The End of Education (12 page)

As you can see, he was a very wise mayor, but not so wise as to say exactly how these enemies could be dispersed. Thus, though a state of emergency officially existed, neither the mayor nor anyone else could think of anything to do that would make the situation better rather than worse. And then an extraordinary thing happened.

One of the mayor’s aides, knowing full well what the future held for the city, had decided to flee with his family to the country. In order to prepare himself for his exodus to a strange environment, he began to read Henry David Thoreau’s
Walden
, which he had been told was a useful handbook on how to survive in the country. While reading the book, he came upon the following passage: “Students should not play life, or study it merely, while the community supports them at this expensive game, but earnestly live it from beginning to end. How could youths better learn to live than by at once trying the experiment of living?”

The aide sensed immediately that he was in the presence of an exceedingly good idea. And he sought an audience with the mayor. He showed the passage to the mayor, who was extremely depressed and in no mood to read from books, since he had already scoured books of lore and wisdom in search of help but had found nothing.

“What does it mean?” asked the mayor angrily.

“Nothing less,” replied the aide, “than a way to our salvation.”

He then explained to the mayor that the students in the public schools had heretofore been part of the general problem, whereas, with some imagination and a change of perspective, they might easily become part of the general solution. He pointed out that from junior high school through senior high school, there were approximately 400,000 able-bodied, energetic young men and women who could be used as a resource to make the city livable again.

“But how can we use them?” asked the mayor. “And what would happen to their education if we did?”

To this, the aide replied, “They will find their education in the process of saving their city. And as for their lessons in school, we have ample evidence that the young do not exactly appreciate them and are even now turning against their teachers and their schools.” The aide, who had come armed with statistics (as aides are wont to do), pointed out that the city was spending $1 million a year merely replacing broken school windows and that almost one-third of all the students enrolled in the schools did not show up on any given day.

“Yes, I know,” said the mayor sadly. “Woe unto us.”

“Wrong,” said the aide brashly. “The boredom and destructiveness and pent-up energy that are an affliction to us can be turned to our advantage.”

The mayor was not quite convinced, but having no better idea of his own, he appointed his aide chairman of the Emergency Education Committee, and the aide at once made plans to remove almost 400,000 students from their dreary classrooms and their even drearier lessons, so that their energy and talents might be used to repair the desecrated environment.

When these plans became known, there was a great hue
and cry against them, for people in distress will sometimes prefer a problem that is familiar to a solution that is not. For instance, the teachers complained that their contract contained no provision for such unusual procedures. To this, the aide replied that the
spirit
of their contract compelled them to help educate our youth, and that education can take many forms and be conducted in many places. “It is not written in any holy book,” he observed, “that an education must occur in a small room with chairs in it.”

Some parents complained that the plan was un-American and that its compulsory nature was hateful to them. To this, the aide replied that the plan was based on the practices of earlier Americans who required the young to assist in controlling the environment in order to ensure the survival of the group. “Our schools,” he added, “have never hesitated to compel. The question is not, nor has it ever been, to compel or not to compel but, rather, which things ought to be compelled.”

And even some children complained, although not many. They said that their God-given right to spend twelve years of their lives, at public expense, sitting in a classroom was being trampled. To this complaint, the aide replied that they were confusing a luxury with a right and that, in any case, the community could no longer afford either. “Besides,” he added, “of all the God-given rights man has identified, none takes precedence over his right to survive.”

And so, the curriculum of the public schools of New York City became known as Operation Survival, and all the children from seventh grade through twelfth grade became part of it. Here are some of the things they were obliged to do:

On Monday morning of every week, 400,000 children had to help clean up their own neighborhoods. They swept the
streets, canned the garbage, removed the litter from empty lots, and hosed the dust and graffiti from the pavements and walls. Wednesday mornings were reserved for beautifying the city. Students planted trees and flowers, tended the grass and shrubs, painted subways and other eyesores, and even repaired broken-down public buildings, starting with their own schools.

Each day, five thousand students (mostly juniors and seniors in high school) were given responsibility to direct traffic on city streets, so that all the policemen who previously had done this were freed to keep a sharp eye out for criminals. Each day, five thousand students were asked to help deliver the mail, so that it soon became possible to have mail delivered twice a day—as it had been done in days of yore.

Several thousand students were also used to establish and maintain day-care centers, so that young mothers, many on welfare, were free to find gainful employment. Each student was also assigned to meet with two elementary school students on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons to teach them to read, to write, and to do arithmetic. Twenty thousand students were asked to substitute, on one afternoon a week, for certain adults whose jobs the students could perform without injury or loss of efficiency. These adults were then free to attend school or, if they preferred, to assist the students in their efforts to save their city.

The students were also assigned to publish a newspaper in every neighborhood of the city, and in it, they were able to include much information that good citizens need to have. Students organized science fairs, block parties, and rock festivals, and they formed, in every neighborhood, both an orchestra and a theater company. Some students assisted in hospitals, helped to register voters, and produced radio and
television programs that were aired on city stations. There was still time to hold a year-round City Olympics, in which every child competed in some sport or other.

It came to pass, as you might expect, that the college students in the city yearned to participate in the general plan, and thus another 100,000 young people became available to serve the community. The college students ran a jitney service from the residential boroughs to Manhattan and back. Using their own cars and partly subsidized by the city, the students quickly established a kind of auxiliary, semipublic transportation system, which reduced the number of cars coming into Manhattan, took some of the load off the subways, and diminished air pollution—in one stroke.

