The End of Education (16 page)

Suppose teachers made it clear that all the materials introduced in class were not to be regarded as authoritative and final but, in fact, as problematic—textbooks, for example. (And here is my more serious answer to the teacher who wondered what we would do without them.) It is best, of course, to eliminate them altogether, replacing them with documents and other materials carefully selected by the individual teacher (what else is the Xerox machine for?). But if elimination is too traumatic, then we would not have to do without them, only without their customary purpose. We would start with the premise that a textbook is a particular person’s attempt to explain something to us, and thereby tell us the truth of some matter. But we would know that this person could not be telling us the whole truth. Because no one can. We would know that this person has certain prejudices and biases. Because everyone has. We would know that this person must have included some disputable facts, shaky opinions, and faulty conclusions. Thus, we have good reason to use this person’s textbook as an object of inquiry. What might have been left out? What are the prejudices? What are the disputable facts, opinions, and conclusions? How would we proceed to make such an inquiry? Where would we go to check facts? What is a “fact,” anyway? How would we proceed in uncovering prejudice? On what basis would we judge a conclusion unjustifiable?

Professor Hirsch worries about such an approach, indeed, condemns it, because he believes that by learning about learning, students are deflected from getting the facts that “educated” people must have. But to proceed in this way permits students to learn “facts” and “truths” in the text as one
hopes they will, and it also permits them to learn how to defend themselves against “facts” and “truths.” Do we want our students to know what a noun is? The text will tell them, but that is the beginning of learning, not the end. Is the definition clear? Does it cover all cases? Who made it up? Has anyone come up with a different definition?

Do we want students to know what a molecule is? The text will tell them. But then the questions begin. Has anyone ever seen a molecule? Did the ancients believe in them? Was a molecule discovered or invented? Who did it? Suppose someone disbelieved in molecules, what then?

Do we want students to know about the causes of the Revolutionary War? A text will give some. But from whose point of view? And what sort of evidence is provided? What does objectivity mean in history? Is there no way to find out the “real” truth?

If students were occupied with such inquiries, they would inevitably discover the extent to which facts and truth have changed, depending upon the circumstances in which the facts were described and the truths formulated. They will discover how often humans were wrong, how dogmatically they defended their errors, how difficult it was and is to make corrections. Do we believe that our blood circulates through the body? In studying the history of biology, students will discover that 150 years after Harvey proved blood does circulate, some of the best physicians still didn’t believe it. What will students make of the fact that Galileo, under threat of torture, was forced to deny that the Earth moves? What will students think if they acquaint themselves with the arguments
for
slavery in the United States?

Will our students become cynical? I think not—at least not if their education tells the following story: Because we are imperfect souls, our knowledge is imperfect. The history of
learning is an adventure in overcoming our errors. There is no sin in being wrong. The sin is in our unwillingness to examine our own beliefs, and in believing that our authorities cannot be wrong.

Far from creating cynics, such a story is likely to foster a healthy and creative skepticism, which is something quite different from cynicism. It refutes the story of the student learner as the dummy in a ventriloquism act. It holds out the hope for students to discover a sense of excitement and purpose in being part of the Great Conversation.

Since I began this chapter with three ideas that were not taken as seriously as they were intended, I will end it with another one that is likely to have the same fate. I suggest the following test be given in each subject in the curriculum. We might think of it as the “final” exam:

Describe five of the most significant errors scholars have made in (biology, physics, history, etc.). Indicate why they are errors, who made them, and what persons are mainly responsible for correcting them. You may receive extra credit if you can describe an error that was made by the error corrector. You will receive extra extra credit if you can suggest a possible error in our current thinking about (biology, physics, history, etc.). And you will receive extra extra extra credit if you can indicate a possible error in some strongly held belief that currently resides in your mind.

Can you imagine this question being given on the SATs?

