.
Urban historians sometimes call this a palimpsest – a place where layers of history remain visible, like old writing faintly showing beneath new text.
But in many parts of the world today, cities are being transformed so rapidly that these historical layers are disappearing. Entire neighbourhoods and older areas are demolished and replaced with new districts, infrastructure corridors, or megaprojects. It’s a process that might remind one of French civil servant Georges-Eugène Haussmann’s dramatic demolition and reshaping of Paris in the 1800s.
In Cairo historical Muslim districts have been preserved. Omar Elsharawy/Pexels, CC BY
Today’s speed and scale of development challenge the idea that cities grow slowly over time. Building places from scratch is often described as tabula rasa – a “blank slate” approach in which everything is cleared away and rebuilt as if nothing had existed before.
As scholars of architecture and urban design, we recently researched this tension between erasure and memory in urban design. We argue that urban transformation today cannot be understood simply as a choice between preserving the past or starting anew. Instead, cities are increasingly shaped by a complex interaction between the two.
Understanding this tension matters because it influences not only the identity and heritage of a city but also the social and cultural lives of the people who inhabit it. Our argument is grounded in the importance of understanding history to guide future development based on solutions that have been tested successfully in the past.
The myth of the blank slate
For centuries, planners and philosophers have been fascinated by the idea of the tabula rasa. In practice, however, urban space is never truly empty.
Even after buildings are demolished, the forces shaping the city remain: economic pressures, planning regulations, infrastructure networks, and political agendas. Clearing land often produces what French social theorist Henri Lefebvre described as “abstract space”. These are spaces designed mainly for efficiency, profit, or control – rather than for people’s memories or everyday life.
Napoleon III commissioned Haussmann to demolish overcrowded medieval neighbourhoods to open up and beautify Paris. Camille Pissarro/Museum of Fine Arts of Reim
Modern urban renewal projects have often replaced historic districts with standardised environments such as large housing estates, business districts, or transport infrastructures. These environments can feel disconnected from local identity because the historical context that once gave the place meaning has been removed.
For example, Pruitt‑Igoe in St Louis in the US replaced dense, mixed-use neighbourhoods with high-rise public housing that ignored existing street patterns and community life. In Beirut in Lebanon, post-war reconstruction of the city centre prioritised modern commercial developments over the urban fabric and social networks that had defined it for decades.
Pruitt-Igoe, a massive housing complex completed in 1954, was demolished by 1976, becoming a symbol of urban decay. The Myth of Pruitt-Igoe/Flickr, CC BY
French anthropologist Marc Augé described many of these environments as “non-places”: spaces of transit and consumption, such as airports, highways, and anonymous commercial zones. People pass through without forming lasting attachments.
Cities as layered memory
At the opposite end of the spectrum lies the idea of cities as palimpsest. Historic districts, archaeological remains, street patterns, and even place names all contribute to a layered memory. Urban designers often create designs that draw from the history of a site.
But the palimpsest approach also has limits. Preserving historical layers does not necessarily guarantee meaningful engagement with the past. Sometimes heritage becomes a form of nostalgia –replicating historical styles without understanding their social or cultural significance.
Warsaw’s Old Town, destroyed in the second world war, was rebuilt using paintings and historical evidence. Egor Komarov/Pexels, CC BY
French philosopher Paul Ricoeur helps clarify this by distinguishing between two types of memory: repetition memory and reconstruction memory.
Repetition memory reproduces the past, often superficially. In Sydney, efforts to revitalise Indigenous neighbourhoods between 2005 and 2019 ended up repeating patterns of colonial land displacement.
Meanwhile, in Rio de Janeiro, the push to redevelop the waterfront for the 2014 Football World Cup and 2016 Olympics wiped out Afro-Brazilian cultural heritage. It replaced it with a sleek, futuristic vision of a global city.
More broadly, across cities in Africa, Asia and Latin America, speculative real-estate projects and investment-driven urban developments have turned land into a commodity. This has fuelled gentrification and pushed local communities to the margins.
Reconstruction memory, by contrast, uses fragments of the past to interpret and reinvent them for the present. For example, in Warsaw in Poland after the second world war, the Old Town was rebuilt. Not as an exact replica but as a carefully interpreted reconstruction, using historical paintings, archaeological evidence, and surviving fragments to evoke the city’s pre-war character. At the same time it accommodated modern needs.
Hiroshima preserved ruins of war to create memorial spaces within the Japanese city. Hoi Wai/Pexels, CC BY
Similarly, Hiroshima’s post-1945 reconstruction preserved certain ruins, such as the Genbaku Dome, while redesigning the surrounding urban fabric to create a memorial landscape. This both honours the past and supports a functional, modern city.
Moving beyond preservation vs demolition
Rather than choosing between total preservation and total erasure, urban design needs to recognise the dynamic relationship between memory and transformation.
We propose thinking about cities through what philosophers call a negative dialectic – a relationship in which two opposing forces, erasure and memory, continually reshape one another. We argue that:
Urban clearance does not create a neutral blank slate. It produces new forms of space shaped by political and economic power.
Historical memory is not a fixed archive. It is continually reconstructed through interpretation and design.
Understanding cities in this way opens the door to new design strategies. Instead of replicating historical forms or ignoring them entirely, designers can work with fragments, traces, and spatial relationships to generate new urban forms.
For example, in the historic centre of Lugano, Switzerland, the traditional public markets that take place on medieval streets and lake‑edge promenades have long shaped the city’s social life and spatial patterns. Today, these markets interact with contemporary cafés, restaurants and pedestrian routes. They knit together old street networks and new uses in a living urban tapestry rather than freezing them as static heritage relics.
This kind of layering, where everyday activities and historical paths inform modern public space design, shows how urban form can evolve by reintegrating historical traces into present-day life. But urban transformation today is largely driven by rapid development, erasure, and less visible forces.
This makes it essential to rethink how memory, preservation and design methods work together. It requires a shift in design practice away from established paradigms and toward more flexible, context-sensitive strategies.
Designers have tools to respond to rapidly changing urban environments in ways that remain meaningful to communities. These tools include cognitive mapping, which visualises how people perceive and move through a city; layered analysis, which examines overlapping aspects of urban life; and network thinking, which conceptualises cities as interconnected systems.