College students were empowered to give parking and littering tickets, thus freeing policemen more than ever for real detective work. They were permitted to organize seminars, film festivals, and lectures for junior and senior high school students; and on a UHF television channel, set aside for the purpose, they gave advanced courses in a variety of subjects every day from 3:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. They also helped to organize and run drug-addiction rehabilitation centers, and they launched campaigns to inform people of their legal rights, nutritional needs, and available medical facilities.

Because this is a fable and not a fairy tale, it cannot be said that all the problems of the city were solved. But several extraordinary things did happen. The city began to come alive, and its citizens found new reason to hope that they could save themselves. Young people who had been alienated from their environment assumed a proprietary interest in it. Older people who had regarded the young as unruly and parasitic came to respect them. There followed from this a revival of courtesy and a diminution of crime, for there was less reason
than before to be angry at one’s neighbors and wish to assault them.

Amazingly, most of the students found that while they did not “receive” an education, they were able to create a quite adequate one. They lived, each day, their social studies and geography and communication and biology lessons and many other things that decent and proper people know about, including the belief that everyone must share equally in creating a livable city, no matter what he or she becomes later on. It even came to pass that the older people, being guided by the example of the young, took a renewed interest in restoring their environment and at the very least refused to participate in its destruction.

Now, it would be foolish to deny that there were not certain problems attending this whole adventure. For instance, thousands of children who would otherwise have known the principal rivers of Uruguay had to live out their lives in ignorance of these facts. Hundreds of teachers felt that their training had been wasted, because they could not educate children unless it were done in a classroom. As you can imagine, it was also exceedingly difficult to grade students on their activities, and after a while, almost all tests ceased. This made many people unhappy, for many reasons, but most of all because no one could tell the dumb children from the smart children anymore.

But the mayor, who was, after all, a very shrewd politician, promised that as soon as the emergency was over, everything would be restored to normal. Meanwhile, everybody lived happily ever after—in a state of emergency, but quite able to cope with it.

.   .   .

Those who have read or heard this fable (it has appeared twice in the
New York Times Magazine
), and were then asked to state its moral, have come up with at least six different ones. Whether this makes it a good fable or not, I do not know. But the moral I prefer is that a sense of responsibility for the planet is born from a sense of responsibility for one’s own neighborhood. It is hard to imagine that anyone who fouls his or her own nest could care very much about the tree in which it is lodged. Thus, the fable suggests that we must begin the story of the Earth as our spaceship by inventing ways to engage students in the care of their own schools, neighborhoods, and towns. Those who claim to be in close touch with what they call “reality” point out that a proposal such as this one poses insurmountable problems in supervision and would require planning of such care that most schools or school systems would be defeated right at the start. They also observe that proposals of this kind have political and legal implications that go far beyond anything the schools have ever had to cope with. I reluctantly but emphatically agree. When one considers that most schools have difficulty in simply providing students with nutritious lunches, the specific activities described in the fable would seem to be a prescription for chaos. But there is an idea here that ought not to be easily dismissed. Yes, it is unrealistic to expect students to direct traffic or deliver the mail. But is it unrealistic to have them clean and paint their own school, plant trees and flowers, produce a community newspaper, create a community theater? Is it unrealistic for older students to teach younger ones? In fact, there are several schools that already allow, if they do not require, students to do such things, and to do them for the right reasons. I would stress the phrase “for the right reasons.” There are, for example, many schools that have enthusiastically developed what are called “work
study” or “apprenticeship” programs with a view toward familiarizing the young with the world of work. It is not clear to me why the schools are so interested in such an objective.
¹
Students will have most of their lives to familiarize themselves with the world of work—work is something they will have to do. Caring for their environment is not something they will have to do, and, one fears, most don’t. The purpose of the activities suggested by the fable is to introduce the young to their responsibilities for the planet, beginning with the buildings and streets that are their portion of the planet. The idea is to show that the environment is not something one is given, take it or leave it. The fact is that we cannot leave it, and neither should we take it. Rather, we must make it. And to make it requires a consciousness of our interdependence, as well as an encouragement and legitimization of the effort.

I should add that among the “new” ideas now current in several places is the organization of schooling around themes. This is a progressive idea, pointing as it does to the need for providing meaning in education. It also explicitly rejects the common assumption that the subjects of a curriculum have nothing to do with one another. But there are trivial themes, and idiotic themes, and themes that are trendy but, in the end, explain nothing and lead nowhere. The spaceship Earth is not, I believe, among these. We may think of it as the “negentropic” theme, which includes the idea that the test of a civilization, as Eric Hoffer has reminded us, is in its capacity for maintenance. To build a house is a fine and noble thing, but to keep it from crumbling is the essential task of a civilization. That the young are not exempt from this task is the message of this theme.

But that message implies still another—that we cannot afford to waste the energy and potential idealism of the young.
There is no question that listlessness, ennui, and even violence in school are related to the fact that students have no useful role to play in society. The strict application of nurturing and protective attitudes toward children has created a paradoxical situation in which protection has come to mean excluding the young from meaningful involvement in their own communities. It is hardly Utopian to try to invent forms of youthful participation in social reconstruction as an alternative or supplement to the schooling process. Moreover, as things stand now in many places, the energy of the young works in opposition to learning; that is, it is an
obstacle
that schooling must overcome. What I am proposing intends to use youthful energy as an asset to students’ academic experience. This is the principle of “Judo,” in which one uses the strength of one’s opponent as an addition to one’s own strength. In this case, we do not suppress the energy of students; rather, we exploit it for benign, constructive, and humane purposes.