Oak trees grow by spreading out into the unknown spaces. We need to do the same. A school or college can give us the roots but the growth depends on us. Real education gives us the practice we need to do that. The excitement of new technologies, including the likes of Google, is that they allow schools to move beyond what is known to explore our possibilities, leaving us to use Google to help us with what is known.
I don’t believe in warehoused learning, the idea that teachers can give you all that you need for life so that you can store it away and pull it out when you need it. That doesn’t work. Use it or lose it, they say, and they are right. Teaching does not always result in learning. I like to say that learning is experience understood in tranquillity, with help. The experience has to come first, then the learning. Think how small children learn. We are no different. Schools do it the other way round. It does not work for most of the time.
In my imagination a school of the future would be a project-based, problem-solving arena. Students would work in groups on increasingly complex problems, using technology where necessary to provide information. The aim would be to provide opportunities to practise using Kipling’s six helpers, as well as the experience of working with others, for Kipling’s ‘How’ will often include co-operation with others. After completing the project they are then ready to reflect on what they did wrong and what they could have done better. Learning the right way round.
In time I would like to see schools more closely linked into the society around them. Some of the projects that they do could be done for real with clients in a range of local organisations, including businesses. In Britain there are now a growing number of University Technology Companies that take practically minded students from the ages of fourteen to eighteen and give them a mix of classroom and practical work with local sponsoring organisations. It used to be said that it takes a village to raise a child. Maybe the modern equivalent of the village is the surrounding network of potential apprenticeship organisations. In the past the young learnt about work at work, often missing out on more formal learning as they started full-time employment at fourteen or even younger. As it is, the urban village is too often a teenage gang where the skills that are learnt may be practical but very antisocial.
Educational reformers, in their enthusiasm for improving the cognitive skills of the young in the classroom, have neglected what you can best learn outside the school, in the workplace, leaving employers to complain that their new recruits arrive without the basic skills they need, including such things as turning up on time, assuming responsibility for their actions, using initiative and common sense, being respectful of others. Ireland is experimenting with a transition year at sixteen where pupils move outside the school on a variety of projects, practical work and travel with a basic minimum of class work. If your school does not provide opportunities to work outside the school I would strongly encourage you to find opportunities for yourself in the intervals between terms. The one week of so-called ‘work experience’ offered by some schools can be no more than a poor trailer for the real thing. George Orwell was once asked where he learnt all his wisdom: ‘In the interval between terms at Eton,’ he replied. It’s true: so much of what we need to know in life has to be learnt but cannot be taught.
Until my imaginary schools of the future come into being, we must rely on the home to nurture Kipling’s little helpers. The home is the real school for life. Or should be. There are too many homes that do not have the understanding or the patience to take on the responsibility for their children’s learning and would much prefer to delegate it to the school. That, I am suggesting, is at present asking too much of the school. Sometimes, ironically, neglect can be the mother of self-sufficiency. Left to themselves young people quickly learn to develop some of Kipling’s helping skills, but the ‘What’ and the ‘Why’ questions may lead them in the wrong directions without someone to steer them. I once said that the three most important roles in life require no qualifications and no formal training. They are the roles of politician, manager and parent. Of these the most important, in my view, is that of parent. We can get rid of bad politicians and bad managers but not bad parents, unless they are demonstrably and physically harming the child.
When you think about it, is it not odd that you will need no permission to start the process that will bring another person into the world, with all the burden that will place on the systems of the state until that person is at least eighteen years old, at a total cost to the state of something like £100,000? If you do start that process, whether consciously or not, then surely you have the responsibility to do what you can to introduce your child to Mr Kipling’s six little helpers. No institution, no matter how well intentioned, can replace the day-to-day involvement and example of the parents, ideally both of them. Remember, too, that we learn most, at that age, by watching rather than by listening. What you do as a parent matters more than what you say. You are the role models for your child from day one. Think about that when you have your first child.
LETTER 8
LIFE IS A MARATHON NOT A HORSE RACE
I remember it only too well, the class list at the end of each term at school. It ranked us on our academic performance. I was a swot so I usually did quite well, in the top three and often the first. But that only made it worse when I came in lower down, at fourth or, once, much worse. It didn’t matter that there were a dozen or more names below mine, I had failed. Not literally, of course, just in my eyes and in the eyes of my suddenly worried parents. Was I OK? they asked. What went wrong? Should they speak to my teacher?
It was no big deal, I said, I just did badly in some tests. But I was worried; worried that I was falling behind, that my teachers would be disappointed, that I had failed them as well as myself. So I knuckled down and got back to my books.
