Julie
07-02-2012, 09:37 PM
http://www.newciv.org/whole/schoolteacher.txt
The first lesson I teach is confusion.
Everything I teach is out of context... I teach the unrelating of
everything. I teach disconnections. I teach too much: the orbiting of
planets, the law of large numbers, slavery, adjectives, architectural
drawing, dance, gymnasium, choral singing, assemblies, surprise guests,
fire drills, computer languages, parent's nights, staff-development
days, pull-out programs, guidance with strangers you may never see
again, standardized tests, age-segregation unlike anything seen in the
outside world... what do any of these things have to do with each
other?
Even in the best schools a close examination of curriculum and its
sequences turns up a lack of coherence, full of internal contradictions.
Fortunately the children have no words to define the panic and anger
they feel at constant violations of natural order and sequence fobbed
off on them as quality in education. The logic of the school-mind is
that it is better to leave school with a tool kit of superficial jargon
derived from economics, sociology, natural science and so on than to
leave with one genuine enthusiasm. But quality in education entails
learning about something in depth. Confusion is thrust upon kids by too
many strange adults, each working alone with only the thinnest
relationship with each other, pretending for the most part, to an
expertise they do not possess.
Meaning, not disconnected facts, is what sane human beings seek,
and education is a set of codes for processing raw facts into meaning.
Behind the patchwork quilt of school sequences, and the school obsession
with facts and theories the age-old human search lies well concealed.
This is harder to see in elementary school where the hierarchy of school
experience seems to make better sense because the good-natured simple
relationship of "let's do this" and "let's do that now" is just assumed
to mean something and the clientele has not yet consciously discerned
how little substance is behind the play and pretense.
Think of all the great natural sequences like learning to walk and
learning to talk, following the progression of light from sunrise to
sunset, witnessing the ancient procedures of a farm, a smithy, or a
shoemaker, watching your mother prepare a Thanksgiving feast -- all of
the parts are in perfect harmony with each other, each action justifies
itself and illuminates the past and future. School sequences aren't
like that, not inside a single class and not among the total menu of
daily classes. School sequences are crazy. There is no particular
reason for any of them, nothing that bears close scrutiny. Few teachers
would dare to teach the tools whereby dogmas of a school or a teacher
could be criticized since everything must be accepted. School subjects
are learned, if they can be learned, like children learn the catechism
or memorize the 39 articles of Anglicanism. I teach the un-relating of
everything, an infinite fragmentation the opposite of cohesion; what I
do is more related to television programming than to making a scheme of
order. In a world where home is only a ghost because both parents work
or because too many moves or too many job changes or too much ambition
or something else has left everybody too confused to stay in a family
relation I teach you how to accept confusion as your destiny. That's
the first lesson I teach.
The second lesson I teach is your class position. I teach that
you must stay in class where you belong. I don't know who decides that
my kids belong there but that's not my business. The children are
numbered so that if any get away they can be returned to the right
class. Over the years the variety of ways children are numbered has
increased dramatically, until it is hard to see the human being plainly
under the burden of numbers he carries. Numbering children is a big and
very profitable business, though what the strategy is designed to
accomplish is elusive. I don't even know why parents would allow it to
be done to their kid without a fight.
In any case, again, that's not my business. My job is to make
them like it, being locked in together with children who bear numbers
like their own. Or at the least endure it like good sports. If I do my
job well, the kids can't even imagine themselves somewhere else because
I've shown how to envy and fear the better classes and how to have
contempt for the dumb classes. Under this efficient discipline [bullying] the
class mostly polices itself into good marching order. That's the real
lesson of any rigged competition like school. You come to know your
place.
In spite of the overall class blueprint which assume that 99
percent of the kids are in their class to stay, I nevertheless make a
public effort to exhort children to higher levels of test success,
hinting at eventual transfer from the lower class as a reward. I
frequently insinuate that the day will come when an employer will hire
them on the basis of test scores and grades, even though my own
experience is that employers are rightly indifferent to such things. I
never lie outright, but I've come to see that truth and schoolteaching
are, at bottom, incompatible just as Socrates said they were thousands
of years ago. The lesson of numbered classes is that everyone has a
proper place in they pyramid and that there is no way out of your class
except by number magic. Until that happens you must stay where you are
put.