Designing cities in a rapidly changing world
The future of cities will likely involve even more rapid transformation. Urban sprawl, technological change, and shifting economic systems are already reshaping urban environments, challenging established planning models. For urban designers, this means learning to work in situations where historical precedents are incomplete or unstable.
Cities react to destruction and change in very different ways. Some take a tabula rasa approach. They wipe out communities and rebuilding from scratch, sometimes referencing the past in form or style. This happened in Warsaw’s Old Town. It was rebuilt to look like the prewar city, even though the original residents were gone. Brasília in Brazil, meanwhile, was planned entirely from scratch, clearing old settlements to create a modernist vision.
Others take a more layered, incremental approach, working with what’s already there and letting communities adapt over time.
In Harare’s Dzivarasekwa Extension, for instance, informal settlements were gradually formalised. Housing, services and land tenure were improved, but streets and social networks were preserved. Some cities mix both strategies, like Hiroshima did.
The challenge today is to design urban spaces that acknowledge history while remaining open to new possibilities. For us, the city is neither a blank slate nor a finished story but constantly rewritten through memory and change.
Abeer Elshater is a Full Professor of Urban Morphology at the Faculty of Engineering, Ain Shams University, Cairo, Egypt
Hisham Abusaada is an Emeritus Professor in the Department of Architecture at the Housing and Building National Research Center, Giza, Egypt.
The Privacy Commissioner of Canada recently announced the outcome of its investigation into the World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA), concluding a years-long examination of the organization’s data-sharing practices.
The investigation followed a complaint that we filed with the Privacy Commissioner. We alleged WADA violated Canadian privacy law by disclosing athletes’ doping data to international sport federations for the purpose of sex testing.
In order to resolve the commissioner’s investigation, WADA has agreed to adopt remedial measures to ensure that doping data under WADA’s control is used only for anti-doping purposes.
The decision is expected to have significant implications for sex-testing policies in women’s and girls’ sport, and the journey to reach it reveals a broader problem concerning data protection in international sport.
Complaint grounded in research
Our complaint was based on our own peer-reviewed research published in August 2024 showing that doping data under WADA’s control was being accessed by international sport federations to monitor athletes’ blood testosterone levels and determine their eligibility to compete in women’s sport.
These international federations have eligibility regulations banning women with sex variations and transgender women from women’s sport, unless their testosterone levels fall below certain thresholds.
Our study examined how WADA’s Anti-Doping Administration and Management System (ADAMS) — a database containing doping test results — enabled this data sharing.
We found that when international federations access doping data in ADAMS for sex-based eligibility determinations, there is a disclosure of that data by WADA that is subject to Canada’s Personal Information Protection and Electronic Documents Act (PIPEDA). WADA, a Montréal-based organization, became subject to PIPEDA in 2015 in respect of its collection, use and disclosure of personal information for interprovincial and international activities.
Legal and ethical concerns
In our view, WADA’s disclosure of doping data for sex testing violated PIPEDA in two ways.
First, the disclosures occurred without the knowledge or consent of athletes. Second, the disclosures were not for an appropriate purpose under the law. It was inappropriate due to the lack of scientific evidence and lack of consensus that women with testosterone levels above the thresholds have a competitive advantage.
In addition, the data disclosures could cause significant harms to women athletes, including stigma, humiliation and the loss of business and professional opportunities.
Nonetheless, WADA’s 2021 World Anti-Doping Code permitted international sport federations to use doping data for purposes unrelated to anti-doping, including monitoring the eligibility of transgender athletes.
This position was reflected in early drafts of the 2027 World Anti-Doping Code, which maintained the ability of international sport federations to use doping data for purposes unrelated to anti-doping, including sex testing.
That approach shifted after the Privacy Commissioner of Canada, Philippe Dufresne, launched a 16-month investigation into WADA in November 2024.
The inquiry ultimately led WADA to agree to prohibit international sport federations and anti-doping organizations from using doping data stored in ADAMS for purposes other than anti-doping.
WADA has since revised the 2027 World Anti-Doping Code to include this prohibition. It must now communicate these changes to relevant organizations and develop mechanisms to ensure compliance.
This outcome is likely to force international sport federations that have relied on doping data in ADAMS for sex testing to rethink how they regulate eligibility in women’s and girls’ sport — including considering more gender-inclusive approaches for competitions.
A reactive approach to athletes’ rights
While the outcome of the investigation is a success for athletes’ data-protection rights, it’s disconcerting that it was needed in the first place.
Privacy experts and scholars have long criticized the global anti-doping system for not respecting athletes’ data-protection rights.
As a result, protections for athletes’ rights often occur only after an international sports organization is compelled or pressured to do so through legal processes.
Legal challenges ahead for global sport
These concerns are increasingly being tested through legal challenges.
A ruling against such practices will require significant changes to the anti-doping system — something WADA could have pursued years ago if greater attention was paid to athletes’ data protection rights.
Similar issues are emerging elsewhere in sport. The International Olympic Committee’s recent decision to require genetic sex testing for women’s events likely violates the data protection laws of many jurisdictions. Despite this, the IOC is pushing ahead with its policy.
As a result, athletes and their advocates must continue to seek the intervention of courts and regulators to ensure athletes’ data protection rights are upheld.
The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
*The Population bomb*, écrit en 1968, prédit une famine mondiale au cours des années 1970 et 1980.DrCarrrven/Shutterstock
La mort du biologiste Paul Ralph Ehrlich le 13 mars 2026, a remis en lumière The Population Bomb, un classique de la littérature écologique publié en 1968. Les auteurs rappellent ici que la « surpopulation » n’est pas un simple fait naturel, mais un objet profondément politique. Depuis Thomas Robert Malthus, la restriction démographique reste un sujet d’actualité brûlant.
The Population Bomb est un ouvrage co-écrit par Paul R. et Anne H. Ehrlich. Wikimedia
Pour la première fois en France depuis 1945, le nombre de naissances est devenu inférieur aux décès en 2025 ; l’indicateur de fécondité atteint 1,56 enfant par femme, son plus faible niveau depuis la Première Guerre mondiale.
Dès 2024, le président Emmanuel Macron appelait à un « réarmement démographique » pour répondre au vieillissement de la population. Dans le même temps, à propos de Mayotte, était soulevée la question de la « surpopulation » ou de la « pression démographique » sur l’île française.