Looking back after all these years I wonder why I was so content to be measured by my progress in a race that was on a track that my teachers chose, not me, and against those particular opponents. Would I have done much worse in a race against cleverer boys? As it was I was soon going to be tested against all the other people of my age in a national exam. How would I fare there? What would I feel if I failed in that bigger race? How badly would I have done if the race had been run on a different track, on a football pitch perhaps, where I was an absolute dunce? Is life, I wondered then, going to be a series of competitions and, if it is, is it better to go for a tougher track or game where I would do worse but maybe learn more, or for an easier game where I would be more likely to win? What, in the end, was the point of all this competitive striving? Did it encourage me to learn more if I won, or to go easy as the winner? If I lost would I try to do better in future or give up, accepting that I was a failure?
That’s the problem with competition, not just at school but in every aspect of life. In a horse race only the top few count, the rest are nowhere. As a sorting device it works well for the organisers but less well for the horses and their riders, most of whom end up as losers. So why do they still go on to join another race which experience tells them they cannot win? Perhaps they sensibly choose a lower-ranked race, one where they might perform better. Or maybe they enjoy punishing themselves in the belief that they can only improve if they keep testing themselves against their betters. Which kind of horse or rider are you? Whom do you compare yourself to, those who are better than you or those who are behind you? Are you in the right race?
Under the capitalist system the whole economy of a country is based on horse races: the competition for customers and resources. The losers go to the wall. The top few go on to share the spoils until they, in turn, get weeded out. Taken as a whole, society benefits, as long as the scoring measures the right things and the judgement is fair, which, alas, is not always so. It would be comforting to assume, for example, that those businesses which proved to have best served their customers with the best quality, service and price would win in the market. If, however, larger firms combine to lower their prices to force sma
ller businesses to lose money and collapse, the market is unfair. In recent times, online retailer Amazon has a declared ambition to be the largest shop in the world. To do this it relentlessly lowers its prices, partly because, with its volume of business, it can do everything cheaper but also, more crucially, to drive others out of the market. It is hard to compete against someone who is not interested in profit but only in turnover. That is why every market needs very strict rules to make sure that the competition is on a level playing field.
The competitive game can also be flagrantly misused.
I had a friend who, many years ago, started one of the first computer consulting companies, designing computer systems for businesses. It was the new fashionable growth industry and when he advertised for software engineers he got several hundred applications. He had devised a good array of aptitude tests to pick the best applicants but the tests cost money to administer so he needed to make a shortlist of the likely best. He used their A-level scores although he knew there was no evidence that scholastic ability was in any way related to coding skills or to system design.
‘So why did you use A-levels then?’ I asked.
‘Because I had to find some way of reducing the longlist. I could have used their height or their birthdays but A levels were a more socially acceptable way of selection, even though it was irrelevant.’
You could say that he was using a flat race to find the runners in a steeplechase. I’m afraid that happens too often in life. First come, first served may work when doling out tickets but can’t guarantee the best recruit.
It is because I distrust the distortions and misuse of what I term horse-race competitions that I turn instead to the marathon, another sort of race. For the lead runners it can be like a horse race, with winners and runners-up, but for most of the 30,000 or so who take part it is both a festival and a competition against themselves. They are not trying to beat anyone else, just to improve on their last time or to test their endurance. By competing against themselves they are hoping to get better, not to win anything. And it’s a long haul, not a short sharp sprint.
To my mind, that is more like life. We set our own standards and constantly try to improve on them. More training helps, as does the support of friends and family along the way. It should be enjoyable too, and companionable since there will be many others alongside who are also trying to better their record. You can set your own pace; settle for enjoyment rather than speed; choose to run with colleagues or alone. Moreover, it will happen again, so if this year is a bit of a washout there is always next year. Life is long, like a marathon, and nobody is testing you other than yourself. Everyone wins, as long as they finish.
Looking at life like this might encourage you to opt out of horse races of all sorts. That is what I did in my late forties. I had tried three different organisations, ending up at the top of one, the smallest. But even there, I discovered, someone was still above me. There always is, I find: a board of directors, trustees, even the people working for you who are expecting you to keep them usefully busy, happy and developing. In other words, there is always someone else setting the targets with their expectations. I decided that my time with organisations was over. It was up to me and me alone to set my own targets, to start my own marathon. I became an independent writer and speaker. It was not easy. The first week I set up my small office with an in-tray and an out-tray. After five days I was puzzled to find that nothing had arrived in the in-tray. Then it dawned on me. Until then I had mainly been reacting to other people’s needs or demands. Work came to me. From now on I would have to initiate my own demands.
It was difficult. It needed a new approach. Nothing was going to happen unless I made it happen. No one was going to write my books for me. No one was even going to ask me to write a book. That was the task I set myself and I turned out to be quite a tough taskmaster. I set myself deadlines and timetables for each day, locking myself away in the country with no holidays, no weekends, until I had completed at least the first draft. Because I was the taskmaster and I was setting the timetable it did not feel like pressure. I was running my own marathon. As the years went by there were many more marathons as I wrote more books. It never gets easy, but as soon as one finishes I can’t wait to start another. Real marathon runners admit that it is compulsive, but because it is their choice to run it is always a joy.