[B] The third lesson I teach kids is indifference. I teach children
not to care about anything too much, even though they want to make it
appear that they do. How I do this is very subtle. I do it by
demanding that they become totally involved in my lessons, jumping up
and down in their seats with anticipation, competing vigorously with
each other for my favor. It's heartwarming when they do that, it
impresses everyone, even me. When I'm at my best I plan lessons very
carefully in order to produce this show of enthusiasm. But when the
bell rings I insist that they stop whatever it is that we've been
working on and proceed quickly to the next work station. They must turn
on and off like a light switch. Nothing important is ever finished in
my class, nor in any other class I know of. Students never have a
complete experience except on the installment plan.
Indeed, the lesson of the bells is that no work is worth
finishing, so why care too deeply about anything? Years of bells will
condition all but the strongest to a world that can no longer offer
important work to do. Bells are the secret logic of schooltime; their
argument is inexorable. Bells destroy the past and future, converting
every interval into a sameness, as an abstract map makes every living
mountain and river the same even though they are not. Bells inoculate
each undertaking with indifference.
The fourth lesson I teach is emotional dependency. By stars and
red checks, smiles and frowns, prizes, honors and disgraces I teach you
to surrender your will to the predestined chain of command. Rights may
be granted or withheld by any authority, without appeal because rights
do not exist inside a school, not even the right of free speech, the
Supreme Court has so ruled, unless school authorities say they do. As a
schoolteacher I intervene in many personal decisions, issuing a Pass for
those I deem legitimate, or initiating a disciplinary confrontation for
behavior that threatens my control. Individuality is constantly trying
to assert itself among children and teenagers so my judgments come thick
and fast. Individuality is a contradiction of class theory, a curse to
all systems of classification. Here are some common ways it shows up:
children sneak away for a private moment in the toilet on the pretext of
moving their bowels; they trick me out of a private instant in the
hallway on the grounds that they need water. I know they don't but I
allow them to deceive me because this conditions they to depend on my
favors. Sometimes free will appears right in front of me in children
angry, depressed or happy by things outside my ken; rights in such
things cannot be recognized by schoolteachers, only privileges which can
be withdrawn, hostages to good behavior.
The fifth lesson I teach is intellectual dependency. Good people
wait for a teacher to tell them what to do. It is the most important
lesson, that we must wait for other people, better trained than
ourselves, to make the meanings of our lives. The expert makes all the
important choices; only I can determine what you must study, or rather,
only the people who pay me can make those decisions which I enforce. If
I'm told that evolution is fact instead of a theory I transmit that as
ordered, punishing deviants who resist what I have been to think.
This power to control what children will think lets me separate
successful students from failures very easily. Successful children do
the thinking I appoint them with a minimum of resistance and decent show
of enthusiasm. Of the millions of things of value to study, I decide
what few we have time for, or it is decided by my faceless employer.
The choices are his, why should I argue? Curiosity has no important
place in my work, only conformity.
Bad kids fight this, of course, even though they lack the concepts
to know what they are fighting, struggling to make decisions for
themselves about what they will learn and when they will learn it. How
can we allow that and survive as schoolteachers? Fortunately there are
procedures to break the will of those who resist; it is more difficult,
naturally, if the kid has respectable parents who come to his aid, but
that happens less and less in spite of the bad reputation of schools.
Nobody in the middle class I ever met actually believes that their kid's
school is one of the bad ones. Not a single parent in 26 years of
teaching. That's amazing and probably the best testimony to what
happens to families when mother and father have been well-schooled
themselves, learning the seven lessons.
Good people wait for an expert to tell them what to do. It is
hardly an exaggeration to say that our entire economy depends upon this
lesson being learned. Think of what would fall apart if kids weren't
trained to be dependent:
The social-service businesses could hardly survive, they would
vanish I think, into the recent historical limbo out of which they
arose. Counselors and therapists would look on in horror as the supply
of psychic invalids vanished. Commercial entertainment of all sorts,
including television, would wither as people learned again how to make
their own fun. Restaurants, prepared-food and a whole host of other
assorted food services would be drastically down-sized if people
returned to making their own meals rather than depending on strangers to
plant, pick, chop and cook for them. Much of modern law, medicine, and
engineering would go, too, the clothing business and schoolteaching as
well, unless a guaranteed supply of helpless people poured out of our
schools each year.