Bien que ces diagnostics portent sur des échelles territoriales différentes, selon les contextes, la population peut être présentée comme une ressource à développer ou un problème à contenir. Le débat n’est pas nouveau. Coécrit par les biologistes américains Paul R. Ehrlich (1932-2026) et Anne H. Ehrlich, The Population Bomb reprend les principaux postulats malthusiens, en les replaçant dans le contexte de la crise écologique.
Alors que le malthusianisme classique fonde l’idée de surpopulation sur la rareté des ressources agricoles, le néo-malthusianisme du XXe siècle l’inscrit dans le cadre plus large des limites environnementales.
Trop d’humains
Anne et Paul Ehrlich coécrivent cet ouvrage dans un contexte marqué par le renouveau du néo-malthusianisme d’après-guerre et par l’affirmation d’une écologie attentive aux limites de la planète, dont témoignera notamment le rapport Meadows de 1972.
Très influent et polémique, l’ouvrage installe une idée devenue familière : les crises alimentaires et écologiques seraient d’abord le produit d’un excès d’humains sur Terre. Si le livre est connu pour ses prédictions catastrophistes, l’essentiel est ailleurs. The Population Bomb a transformé la manière de poser le problème, en présentant la surpopulation comme un fait scientifique, une réalité objective dictée par des contraintes naturelles, et appelant dès lors des réponses politiques fortes.
Leur point de départ est celui de la biologie des populations. Dès le premier chapitre de The Population Bomb – structuré autour « Trop d’humains », « Trop peu de nourriture » et « Une planète mourante » –, ils s’intéressent aux dynamiques de croissance, aux interactions entre population et environnement, ainsi qu’aux contraintes écologiques. L’ouvrage en donne d’emblée la clé de lecture :
« Les Américains commencent à prendre conscience que les pays en développement sont confrontés à une crise démographique et alimentaire inévitable. »
Parmi ces sections, « Trop d’humains » joue un rôle central. La population humaine y est d’abord traitée comme une variable naturelle à l’échelle mondiale, avant d’être envisagée dans ses dimensions sociales, économiques et politiques.
La bataille pour nourrir l’humanité est perdue
Dans The Population Bomb, le constat est sans appel : « la bataille pour nourrir toute l’humanité est perdue ».
Les crises alimentaires ne sont pas d’abord pensées comme des défaillances économiques, mais comme le rapport de l’homme à la nature ; la croissance démographique conduit à une pénurie de ressources. La hausse du prix de la nourriture résulterait de la mise en culture de terres moins fertiles, elles-mêmes conséquence de la croissance démographique :
« Nous savons déjà qu’il est impossible d’augmenter suffisamment la production alimentaire pour faire face à la croissance démographique continue. »
Anne et Paul Ehrlich déploient un registre catastrophiste, fait d’échéances rapprochées, de famines et d’effondrements sociaux. L’argument ne se limite pas aux pays en développement. Les sociétés riches sont aussi concernées, sous d’autres formes :
« Plutôt que de souffrir de pénuries alimentaires, ces pays en subissent les conséquences sous la forme d’une dégradation de l’environnement et d’une difficulté croissante à se procurer les ressources nécessaires pour maintenir leur niveau de vie. »
Cette approche ne signifie pas une absence du politique. La surpopulation est posée comme un fait objectif, quasi indiscutable, issu de lois naturelles, appelant ensuite des réponses politiques fortes. Le débat ne porte pas tant sur la définition du problème que sur les moyens d’y répondre.
Contrôle des naissances
Dans les derniers chapitres de l’ouvrage, Anne et Paul Ehrlich appellent explicitement à l’action coercitive de l’administration des États-Unis plutôt qu’à des mesures incitatives : contrôle des naissances grâce à la contraception, y compris la stérilisation forcée, droit à l’avortement ou réorientation de l’aide internationale.
Dans son discours de 1965, le président états-unien Lyndon Johnson appelait à traiter le problème de l’explosion démographique et de la rareté des ressources avec un contrôle des naissances. La réalité démographique contemporaine est loin d’être homogène. De nombreux pays développés font aujourd’hui face au vieillissement de leur population – Japon, France ou États-Unis –, tandis que d’autres régions concentrent l’essentiel de la croissance démographique mondiale et de la jeunesse. Le nombre d’habitants de l’Afrique subsaharienne pourrait dépasser les deux milliards en 2050.
Surtout, les pressions écologiques ne dépendent pas uniquement du nombre d’habitants, mais aussi des modes de production, de consommation, ainsi que de la concentration spatiale des activités économiques. Deux populations de taille comparable peuvent avoir des impacts très différents.
Effet Malthus
Parler de « surpopulation » ne renvoie jamais à une humanité indifférenciée. Cette catégorie suppose, implicitement, des écarts entre populations selon les territoires et les conditions sociales. Dès l’Essai sur le principe de population de Thomas Robert Malthus, la croissance démographique est pensée comme une loi naturelle. Elle s’accompagne d’une prise de position politique explicite : la critique des politiques d’assistance, notamment les « Poor Laws » accusées d’encourager la reproduction des plus pauvres.
Cette manière de poser le problème ne disparaît pas complètement avec le néo-malthusianisme. Dans The Population Bomb, Thomas Robert Malthus n’est pas mobilisé de manière explicite. Le problème est posé à l’échelle globale, sans désignation de groupes sociaux, tout en orientant implicitement le diagnostic vers certains territoires en développement. Aujourd’hui encore, cette logique se prolonge sous des formes plus diffuses, que certains travaux désignent comme un « effet Malthus ». Concrètement, les inégalités sociales et territoriales sont reformulées en termes apparemment naturalisés, à travers des diagnostics globaux qui évitent de nommer les populations concernées.
Parler d’un monde où il y aurait « trop d’humains » suppose donc, même tacitement, que certaines dynamiques démographiques sont plus problématiques que d’autres.
I = P × A × T
En 1971, Paul Ehrlich proposait avec le professeur de sciences de l’environnement John Holdren une formulation plus large de l’impact environnemental, souvent résumée par l’équation I = P × A × T. Impact environnemental (I) = taille de la population (P), richesse de la population (A) et technologie (T).
