How I Survived my Education
Wayne K. Spear
We are all deeply indebted to our education system, for despite
it, and maybe even in rebellion against it, we have become educated
persons. Education like birth is something that simply must be
done, and however much you may have benefited from it, you'd hardly
wish to do it all over again.
I remember peculiar details whose significance today escapes
me. I was once forced to stand in the hall for something I'd done,
or hadn't done; I had to go to the bathroom but I feared interrupting
the class, so I pressed my legs together and danced until the
pressure was more than I could bear, and then I wet my pants.
This sort of unpleasant experience is unusual only in particulars.
Most of my memories of school involve the themes of crime, authority,
fear, and punishment. I suspect any other student could tell comparable
tales. Nothing, which could be construed as a `lesson', remains
afterward. I remember only the punishment, and the rest might
as well never have happened.
The grammar school I attended had a long tradition of military-style
education. The principal, as late as the 1950s, was typically
a retired sergeant, or some similar figure. `Stern, male, and
authoritarian' seemed to be the chief requirements of the job.
The yet-surviving Victorian model of the teacher was vanishing,
but examples were still plentiful enough. The awkward phrase `Victorian
model of the teacher' is my own, and if I had a better phrase
I would use it. It designates the educated middle-age woman who,
having raised her own children, is thrust upon the children of
others only to keep her busy. Behind the practice were some ugly
assumptions about women and children, which I suspect are familiar.
Even today the assumptions inform our education system, which
is why tenured university professors tend to be male and grammar-school
teachers female. One assumption, which applies to other professions
as well, is that work done with children really isn't important
enough to command the respect and wages of work done among adults.
Thus the school was a dumping ground of sorts, and though inspired
and gifted teachers could be found, they were accidents. Deviation
from the norm was an unfortunate condition to be beaten back,
and the creative teacher faced, then as now, a host of opponents.
To appreciate the character of the education I'm describing,
you've got to consider the sort of things one was expected to
learn: spelling, penmanship, punctuality, respect for authority,
and obedience. All of these involve conformity to standards, whose
justification is taken as self-evident. One learned to spell `correctly,'
with the help of a British dictionary. The authority of the dictionary
was taken for granted, as if there were only One True Dictionary.
I was also taught there was a correct way to make a lower-case
`p' _ with the vertical stroke rising above the curved, much like
the Old Norse thorn, þ. Regarding punctuality, never my
strong point, I was reminded that I'd never get a job if I couldn't
learn to be on-time. Here the clock was the authority, and there
could be no questioning the exigencies of the schedule (correct
pronunciation: `shed-jewel'). Regarding respect for and obedience
to authority, no matter what subject was ostensibly under consideration,
these were the lessons. I suspect they were ultimately all that
we were meant to learn.
In my case the system failed; I somehow learned not to
respect and obey, as a matter of habit, authority. School showed
me that our leaders are not self-justified, and that they indeed
often behave far from justly. I learned these lessons while reflecting
on my experiences. As an adult I could see clearly that the function
of the system was to produce moderately competent middle managers
and docile proles. That is what the industrial capitalist system
of my childhood needed, and that is what it mostly got. The system
was designed to produce people who would show up for work on time
and do what they're told, how they're told, no matter how demeaning,
pointless, or even stupid it may be. The system produced these
folks the way it produced everything else: in mass quantity, according
to specification. In such a world it's inconvenient to question
the structures and dictates of work, just as it's awkward to ask
why `fill-um' is the correct Canadian way to say film.
Such questions were discouraged. In both cases one was expected
to do as one was told, period. Authority, I discovered, is often
a mere matter of expedience. Education standards, for instance,
may serve the interests of education bureaucrats more than they
do students, and the function of the authorities may be to ensure
that the standards always triumph. In my opinion, you're not educated
if you've never had this suspicion.
When you start to ask questions, a curious phenomenon occurs.
Things begin to unravel. You learn that authority stands on shaky
ground. The teacher is not all knowing and in fact only says fill-um
because she was told by someone (another authority) that it is
proper to do so. Behind every authority is only another authority:
the Oxford dictionary, the CBC, the Queen, and so on. Question
any individual authority and there is nothing in principle stopping
you from questioning authority itself. How frightening such a
state must be for teachers whose insufficient training and meager
resources make them entirely dependent upon the teaching guide.