Competitive races are fun when you are young. They are a way of testing yourself against others, particularly if you decide to compete in a variety of different races. If you lose too often, however, it can be depressing; while if winning is easy, the races become boring. I have met successful business people who feel trapped by their own success but have too much to lose if they want to stop competing. I should have stopped earlier, I now realise, and turned to competing against myself, not my peers, but in those days no one was running marathons. Now they are.
LETTER 9
WHO YOU ARE MATTERS MORE THAN WHAT YOU DO
Many years ago my wife and I went to live in Italy for part of the year. When we had been there a few months a friend asked us if we had met any of the Eustabies yet. ‘No,’ we said. ‘Who are they?’ Our friend explained that she had not meant the Eustaby family but all those people out there who, if you got round to asking them what they did, would reply by starting, ‘Well, I used to be …’ and going on to tell you what they did before they retired to come and live in Italy. Sadly, we realised such people are still defining themselves by their previous roles in life.
It was our fault, of course, in the first place. We should not have tried to put them into that box, the box of their job or role. It is tempting, however, as we try to get an angle on someone who we are meeting for the first time. Like dogs sniffing each other when they first meet, we circle around each other looking for clues. It is wrong because we may then use the reply to land that person with all our stereotypes of the occupation they have mentioned. We might think that accountants are boring, that mathematicians are too clever by half, that politicians are devious or business people greedy. It would be grossly unfair to load our new acquaintance with all our biases before we had exchanged more than a few words. But we all do it, sadly.
I got my lesson when a friend recently asked me if I had met a new arrival in the village. ‘You would like him,’ he said. ‘He has just retired and is looking for new interests and making new contacts.’
‘What did he do?’ I asked.
My friend looked at me, puzzled. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘Does it matter?’
‘No, of course not,’ I replied, a bit shamefaced, caught out doing what I accused others of doing, trying to define people by what they do or did. Call yourself an architect and you are branding yourself for life. If architecture is your passion you may be happy with that, but not everyone is going to be content to be branded in that way. Rather like a prison sentence, it can dog you for the rest of your life.
We are so much more than what we do for a living. One of the intriguing photographic studies that my wife did was to ask people to compose a picture of their life using five objects and one flower. It is a very thought-provoking exercise. You should try it. Most people include objects that symbolise their loved ones, partners or family. There are also reminders of their childhood, of their parents and of a hobby or passion, such as music or sailing or reading. What is missing, she sometimes found, is anything that signifies their job. When I pointed this out to one young woman who had an important management job in the oil industry, she replied, ‘Oh, that’s what I do, it’s not who I am. One day, I would like what I do to be also part of what I am.’ Point taken. I was impressed because she appeared to be an ambitious young woman. Sure enough, some years later she gave up her oil industry job to become a mountaineer, guide and expedition leader. I remembered then that nature and the outdoors had inspired the choice of two of her objects in the portrait.
On another occasion, my wife was doing this exercise with a young entrepreneur. The first object he chose was his
wallet, stuffed with dollar bills; we were in America. He picked it up and plonked it down in the centre of the table. ‘That’s me,’ he said. ‘I’m a businessman first and foremost.’ Then he paused, looked at his wallet lying on the table, and said, ‘No, that’s not right, the money is not important, it’s my dream of how my product could change the lives of people around the world if I get it right.’ I like to think that in that moment he had changed the priorities and culture of his young organisation. He had given his employees something that they could all believe in, because who is excited by the idea of making the owners richer? As an aside, I have often wondered why the captains of industry think that increasing shareholder value can possibly inspire anyone below director level? Working to make strangers rich is either quixotically philanthropic or just idiotic. Either way, it is unlikely to be a sound basis for any business.
All too often, however, what you do will dominate your life as you get more and more engrossed in your work, either because the demands of the job take up all your waking hours, or because you find it more fulfilling than anything in the rest of your life. I was like that once. The job I was doing was to create a new educational programme for mid-career executives at the new business school. The eighteen members of that first group were very important to me. The success of the programme and my future depended on their success. They needed all my attention, or so I thought. I left home before the children woke up. I came home after they had gone to bed. At the weekends I was exhausted but still needed to prepare for the week ahead. So I shut myself away to get some peace and quiet. When my wife complained, I would tell her that I was really doing it for her and the family; I said that they needed me to be successful in order for them to have what they needed. She was not convinced. I remember her saying that she would clearly have to become one of my students to see the best of me, or to see me at all, come to that. She had married me, she said, not the London Business School.
21 Letters on Life and Its Challenges Page 5