Cette équation fait dépendre l’impact environnemental du produit de la population, l’abondance – mesurée par la consommation par tête –, et de la technologie. Cette approche, reprise notamment dans The Population Explosion, reconnaît le rôle des choix économiques et techniques, que l’ouvrage de 1968 tendait à subordonner à la seule dynamique démographique.
Les débats se sont ensuite recentrés sur la mesure des contributions de ces facteurs au réchauffement climatique. Dans les années 1990, l’identité de Kaya permet de mesurer empiriquement les émissions de gaz à effet de serre en les reliant à la population, au produit intérieur brut par habitant, à l’intensité énergétique de la production et au contenu carbone de l’énergie. Plutôt que de se limiter au facteur démographique, elle met en évidence la nécessité de découpler la croissance de la consommation des émissions de gaz à effet de serre, notamment par la décarbonation.
La crise écologique impose des limites à l’exploitation des ressources, mais celles-ci tiennent moins à une supposée « surpopulation » qu’aux impacts environnementaux des modes de production et de consommation sur le climat. Autrement dit, l’enjeu n’est pas tant le nombre d’humains que la manière dont les sociétés organisent production, décarbonation, répartition et sobriété de la consommation des ressources.
Les auteurs ne travaillent pas, ne conseillent pas, ne possèdent pas de parts, ne reçoivent pas de fonds d’une organisation qui pourrait tirer profit de cet article, et n’ont déclaré aucune autre affiliation que leur organisme de recherche.
C’est un paradoxe : le taux de rémunération du Livret A est régulièrement l’objet de critiques pour sa faiblesse relative. Simultanément, il reste le placement préféré des Français, détenu par 8 sur 10 d’entre eux. Peut-être parce que ce n’est pas qu’une question de rendement financier. Et que ce livret plus que bicentenaire remplit des fonctions essentielles dans l’économie, avec un encours total de… 450 milliards d’euros.
La popularité du Livret A s’explique par sa simplicité d’ouverture, sa parfaite liquidité, son absence de fiscalité et de risque.
Chaque Français, quel que soit son âge, peut ouvrir un Livret A (et un seul !) dans la banque de son choix avec un capital initial de 10 euros (1,50 euros à la Banque postale), soit le montant du solde minimum. Le plafond est fixé à 22 950 euros. Le Livret A a un quasi « jumeau », le Livret de développement durable et solidaire (LDDS) qui obéit aux mêmes règles, mais avec un plafond maximal de 12 000 euros. Le livret A est également accessible à certaines personnes morales (associations, syndicats de copropriétaires et organismes HLM), mais non aux entreprises.
Les fonds sont disponibles sans préavis à la différence d’autres supports d’épargne, tels que l’assurance vie, c’est dire que c’est un placement très liquide. Le retrait minimal est de 10 euros (1,50 euros à la Banque postale). Il est possible de retirer des espèces directement au guichet ou à un distributeur automatique de billets.
Pas d’impôt et peu de risques
Les intérêts perçus sont exonérés d’impôt sur le revenu et de prélèvements sociaux. Autrement dit, le rendement nominal est strictement égal au rendement brut. Le taux d’intérêt servi à l’épargnant est fixe entre deux semestres. Chaque détenteur peut alors calculer le montant des intérêts (calculés par quinzaine et capitalisés au 31 décembre de chaque année).
Ces avantages font du Livret A le support privilégié pour l’épargne de précaution des ménages, c’est-à-dire un matelas de sécurité immédiatement mobilisable pour faire face à un imprévu. Pour de nombreux Français, il s’agit d’ailleurs du seul support d’épargne. D’où son caractère singulier. Bien évidemment, ces qualités indéniables sont contrebalancées par un rendement faible qui peut faire l’objet de polémiques.
Un faux débat récurrent
Le taux d’intérêt du Livret A est fixé par l’État qui se réfère au calcul effectué par la Banque de France deux fois par an. Depuis 2021, le taux est la moyenne semestrielle du taux d’inflation (hors prix du tabac) et des taux interbancaires à court terme (€STR), avec un arrondi au dixième de point le plus proche.
Cette formule implique que le taux d’intérêt plancher du Livret A est de 0,5 %. Elle implique également que, à certaines périodes, le rendement réel (taux nominal auquel on retranche l’inflation) du Livret A soit négatif : cela implique une perte de pouvoir d’achat de l’argent ainsi épargné. Ce fut le cas notamment lors de la période post-Covid (voir graphique).
Depuis le 1er février 2026, le taux nominal est ainsi fixé à 1,5 % (contre 1,7 % auparavant), ce qui implique un rendement réel d’environ à 0, 8 %. Du point du seul rendement, le Livret A n’est donc pas le produit le plus intéressant. En comparaison, les contrats d’assurance-vie en euros ont rapporté, en moyenne, 2,65 % en 2025.
Sur la même période, le CAC 40 a progressé de plus de 10 %. Rappelons toutefois qu’à l’inverse le rendement nominal des dépôts à vue est nul, donc toujours inférieur à celui du Livret A.
Une contrepartie
La faiblesse du rendement du Livret A n’est donc que la contrepartie de ses avantages. En détenant des encours parfaitement sécurisés, les épargnants doivent accepter un rendement réel faible. En finance, ce n’est pas vraiment une surprise. Plus de rendement implique nécessairement de prendre plus de risque, comme l’a souligné le Prix Nobel d’économie William Sharpe. Le Livret A est alors un support adéquat pour les épargnants manifestant une forte aversion pour le risque.
La faiblesse du rendement ne doit pas, non plus, occulter le rôle économique et social que joue le Livret A pour l’économie française par l’intermédiaire de la Caisse des dépôts et des banques.
Le rôle de la Caisse des dépôts
Les quelque 450 milliards d’euros placés sur le Livret A ne dorment pas paisiblement. Ils alimentent un circuit de financement de prêts à long terme qui doit simultanément rester liquide pour faire face aux demandes de retraits. Ainsi l’annonce de la baisse du taux au 1er février s’est-elle accompagnée d’une décollecte de 1,87 milliard d’euros en janvier 2026.
Près de 65 % des fonds sont centralisés à la Caisse des dépôts, qui transforme des dépôts liquides en financements longs, notamment par des prêts au logement social et à la politique de la ville. Le Livret A n’est donc pas une caisse fermée. C’est un dispositif de transformation des dépôts liquides en financements longs, sous contrainte de liquidité.