I
have before me the Report of the New York State Curriculum and Assessment Council (dated April 1994). Its name will tell you, straight off, that reading it is likely to be a painful experience, since reports produced by councils are not known for easy comprehensibility, let alone literary style. Nonetheless, I have read it, and find in it the standard-brand stuff, meaning that it is filled with clichés, and thoroughly exhausted ones at that. The report is intended to bring to life (so it says) the recommendations “pursuant to
A New Compact for Learning
which was adopted by the Board of Regents in 1991.” Among the “key principles” of this New Compact is the doctrine that “all children can learn,” which leads one to suppose that the Old Compact assumed that only some children can learn, or maybe even only a few. Another of its key principles is that education should “aim at mastery,” an idea that probably has never occurred to teachers before, and explains why thirty distinguished educators were needed to contribute their collective originality to the council. A third principle (there are only six) is that education should reward success and remedy failure, which is actually a fairly interesting principle if one is allowed to discuss it. For example, an argument can be made (didn’t I come close to making it in the
last chapter?) that we would do much better if we rewarded failure and remedied success.

I could go on in this petulant way, but it is not my intention to analyze this report. There can’t be many people in the world, in the United States, maybe even New York State, who could care very much about what ideas the New York Board of Regents experts have come up with. But there is one idea that they
didn’t
come up with that is worth the notice of many people. As an appendix to the report, there is included a list of forty-one goals directed toward “what children should be, know, and be able to do.” The goals are stated in a form that specifies what students in elementary, middle, and secondary school must understand, acquire, develop, apply, respect, and practice. As you can imagine, there is plenty to be done here, including a few things that probably aren’t any of the school’s business. But putting that last phrase aside, students are expected, for example, to develop self-esteem, understand people of different cultural heritages, and develop knowledge and appreciation of the arts. There are many other goals along these lines with which no one could disagree. But there is one that is, as we say, conspicuous by its absence, at least to me. I refer to the goal of “acquiring and/or deepening a love of one’s country.” One would have thought that among forty-one goals designed for students going to school in America, and going to school free of charge, and pretty close to as long as they wish, at least one of them would concern promoting an affection, even if a muted one, for their country. There is, I must acknowledge, a goal that says students should acquire knowledge of the “political, economic, and social processes and policies in the United States at the national, state, and local levels.” This strikes me as rather cold and distant language, especially when it is followed by a suggestion that students learn the same sort of thing about other countries.
There is, also, something about students’ learning to respect civic values and acquiring attitudes necessary to participate in democratic self-government. I assume the authors of this goal would accept America as an example of democratic self-government, although they do not explicitly say so. And as for the attitudes necessary to participate in democratic self-government, they do not include respect, let alone affection, for America’s traditions and contributions to world civilization. They do include a list of “values” students should accept, such as justice, honesty, self-discipline, due process, equality, and majority rule with respect for minority rights, each of which is not so much a “value” as it is a focal point of a great and continuous American argument about the meanings of such abstract terms. That students may not have an opportunity to learn about these arguments is suggested by the fact that nowhere included in the list of goals is that of acquiring knowledge of the history of America.

I have begun this way not because the education experts in New York State are unusual, but because they are typical. In their reluctance to include patriotism as a “value,” they reflect a tendency throughout the country, a certain uneasiness about where patriotism might lead. There is certainly more emphasis, these days, on loving one’s self than on loving one’s country, which means, I suppose, that Philip Rieff was prophetic when he wrote about “the triumph of the therapeutic.” In any case, this uneasiness about patriotism is at least understandable, since the idea of love of country is too easily transmogrified into a mindless, xenophobic nationalism, as in the instance of the patriots in Florida who insist on students’ learning that America is superior to all other countries. I suspect that still another reason for steering clear of patriotism is the recent prominence of “revisionist” history, which has led to increased awareness of the uglier aspects of American history
and culture. Teachers are likely to think that self-love or, indeed, love for cultures other than America is a safer and more wholesome route to take. But in steering clear of patriotism, educators miss an opportunity to provide schooling with a profound and transcendent narrative that can educate and inspire students of all ages. I refer, of course, to the story of America as a great experiment and as a center of continuous argument.