The sixth lesson I teach is provisional self-esteem. If you've
ever tried to wrestle a kid into line whose parents have convinced him
to believe they'll love him in spite of anything, you know how
impossible it is to make self-confident spirits conform. Our world
wouldn't survive a flood of confident people very long so I teach that
your self-respect should depend on expert opinion. My kids are
constantly evaluated and judged. A monthly report, impressive in its
precision, is sent into students' homes to signal approval or to mark
exactly down to a single percentage point how dissatisfied with their
children parents should be. The ecology of good schooling depends upon
perpetuating dissatisfaction just as much as commercial economy depends
on the same fertilizer. Although some people might be surprised how
little time or reflection goes into making up these mathematical
records, the cumulative weight of the objective-seeming documents
establishes a profile of defect which compels a child to arrive at
certain decisions about himself and his future based on the casual
judgment of strangers.
Self-evaluation, the staple of every major philosophical system
that ever appeared on the planet, is never a factor in these things.
The lesson of report cards, grades, and tests is that children should
not trust themselves or their parents, but need to rely on the
evaluation of certified officials. People need to be told what they are
worth.
The seventh lesson I teach is that you can't hide. I teach
children they are always watched by keeping each student under constant
surveillance as do my colleagues. There are no private spaces for
children, there is no private time. Class change lasts 300 seconds to
keep promiscuous fraternization at low levels. Students are encouraged
to tattle on each other, even to tattle on their parents. Of course I
encourage parents to file their own child's waywardness, too. A family
trained to snitch on each other isn't likely to be able to conceal any
dangerous secrets. I assign a type of extended schooling called
"homework", too, so that the surveillance travels into private
households, where students might otherwise use free time to learn
something unauthorized from a father or mother, or by apprenticing to
some wise person in the neighborhood. Disloyalty to the idea of
schooling is a Devil always ready to find work for idle hands. The
meaning of constant surveillance and denial of privacy is that no one
can be trusted, that privacy is not legitimate. Surveillance is an
ancient urgency among certain influential thinkers, a central
prescription set down Republic, in City of God, in Institutes of the
Christian Religion, in New Atlantis, in Leviathan and many other places.
All these childless men who wrote these books discovered the same thing:
children must be closely watched if you want to keep a society under
tight central control. Children will follow a private drummer if you
can't get them into a uniformed marching band.
The first lesson I teach is confusion.
Everything I teach is out of context... I teach the unrelating of
everything. I teach disconnections. I teach too much: the orbiting of
planets, the law of large numbers, slavery, adjectives, architectural
drawing, dance, gymnasium, choral singing, assemblies, surprise guests,
fire drills, computer languages, parent's nights, staff-development
days, pull-out programs, guidance with strangers you may never see
again, standardized tests, age-segregation unlike anything seen in the
outside world... what do any of these things have to do with each
other?
Even in the best schools a close examination of curriculum and its
sequences turns up a lack of coherence, full of internal contradictions.
Fortunately the children have no words to define the panic and anger
they feel at constant violations of natural order and sequence fobbed
off on them as quality in education. The logic of the school-mind is
that it is better to leave school with a tool kit of superficial jargon
derived from economics, sociology, natural science and so on than to
leave with one genuine enthusiasm. But quality in education entails
learning about something in depth. Confusion is thrust upon kids by too
many strange adults, each working alone with only the thinnest
relationship with each other, pretending for the most part, to an
expertise they do not possess.
Meaning, not disconnected facts, is what sane human beings seek,
and education is a set of codes for processing raw facts into meaning.
Behind the patchwork quilt of school sequences, and the school obsession
with facts and theories the age-old human search lies well concealed.
This is harder to see in elementary school where the hierarchy of school
experience seems to make better sense because the good-natured simple
relationship of "let's do this" and "let's do that now" is just assumed
to mean something and the clientele has not yet consciously discerned
how little substance is behind the play and pretense.
Think of all the great natural sequences like learning to walk and
learning to talk, following the progression of light from sunrise to
sunset, witnessing the ancient procedures of a farm, a smithy, or a
shoemaker, watching your mother prepare a Thanksgiving feast -- all of
the parts are in perfect harmony with each other, each action justifies
itself and illuminates the past and future. School sequences aren't
like that, not inside a single class and not among the total menu of
daily classes. School sequences are crazy. There is no particular
reason for any of them, nothing that bears close scrutiny. Few teachers
would dare to teach the tools whereby dogmas of a school or a teacher
could be criticized since everything must be accepted. School subjects
are learned, if they can be learned, like children learn the catechism
or memorize the 39 articles of Anglicanism. I teach the un-relating of
everything, an infinite fragmentation the opposite of cohesion; what I
do is more related to television programming than to making a scheme of
order. In a world where home is only a ghost because both parents work
or because too many moves or too many job changes or too much ambition
or something else has left everybody too confused to stay in a family
relation I teach you how to accept confusion as your destiny. That's
the first lesson I teach.