Pour la Caisse des dépôts et sa Banque des territoires, l’enjeu est massif puisque le stock de prêts sur fonds d’épargne atteint 202 milliards d’euros en 2024, dont 180 milliards consacrés au logement social et à la politique de la ville. Pour la seule année 2024, 28,5 milliards d’euros de prêts ont été accordés.
Une ressource structurante
Le Livret A est ainsi une ressource structurante pour le financement du logement social et d’investissements territoriaux de long terme. Concrètement, ces financements couvrent la construction et la réhabilitation de logements sociaux, mais aussi les résidences étudiantes et, dans certains cas, des équipements médico-sociaux, tels que les Ehpad, pour accompagner le vieillissement de la population française.
France Télévisions, 2026.
Mais l’effet du Livret A ne s’arrête pas à la sphère publique. La part non centralisée, soit 35 % des encours, reste au bilan des banques distributrices. Cet autre versant, plus discret, implique que l’épargne réglementée contribue aussi au financement de l’économie.
Le Livret A et le crédit bancaire
La part non centralisée demeure au passif du bilan des banques et constitue une ressource de financement. La loi impose que ces ressources soient orientées vers le financement des petites et moyennes entreprises (PME), de la transition énergétique et de l’économie sociale et solidaire, avec des obligations de reporting public.
La Banque de France chiffre à 245,6 milliards d’euros l’encours conservé au bilan fin 2024. Pour la même année, les prêts nouveaux aux PME atteignent 116,7 milliards d’euros et l’encours total de crédits aux PME 568,5 milliards d’euros. Il s’agit donc d’un fléchage par enveloppe plutôt qu’un « tuyau » euro-pour-euro. En effet, la part non centralisée alimente une enveloppe de ressources au bilan bancaire, et le fléchage se vérifie par des montants agrégés, non par une correspondance euro-pour-euro entre un dépôt et un prêt.
Le Livret A remplit donc une double fonction. D’un côté, il offre aux ménages une épargne de précaution simple et sécurisée. De l’autre, il alimente un circuit de financement collectif, du logement social au crédit bancaire aux PME. Cette ambivalence explique sa place particulière.
Jean-Marc Figuet ne travaille pas, ne conseille pas, ne possède pas de parts, ne reçoit pas de fonds d’une organisation qui pourrait tirer profit de cet article, et n’a déclaré aucune autre affiliation que son organisme de recherche.
Les parlers du nord de la France sont-ils en train de se figer en souvenir d’un autre temps ? Ou continuent-ils à se manifester dans les usages contemporains, y compris là où on ne les attend pas ?
À partir d’une enquête de terrain menée dans plusieurs établissements des Hauts-de-France entre 2016 et 2025, il est possible d’observer non pas un retour massif de patois, mais une circulation complexe de quelques formes septentrionales (entendre par là, parlers « du Nord ») au sein de répertoires linguistiques hétérogènes.
Dès 1971, le linguiste Pierre Guiraud notait que des mots d’origine dialectale (issus de variétés linguistiques régionales distinctes du français « standard ») pouvaient être relayés par l’argot. Timothy Pooley, autre linguiste, évoquait un peu plus tard une possible « dépicardisation » , soit une disparition du picard – celui-ci étant une langue régionale d’oïl historiquement parlée dans le nord de la France et en Belgique. Faut-il y voir un déclin irrémédiable ou plutôt la transformation d’un héritage ?
Un petit noyau nordiste dans des « parlers jeunes »
Les jeunes du Nord parlent-ils encore « patois » ? Dans les corpus recueillis (listes lexicales co-construites, entretiens, observations) dominent les emprunts à l’arabe, à l’anglais et au rromani. Pour autant, un noyau de régionalismes du Nord persiste et, parmi eux, les substantifs et appellatifs « biloute » (gars, mec) et « tchot » (petit), « chicour » (champion), le déterminant « ch’ », la locution verbale « dire quoi », ou encore le verbe « finquer » (fumer). Le relevé révèle par ailleurs des flottements étymologiques : certaines origines sont discutables – de même que les termes employés pour les décrire : patois, dialecte, régionalisme.
Premier enseignement que nous livre cette étude : ces mots ne subissent aucune manipulation morphologique notable. Par exemple, pas de verlanisation bien connue des pratiques argotiques contemporaines. Là où l’argot contemporain aime à transformer, le régionalisme nordiste est inséré sans cette modification.
Deuxième enseignement : leur vitalité est inégale. « Biloute » et « tchot » sont massivement compris, et encore employés par une partie des locuteurs interrogés en 2025 dans l’étude citée plus tôt. « Finquer » est plus fragile. « Chicour » donne lieu à des définitions divergentes (de « champion » spécialisé uniquement à son sens littéral, à « frimeur »). Pour désigner ces savoirs linguistiques diffus, les linguistes parlent par exemple de « compétence latente », souvent sous-estimée par les locuteurs.
Patrimoine affectif, stigmate social
Les discours épilinguistiques (discours au sujet de la langue) recueillis éclairent cette situation. Les formes régionales sont fréquemment associées à la famille, au « patrimoine » du Nord. Elles relèvent donc d’une mémoire territoriale.
Mais cette valorisation affective coexiste avec une forte dépréciation sociale : l’idée même du « chti », nous informe un lycéen interrogé, renvoie à l’image des « anciens », mais aussi… aux « bouseux ». On oscille alors entre « condescendance et attendrissement », si nous reprenons les mots du linguiste Pierre Rézeau. L’accent du Nord, même s’il n’est pas le seul, fait l’objet de moqueries récurrentes. On retrouve ici ce que Philippe Blanchet nomme la « glottophobie » : la stigmatisation des manières de parler. Le paradoxe est d’ailleurs souvent frappant ; des locuteurs peuvent se moquer d’un accent qu’ils partagent eux-mêmes. L’insécurité linguistique persiste, et explique en partie la faible revendication explicite des régionalismes dans les usages ordinaires.
À l’inverse, les pratiques argotiques contemporaines souvent associées aux « banlieues » bénéficient parfois d’une sorte de prestige paradoxal pour certains jeunes locuteurs interrogés dans la même étude ; elles incarnent souvent (mais pas toujours) l’opposition, et aiment se distinguer par « rupture », au contraire du patois.