There are many ways to unveil this story, and good teachers, at every level, can think of several if they believe the story is worthwhile. The ideas below should be regarded as possibilities, but I would expect that whatever approach might be taken, every teacher would have read the following documents and books: Thomas Paine’s
The Rights of Man
, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, Alexis de Tocqueville’s
Democracy in America
, the Gettysburg Address, the Emancipation Proclamation,
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Scarlet Letter
, John Dewey’s
Democracy and Education
, John F. Kennedy’s inaugural address, and Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech.

If a teacher has not read this material, I would be reluctant to have him or her in close contact with American children. But assuming a teacher knows what these works signify, he or she might proceed by introducing some of the great experiments that characterize American culture, and which the rest of the world has looked upon with wonder. I should say there are four that will cover most of the important arguments Americans have had.

Like all experiments, each begins with a question. The first is, of course, Is it possible to have a coherent, stable culture that allows the greatest possible freedom of religious and political thought and expression? The origins of this question predate the founding of the United States, and how far back
one should go in considering the question would depend on the age and experience of the students. I should think that fifth-grade students ought, at least, to learn about John Peter Zenger and the argument his Philadelphia lawyer, Andrew Hamilton, made on this question. (It might even help to pique student interest if they knew that the man who wanted Zenger put in jail for what he printed was named William—i.e., “Bill”—Cosby.) I should think fifth-, sixth-, and certainly seventh-grade students are capable of understanding some of the arguments made in the eighteenth century over the meanings of such words and terms
as freedom, equality, due process
, and
the divine right of kings
. As students advance in years, they may be introduced to less well known but significant arguments about the meanings of key concepts. De Tocqueville’s distinction between egotism and individuality, both of which he thought dangerous, is a somewhat complex argument, but one worth having tenth or eleventh graders consider.

If it is “mastery” we are shooting for, I would hope no student would be allowed out of the eighth grade unless he or she knew by heart the First Amendment, which is, after all, the binding legal answer to the question concerning the permissible extent of freedom of expression (or perhaps not so much an answer as an hypothesis that is still being tested). I am aware that modern educators disapprove of students’ being asked to memorize anything, classifying such a task under the dreaded rubric of “rote” learning. I stand with those who are against students’ playing the “guess what answer I have in my head” game with teachers, but I do not think that such a stand rules out asking students to know by heart certain fundamental expressions of American ideals. There are, in any case, only forty-five words in the First Amendment, and I can’t imagine that the brains of our students
would be damaged by learning them, and in the order in which they are written. (The Gettysburg Address has fewer than 300 words, and I am told by teachers that memorizing them is quite beyond the capacity of many students, although if it were put to music, maybe they could manage it.)

I am neither qualified to give, nor desirous of giving, a history lesson, and still less a curriculum. I wish only to make three further points: First, and obviously, as students progress from elementary school to high school to college, the study of the American experiment in freedom of expression must deepen, the arguments considered must increase in complexity, and the documents containing them must be more various. Second, it should at all times be made clear that the arguments are not finished; that today they are pursued with the same passion they once were, especially those arguments that present a distinctly modern problem. Is pornography protected by the First Amendment? Does “freedom of the press” include television? Is prayer in the public schools a violation of the “establishment of religion” clause? These are arguable questions that, I should think, our students must know something about if they are to participate in the Great American Conversation. In fact, if an examination is required for students to show “mastery,” then I suggest the following (let us say, to qualify for graduation from high school): Taking one of the current arguments about the meaning of the First Amendment, write an opinion on it as Thomas Paine (or Thomas Jefferson, or James Madison) might have argued the question. You must, of course, make reference to words they wrote and you may bring to class whatever documents you think you will require.