The second lesson I teach is your class position. I teach that
you must stay in class where you belong. I don't know who decides that
my kids belong there but that's not my business. The children are
numbered so that if any get away they can be returned to the right
class. Over the years the variety of ways children are numbered has
increased dramatically, until it is hard to see the human being plainly
under the burden of numbers he carries. Numbering children is a big and
very profitable business, though what the strategy is designed to
accomplish is elusive. I don't even know why parents would allow it to
be done to their kid without a fight.
In any case, again, that's not my business. My job is to make
them like it, being locked in together with children who bear numbers
like their own. Or at the least endure it like good sports. If I do my
job well, the kids can't even imagine themselves somewhere else because
I've shown how to envy and fear the better classes and how to have
contempt for the dumb classes. Under this efficient discipline [bullying] the
class mostly polices itself into good marching order. That's the real
lesson of any rigged competition like school. You come to know your
place.
In spite of the overall class blueprint which assume that 99
percent of the kids are in their class to stay, I nevertheless make a
public effort to exhort children to higher levels of test success,
hinting at eventual transfer from the lower class as a reward. I
frequently insinuate that the day will come when an employer will hire
them on the basis of test scores and grades, even though my own
experience is that employers are rightly indifferent to such things. I
never lie outright, but I've come to see that truth and schoolteaching
are, at bottom, incompatible just as Socrates said they were thousands
of years ago. The lesson of numbered classes is that everyone has a
proper place in they pyramid and that there is no way out of your class
except by number magic. Until that happens you must stay where you are
put.
[B] The third lesson I teach kids is indifference. I teach children
not to care about anything too much, even though they want to make it
appear that they do. How I do this is very subtle. I do it by
demanding that they become totally involved in my lessons, jumping up
and down in their seats with anticipation, competing vigorously with
each other for my favor. It's heartwarming when they do that, it
impresses everyone, even me. When I'm at my best I plan lessons very
carefully in order to produce this show of enthusiasm. But when the
bell rings I insist that they stop whatever it is that we've been
working on and proceed quickly to the next work station. They must turn
on and off like a light switch. Nothing important is ever finished in
my class, nor in any other class I know of. Students never have a
complete experience except on the installment plan.
Indeed, the lesson of the bells is that no work is worth
finishing, so why care too deeply about anything? Years of bells will
condition all but the strongest to a world that can no longer offer
important work to do. Bells are the secret logic of schooltime; their
argument is inexorable. Bells destroy the past and future, converting
every interval into a sameness, as an abstract map makes every living
mountain and river the same even though they are not. Bells inoculate
each undertaking with indifference.
The fourth lesson I teach is emotional dependency. By stars and
red checks, smiles and frowns, prizes, honors and disgraces I teach you
to surrender your will to the predestined chain of command. Rights may
be granted or withheld by any authority, without appeal because rights
do not exist inside a school, not even the right of free speech, the
Supreme Court has so ruled, unless school authorities say they do. As a
schoolteacher I intervene in many personal decisions, issuing a Pass for
those I deem legitimate, or initiating a disciplinary confrontation for
behavior that threatens my control. Individuality is constantly trying
to assert itself among children and teenagers so my judgments come thick
and fast. Individuality is a contradiction of class theory, a curse to
all systems of classification. Here are some common ways it shows up:
children sneak away for a private moment in the toilet on the pretext of
moving their bowels; they trick me out of a private instant in the
hallway on the grounds that they need water. I know they don't but I
allow them to deceive me because this conditions they to depend on my
favors. Sometimes free will appears right in front of me in children
angry, depressed or happy by things outside my ken; rights in such
things cannot be recognized by schoolteachers, only privileges which can
be withdrawn, hostages to good behavior.