Argot et dialecte : un même travail de différenciation
Pour autant, opposer frontalement argot et patois serait simplificateur. Un argot contemporain, comme un dialecte, est localisé, marqué socialement et investi d’une forte charge identitaire. De même, tous deux participent d’un déplacement du Soi par rapport à l’Autre : inclusion des pairs, distinction vis-à-vis de l’extérieur.
Cela peut nous conduire à penser que les régionalismes du Nord intégrés aux « parlers jeunes » n’apparaissent pas comme des fossiles folkloriques, mais fonctionnent plutôt comme des indices discrets de connivence. L’argot peut relever davantage de l’opposition, le patois davantage de la proximité… mais ils partagent un même ressort symbolique.
De nouveaux canaux de légitimation
Les arts et médias contemporains jouent un rôle non négligeable dans ces circulations. Le rap, devenu un genre musical d’importance, agit comme instance de légitimation linguistique. Si des artistes comme Jul ont diffusé des régionalismes méridionaux (« tarpin », « fraté »), certains évoquent très ponctuellement le Nord. C’est ainsi que nous pouvons noter la présence de le « chnord » (présence un tant soit peu erronée, « ch » étant déjà un déterminant), chez Freeze Corleone qui n’est pas du Nord.
Mais nous trouvons aussi notamment les Nordistes BEN plg et ZKR, issus d’un espace urbain identifié comme un foyer actif de production rap et argotique, soit souvent Roubaix, et dont les usages font apparaître des formes localement ancrées (par exemple, « zig » pour désigner un individu), et bien que certaines soient issues, au départ, de ressources empruntées à l’arabe (par exemple, « tneket », qui signifie incroyable). Toutes ces occurrences réinvestissent l’imaginaire territorial du Nord. Nous pourrions également citer le groupe Paula Fargue qui met en valeur patois et accent du Nord.
Les réseaux sociaux ou les publicités contribuent à donner de l’importance à certaines formes. Des expressions virales, portées par des influenceurs ou des émissions de téléréalité, pourraient y acquérir une visibilité nationale.
Les formes régionales y trouvent parfois une nouvelle scène, comme ce fut le cas du mot « drache » dans une campagne publicitaire récente d’une marque de cosmétiques. Ces « tiers » médiatiques modifient l’équation : ce qui était perçu comme ringard peut devenir tendance, à condition d’être adoubé par une figure d’autorité culturelle.
Enfin, nous n’oublierons pas le rôle du dictionnaire : « drache » est justement entré dans celui-ci il y a quelques années, avec la marque lexicographique « régionalisme ». En légitimise-t-il l’usage ?
La publicité peut-elle légitimer un régionalisme ?
Quel avenir pour les parlers septentrionaux ?
Les données recueillies révèlent une ambivalence bien connue de la sociolinguistique : attachement affectif d’un côté, distance sociale de l’autre. Les jeunes interrogés n’expriment pas de crainte de voir disparaître le patois et n’en font pas une cause à défendre. En revanche, ils mobilisent certains mots comme des ressources ponctuelles, souvent chargées d’affect.
Le « renouvellement » dont nous pourrions parler ne prend donc pas la forme d’un retour à un parler dialectal homogène. Il réside dans la réinterprétation au sein d’un répertoire où se côtoient arabe dialectal, anglicismes, rromanismes… et héritages locaux.
À l’heure où les langues sont souvent pensées en termes de concurrence ou de remplacement, cette situation invite à une autre lecture : celle d’une cohabitation mouvante, celle de répertoires linguistiques avec styles à activer en fonction de la situation. Quelques mots résistent, certains voyagent et reviennent par le biais du numérique… et l’accent persiste. C’est peut-être ici que se joue l’avenir des parlers régionaux chez les « jeunes » : moins dans la fidélité déclarée que dans les usages rares mais tenaces, et labiles… vivants, en somme.
Nous n’oublierons pas, quoi qu’il en soit, que le picard (comme le flamand occidental dont nous n’avons pas parlé ici) peuvent être enseignés au sein de l’éducation nationale depuis 2022. On peut donc imaginer que cela contribue progressivement à faire disparaître la possible insécurité voire la honte liée à l’accent ou au vocabulaire patoisant. En acquérant davantage de connaissances sur l’histoire et la richesse de ces pratiques linguistiques, les locuteurs pourraient développer davantage l’envie de son recours, ce qui pourrait donner lieu à un nouvel essor des pratiques linguistiques régionales à observer.
Anne Gensane ne travaille pas, ne conseille pas, ne possède pas de parts, ne reçoit pas de fonds d’une organisation qui pourrait tirer profit de cet article, et n’a déclaré aucune autre affiliation que son organisme de recherche.
Source: The Conversation – Canada – By Lara El Mekaui, Research Fellow, FUTUREMIG — Futures of Migration and Mobility project, Toronto Metropolitan University
I live and work in Toronto, but as a Lebanese‑Ukrainian immigrant in Canada, my attention has been elsewhere since the United States and Israel launched their war with Iran. I refresh my phone constantly, checking in with family in Lebanon, scanning group chats, watching the news, hoping the next alert is not the one I fear most.
For many in diaspora communities, this has become a daily condition. As conflict in the Middle East intensifies, its effects are not contained by borders. They are lived transnationally, folding distant violence into the routines of everyday life.
What emerges is a condition I — a displacement, migration and identity scholar — call “split belonging”, an experience of being physically located in one place while remaining emotionally, cognitively and relationally anchored in another that is under threat.
Unlike more familiar accounts of diaspora and hybrid identities, — which often emphasize continuity or the preservation of an unbroken cultural lineage and the formation of new identities through cultural mixing — “split belonging” is about being pulled by two places at once.
This distinction shifts the focus from identity to capacity, asking how people live, work and participate while managing ongoing exposure to crisis.
Living in between stability and instability
My own experience reflects this.
I’ve lived at a distance from conflict in both my home countries: the October 2019 Lebanese uprising; the Beirut explosion in August 2020; the Russian invasion of Ukraine beginning in February 2022; the Israeli war in Lebanon in 2024; and the current bombardments displacing more than a million people.
Experiencing these events remotely reorganizes daily life. It shows up in the rituals that become instinctive: calling for proof of life, calculating the distance between a bombing site and a relative’s home, then returning, almost automatically, to meetings and deadlines.