Their authority is all that they have. At least the bureaucracy
offers them the conditions they need to do their job. One person's
hell is another's heaven, and I know today that mindless fill-in-the-blank
work is a blessing if you've got the right temperament. Bureaucracy,
after all, serves a useful and even civilizing function. You need
only do and think as you're told; the system will then propel
you along toward your pension.
Although this may sound cynical, it describes the way most of
us live. Consider the realm of opinions. Even if we don't believe
most of what we read, we at least have read most of what we believe.
We couldn't possibly have first-hand knowledge of all that goes
on in the world. We have to believe something to function.
I don't mean `belief' in the religious sense of `faith,' as in
the phrase `to believe in God.' Instead I mean belief in the sense
that we concede the world is pretty much what the experts say
it is. Though the meanings overlap, they differ in the sense that
the expert describes something you could see for yourself, like
an atom, if you made the effort. Experts pretend to describe objective
facts, in relation to which blind faith is not only not required
but is inappropriate. If you doubt the descriptions, you are free
to examine the matter for yourself and to form your own opinion.
Most of us however haven't the time or inclination to do this,
and so we acquire our opinions second-hand. This is not an argument
against the media, but merely a description of the way in which
opinions necessarily operate in the real world. We can only go
so far in challenging conventional wisdom, if we challenge at
all, because beyond conventional hearsay there is conventional
heresy, and beyond that little more than regions of fire and dragons.
The conventions, whatever their shortcomings, serve a function.
One of the great and overlooked paradoxes of the education system
is that it is blamed for all social ills and called upon to remedy
them. The possibility that it is neither the disease nor the cure
offers little opportunity to the polemicist and so is rejected.
Civilization has its discontents, but this is not entirely the
fault of the education system. Even if we restrict the discussion
to learning, the education system can be shown to have a doubtful
role. Einstein's genius did not flower as a result of his contact
with the University; he was at best a mediocre student. There's
no doubt in my mind that the education system of my childhood
tended toward stupefaction, but stupidity was not always the outcome.
Yes, school inoculates the young against intellectual curiosity
_ but this is only merciful, so long as the adulthood to which
the young may look forward consists mostly in mindless work, endless
sitcoms, and cajoling advertisements. When's the last time you
heard an education reformer observe the obvious, that there's
almost nothing to do with intellectual curiosity except
make a pest of oneself. The corporations do not want it, despite
their talk of the knowledge economy; the government does not want
it; the TV does not afford it; and your boss will retaliate at
its first appearance. In short, intellectual curiosity is as useful
to social success as bad breath. Nothing is cultivated at such
cost, with such pains, only to be met by such perfect indifference.
That is why the education system works the way it does. And it
does work, by rooting out intellectual curiosity and replacing
it with `workplace skills,' lest a peaceful and gainfully employed
existence be forever precluded.
Any system will fail at least some of the time. Intellectual
curiosity may survive prolonged therapy. In my case the education
system was indispensable to my efforts, like the floor against
which an athlete must push in order to leap. I began my life as
a critical thinker when I first discerned what the education system
is really designed to do _ and how far this reality is from what
education spokespersons claim it is designed to do. Reformers
insist they want to make the education system a place of critical
thought. Think about it: a generation of critical thought would
pretty much put an end to the advertisement and PR industries,
not to mention a good many political careers. The whole culture
would have to be remade to suit the thinking and tastes of clever,
skeptical people. Critical thought would pose a larger technical
challenge than the Year-2000 bug. Our dullness is a national treasure.
It is an industrial lubricant; without it the wheels of progress
would grind to a halt. No more blockbusters, no more bad newspapers,
no more trickle-down economics, and on and on. Do we really want
to end civilization as we know it?
I would, but that is only because I am a pest who's survived
the education system.
Wayne K. Spear was born in Buffalo, New York and grew up
in Fort Erie, Ontario. His published work includes a collection
of short fiction, Real Things Real People Are Really Doing.
Wayne Spear currently lives in Gatineau, Quebec.