The fifth lesson I teach is intellectual dependency. Good people
wait for a teacher to tell them what to do. It is the most important
lesson, that we must wait for other people, better trained than
ourselves, to make the meanings of our lives. The expert makes all the
important choices; only I can determine what you must study, or rather,
only the people who pay me can make those decisions which I enforce. If
I'm told that evolution is fact instead of a theory I transmit that as
ordered, punishing deviants who resist what I have been to think.
This power to control what children will think lets me separate
successful students from failures very easily. Successful children do
the thinking I appoint them with a minimum of resistance and decent show
of enthusiasm. Of the millions of things of value to study, I decide
what few we have time for, or it is decided by my faceless employer.
The choices are his, why should I argue? Curiosity has no important
place in my work, only conformity.
Bad kids fight this, of course, even though they lack the concepts
to know what they are fighting, struggling to make decisions for
themselves about what they will learn and when they will learn it. How
can we allow that and survive as schoolteachers? Fortunately there are
procedures to break the will of those who resist; it is more difficult,
naturally, if the kid has respectable parents who come to his aid, but
that happens less and less in spite of the bad reputation of schools.
Nobody in the middle class I ever met actually believes that their kid's
school is one of the bad ones. Not a single parent in 26 years of
teaching. That's amazing and probably the best testimony to what
happens to families when mother and father have been well-schooled
themselves, learning the seven lessons.
Good people wait for an expert to tell them what to do. It is
hardly an exaggeration to say that our entire economy depends upon this
lesson being learned. Think of what would fall apart if kids weren't
trained to be dependent:
The social-service businesses could hardly survive, they would
vanish I think, into the recent historical limbo out of which they
arose. Counselors and therapists would look on in horror as the supply
of psychic invalids vanished. Commercial entertainment of all sorts,
including television, would wither as people learned again how to make
their own fun. Restaurants, prepared-food and a whole host of other
assorted food services would be drastically down-sized if people
returned to making their own meals rather than depending on strangers to
plant, pick, chop and cook for them. Much of modern law, medicine, and
engineering would go, too, the clothing business and schoolteaching as
well, unless a guaranteed supply of helpless people poured out of our
schools each year.
The sixth lesson I teach is provisional self-esteem. If you've
ever tried to wrestle a kid into line whose parents have convinced him
to believe they'll love him in spite of anything, you know how
impossible it is to make self-confident spirits conform. Our world
wouldn't survive a flood of confident people very long so I teach that
your self-respect should depend on expert opinion. My kids are
constantly evaluated and judged. A monthly report, impressive in its
precision, is sent into students' homes to signal approval or to mark
exactly down to a single percentage point how dissatisfied with their
children parents should be. The ecology of good schooling depends upon
perpetuating dissatisfaction just as much as commercial economy depends
on the same fertilizer. Although some people might be surprised how
little time or reflection goes into making up these mathematical
records, the cumulative weight of the objective-seeming documents
establishes a profile of defect which compels a child to arrive at
certain decisions about himself and his future based on the casual
judgment of strangers.
Self-evaluation, the staple of every major philosophical system
that ever appeared on the planet, is never a factor in these things.
The lesson of report cards, grades, and tests is that children should
not trust themselves or their parents, but need to rely on the
evaluation of certified officials. People need to be told what they are
worth.
The seventh lesson I teach is that you can't hide. I teach
children they are always watched by keeping each student under constant
surveillance as do my colleagues. There are no private spaces for
children, there is no private time. Class change lasts 300 seconds to
keep promiscuous fraternization at low levels. Students are encouraged
to tattle on each other, even to tattle on their parents. Of course I
encourage parents to file their own child's waywardness, too. A family
trained to snitch on each other isn't likely to be able to conceal any
dangerous secrets. I assign a type of extended schooling called
"homework", too, so that the surveillance travels into private
households, where students might otherwise use free time to learn
something unauthorized from a father or mother, or by apprenticing to
some wise person in the neighborhood. Disloyalty to the idea of
schooling is a Devil always ready to find work for idle hands. The
meaning of constant surveillance and denial of privacy is that no one
can be trusted, that privacy is not legitimate. Surveillance is an
ancient urgency among certain influential thinkers, a central
prescription set down Republic, in City of God, in Institutes of the
Christian Religion, in New Atlantis, in Leviathan and many other places.
All these childless men who wrote these books discovered the same thing:
children must be closely watched if you want to keep a society under
tight central control. Children will follow a private drummer if you
can't get them into a uniformed marching band.