This is the emotional architecture of split belonging. It is not a single crisis, but a constant oscillation between urgency and routine.
It is hearing your niece say: “They hit the house next to my school, but we’re OK, we’re used to this,” and realizing she has already learned to normalize fear. And then, because life here keeps moving, it’s also returning to your work inbox as if nothing has happened.
This rhythm is sustained by technological proximity and social expectation. The same tools that enable connection, such as WhatsApp and live news, also ensure that distance no longer protects against exposure.
The hidden strain of transnational stress
Cultural psychology research helps explain why this condition is so consuming. The distress often appears in indirect forms, including fatigue, distraction, irritability or emotional numbing — states that are easily misread in workplaces and classrooms.
This is compounded by what researchers describe as remote conflict stress, the strain experienced by individuals who are physically safe but emotionally embedded in zones of violence. This form of stress disrupts concentration, sleep and decision-making, shaping how people engage with their environments even when those environments are stable.
The concept of split belonging extends this insight by situating remote stress within broader social and relational dynamics.
Migrants are often expected to provide emotional support, financial assistance and real-time co-ordination for family members in crisis. These obligations intensify during periods of conflict, increasing pressure and dependency across borders.
Scholars of migration and diaspora have long argued that belonging is not a fixed state but a negotiation between place, memory and the stories we inherit. Sara Ahmed, a post-colonialism and critical race scholar, writes that emotions “stick” to bodies and histories, shaping how individuals move through the world. This helps explain how attachments to places in conflict are not easily set aside through migration.
Feminist and gender studies academic Judith Butler similarly argues that grief reveals the attachments that constitute who we are. This clarifies why distant violence is experienced as immediate. Under conditions of split belonging, threats to loved ones abroad are not abstract concerns but disruptions to the very relationships that anchor a person’s sense of self.
Together, these frameworks show how global conflict becomes embedded in the everyday lives of diasporic individuals, even though they remaining geographically distant.
Why this isn’t just personal
Digital media plays a central role in this process. It acts as both infrastructure and amplifier.
Continuous immersion in graphic content and live updates extends the reach of violence and makes disengagement difficult. Following it online can trigger anxiety, depression and symptoms resembling PTSD even when people are physically safe. Digital exposures intensify the psychological burden of watching violence unfold from afar.
These dynamics have concrete consequences that remain largely unacknowledged in public discourse. In workplaces, cognitive overload can affect performance, productivity and career progression, contributing to underemployment. In educational settings, disruptions to attention and memory shape participation and outcomes.
Ongoing crises abroad can also deepen social isolation for migrants, which is one of the strongest predictors of poor mental health among newcomers.
Canada’s multiculturalism model recognizes that belonging can extend across local and global contexts, but it often treats these connections as stable rather than crisis-driven. Split belonging highlights this limitation.
Recognizing the feeling of split belonging has important implications for policy and institutional practice. It points to the need for more flexible and responsive systems.
Workplaces need to account for transnational stress. Educational institutions need trauma-informed approaches that recognize ongoing crises. Settlement services need to address not only past trauma but also continuous exposure to instability abroad.
As global conflicts persist, immigrants will continue to meet their obligations to employers, schools and families while navigating forms of strain that remain private. But to meaningfully support diasporic inclusion, Canadian institutions need to understand this reality.
Lara El Mekaui does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
A student uses the unlocking mechanism as he leaves school for the day.Keith Srakocic/AP Photo
What is the best way to handle cellphones in schools?
That’s a question Michigan educators are grappling with this spring after Gov. Gretchen Whitmer signed into law a ban on smartphone use in Michigan schools.
The law goes into effect in the school year that begins in August 2026. It requires public and charter K-12 schools to adopt rules prohibiting students from using smartphones during instructional time, but it allows educators and school officials to determine the best way to do that.
The new law includes several exemptions, including medical or emergency use, and does not apply to Michigan’s private schools.
We are University of Michigan faculty in the schools of Public Health, Public Policy and Education, and we are interested in how cellphone access both helps and hurts students in schools.
Many districts already have cellphone policies, but the new law creates an opportunity to look at which policies best support student well-being and academic success.
But students also use phones in beneficial ways, such as monitoring their blood sugar levels, connecting with family and peers, and even contacting digital tip lines to prevent violence.
Defining the array of cellphone policies
As part of a CDC-funded project focused on cellphone policies and health, we collected data on existing cellphone policies in the 2025-26 school year for every school district in Michigan. Our team checked hundreds of local and regional education authority webpages and consulted student handbooks. When digital information was missing, we contacted districts directly. Building on a national teacher survey called Phones in Focus, we recorded not only when phone use is restricted but how schools restrict it, noting cases in which the district policy varied by grade level.
At the time of this writing, our data reflects 779, or 95%, of publicly funded traditional and charter school districts in Michigan.
At the start of the 2025-26 school year, 94.7% of districts had existing mandates, compared to 2.5% of districts that required individual schools to set their own policies.
Just under 3% of all Michigan districts had no stated policy at all. It is possible that these districts communicated a set policy through informal channels or, in practice, were letting schools decide on their own rules.
Among districts with mandated policies, there were important differences in rules relating to cellphones. To help think through policies, we sorted them on two criteria: when policies are enforced and how policies are enforced.
About half of the district policies provided different rules by grade level. In these cases, we include the policies for high school students to generate the statistics below.
When and how to limit use
Let’s start with when: In districts with stated policies, 50% specified “bell-to-bell” restrictions, meaning that students were not permitted to use their phones at any point during the school day, including during lunch or passing periods. The remaining 50% of districts mandated “schedule-based” restrictions, which typically meant that phones were prohibited during instructional time but could be used at other times, such as lunch or between classes.
When it comes to the “how,” districts specified a number of different approaches to enforcing cellphone restrictions.
The most common approach, adopted by 62% of districts, is what we describe as a “no show,” meaning that students are required to keep their phones out of sight, such as in their backpacks or pockets. This policy is used in Alanson Public Schools, for example.
Seventeen percent of districts require students to keep their phones in their lockers throughout the school day. Sturgis Public Schools, a school district that provides special education and early childhood services, is one.
Other school districts enforce stricter policies. Detroit Premier Academy, a charter school, implemented a “no phones” rule that bans phones inside school buildings. Roughly 8% of districts surveyed use this approach.
Another 8% collected phones in each classroom, often using structured, numbered pocket charts or a designated bin.
Less common was the “centralized collection” approach, meaning when students arrive at school, staff collect their phones and store them for the remainder of the day. Stockbridge Community Schools was among the 21 school districts, or about 3%, we found that follow this policy.
The final 2% used lockable pouches.
Location and type of school mattered
We found that policy features were associated with the type and location of districts.
Charter and urban districts were substantially more likely than suburban or rural schools to adopt bell-to-bell policies that prohibit phones during the school day.
Roughly 20% of charter districts prohibited students from bringing phones to school, while 2% of traditional districts adopted this approach.
Traditional districts relied more on “lockers” – 22% – and “classroom collection” – 11% – approaches.
Twenty-five percent of rural, 15% of suburban and 5% of city districts used the lockers approach.
These approaches have important implications for enforcement.
The “no show” and “classroom collection” approaches place most of the enforcement burden on teachers, and both methods require monitoring throughout the school day.
The “centralized collection” and “lockable pouch” approaches place more burden on school administrators, but in theory they require enforcement only at the beginning of the day.
It is less clear how the “lockers” and “no phone” approaches are enforced in practice, but they rely more heavily on an individual student’s adherence to policy and resisting the temptation to use a phone throughout the day.
Is one approach better than others?
With so many policies, it’s natural to ask which one is best. No doubt, education leaders across the state will be debating that question with a renewed focus on policies. Here’s some guidelines to help guide those debates:
Set and communicate clear policies: This will make it easier on school staff responsible for making sure students do not access their phones during the school day. Implementation will be critical. No policy can be effective if it is enforced inconsistently or not at all. Ideally, students should get the same message from the district, principal, teachers and their parents or caregivers.
Consider difficult trade-offs: “Classroom collection” and “no show” policies allow for parents and students to stay in touch as needed and call less attention to students who use their personal devices for medical or other permitted reasons. On the other hand, these approaches will require teachers to monitor students and enforce the rules throughout the school day, which may be less effective in preventing student phone use than the “centralized collection” approach or rules that completely prohibit phones on school premises.
Watch out for unintended consequences: Some policies are cheap to implement. Others require the purchasing of expensive equipment or a good deal of staff time. Think about what protocols need to be in place to keep up and enforce those rules. That will enhance resource efficiency and protect teachers who report challenges with monitoring phone use and even violence when they try to enforce the rules.
Justin Heinze receives funding from the Centers for Disease Control, including for the data collected for this article (R01CE003837).
Brian Jacob receives funding from the Centers for Disease Control, the Arnold Foundation and the Smith Richardson Foundation. He is currently conducting an evaluation of Yondr lockable pouches and, as part of this project, has interacted with Yondr staff to obtain data and gain greater understanding of how Yondr is implemented in schools.
Elyse Thulin receives funding from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. She is affiliated with Sandy Hook Promise Foundation’s National Research Advisory Council.
Some school districts, including ones in Maine, New Mexico, Iowa and Oregon, are shifting to standards-based grading, where students are graded on the skills and concepts they learn instead of points accumulated from assignments and tests throughout the school year.
Jerrid Kruse, a professor of education at Drake University, studies how people learn and teach science, and standards-based grading is one aspect of this work.
Jerrid Kruse discusses the differences between standards-based grading and traditional grading in K-12 classrooms.
The Conversation has collaborated with SciLine to bring you highlights from the discussion, edited for brevity and clarity.
What is standards-based grading, and how is it different from traditional grading?
Jerrid Kruse: The main thrust of standards-based grading is really an increased transparency between what teachers are teaching and how they are assessing their students.
I think when most people think of traditional grading, they think of accumulating points or making deposits like in a banking model, where if I turn in the homework every day, I get 5 points. And I keep building those points up so that even if I do poorly on a test, I still end up with a B in the class, even though I may have gotten a C or even lower on a test.
Standards-based grading is a shift away from that. Instead of focusing on student behaviors, such as completing homework and showing up to class on time, standards-based grading focuses on if the student is actually learning the things we’re trying to teach them.
How exactly does it impact student learning?
Kruse: If teachers can assess student learning more transparently, then teachers have more accurate information about what students do and do not know, and students also have more information about what they themselves do and do not know. Then teachers and students can act on that information; that’s the key.
We cannot expect standards-based grading to magically fix the teaching and the learning that’s happening in the classroom. Instead, what it does is provide a more transparent assessment of to what extent the learning is happening in the classroom. And then it’s up to the teachers and the students to act on that information.
So the student can go home and study the particular things that they’re having trouble with, and the teachers can say, “OK, my class is really struggling with standard number 4, so let’s spend some more time on standard number 4.” It’s really about what teachers and students do with that information.
What are some of the challenges?
Kruse: One of the big things is teacher buy-in. Top-down initiatives oftentimes end up with really poor implementation or superficial implementation. In my experience, the best standards-based grading efforts have come from the teachers themselves rather than from an administrator. So I think it’s important to spend time getting teacher buy-in and maybe even making it optional at first to let it be more of a grassroots effort.
Another challenge for teachers is identifying the key standards. So rather than thinking, “Okay, I’m going to teach Chapter 3,” it’s shifting that thinking to: “What is the thing or concept that I want students to learn out of Chapter 3?” From there, they can better communicate that to students.
Also, what will the report card look like? Are we going to continue to report A, B, C, D and F grades? Are we going to report all of the standards? These are questions teachers and school administrators need to decide together.
Then finally, in terms of helping parents and students understand why a school might move to standards-based grading, I suggest leaning into the transparency piece. The goal is more communication and more accurate communication between schools and kids and parents. That’s going to be a key piece for any district considering this.
Why should people care?
Kruse: Grades are a consistent source of struggle for students. For some kids, it’s really about how we can help them be less concerned about the grade and more concerned about the learning. And so standards-based grading can help push in that direction.
And then on the other side, we have kids who have been underserved by traditional education, and a standards-based approach can help these kids see school as something that they can do because they can see incremental progress on the standards rather than just a C or other letter grade. It’s the difference between “I got a C,” and “I got a C, and these are the three standards that I need to work on.”
I think it helps all students, including high achievers and traditionally low achievers, but in different ways.
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Jerrid Kruse receives funding from the National Science Foundation and the William G. Stowe Foundation.
