Remarks? I set him straight, or so I thought. “Nobody,” I told him, “wants to hear a public school teacher make a speech.” There would be no remarks.
“But you have to make speech,” he demanded. “You have to speak for me, for Wendy, for Amy, for Bruce, for Tamir, for Janet, Jane, Jill, Andy; for all your classes over the years you have to sum up what it’s all meant.”
“No one will listen,” I said.
“I’ll listen,” he said.
And so that’s how “The Psychopathic School” came to be written, in one blaze of all-night coffee-drenched passion. As I expected, the officials of the school district (which actively disliked me) presenting me with the plaque in a Harlem school the next evening neither listened nor commented on my words. But over the next six months, I received hundreds of requests to reprint the text. A chunk of it was even entered into the Congressional Record by Senator Bob Kerrey of Nebraska.
“The Psychopathic School,” the key essay in this book, deals with a number of pathological patterns I had noticed in schoolchildren over the years, in rich kids as well as in poor. My speech’s rapid dissemination all over the land, by word of mouth and small journal, quickly led to requests for an explanation of what specific mechanisms might account for these pathologies.
It was a worthy challenge that took eighteen months of wrestling with myself to answer. Just in time for the ceremony in Albany naming me New York State Teacher of the Year for 1991, I began to see clearly my own role in the crime. Thus parts of “The Seven-Lesson Schoolteacher” comprise my acceptance speech before the state commissioner of education—and soon, that one, too, was reprinted in hundreds of journals, op-ed pages, and homeschool magazines. Both of these talks were finished at the last minute, cost me a groaning to write, and did not arise from any process of ratiocination that I had been familiar with. They “emerged” from my fingertips in the wee hours of the morning, surprising me as much as they did my audience.
Giving these speeches (and there were others, each a chapter in this book) led directly to another phenomenon, which challenged some of my most dearly held assumptions: there was an outpouring of invitations to speak to groups so diverse that, had they been assembled together in one room, they surely would have killed one another! Suffice it to say that in short order a fellow from Monongahela, Pennsylvania, who had spent most of his adult life speaking to 13-year-old children found himself speaking in the western White House, in the Old Senate Office Building, to the Cato Institute, the Nashville Center for the Arts, the NASA Space Center’s “Engineers’ Colloquium,” Apple Computers, the Eagle Forum, the United Technologies Corporation, and the Farm Commune, as well as before government bureaus in Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Bogota, and elsewhere—enough places to account for one and a half million miles of travel in the past ten years.
Although I altered the rhetorical clothing to fit the various audiences and situations, my core message was (and remains) that forced institutional schooling is absolutely unreformable because it is already an unqualified success! It does brilliantly precisely what it was originally designed to do, that is, to be the “educational” component of a centralized mass production economy directed from a handful of command centers. Such an economy has desperate needs: in order to work, it requires a particular kind of “human resource,” specifically one driven to define itself by purchasing things, by owning “stuff,” by evaluating everything from the perspective of comfort, physical security, and status.
Schools are a great mechanism to condition the onrushing generations to accept total management, to impose a kind of lifelong childishness on most of us in the interests of scientific management. Efficient management requires incomplete people to manage because whole people, or those who aspire to wholeness, reject extended tutelage. It’s impossible to grow up under total management, whether that’s total quality management or any other version. Centralized mass production economies, however, can demand no less than this if they are to survive.
The piece “Green Monongahela,” like the others, was written in response to my auditors’ constant questions about who I was and how I’d come to think this way. It has a hidden agenda that I’m now prepared to expose: I wanted to show all the people who bore scars from their upbringing (that experts of various stripes spin theories of lifelong limitation about) that social “science” is mostly hooey—and dangerous hooey at that. It exists to justify pseudo-scientifically the multiple subordinations which modern management imposes on the managed. If I could demonstrate through my own example that I turned out okay, even though I sprang from a family of eccentric geniuses who fought one another tooth and nail on a daily basis; that I became independent, self-reliant, civil, and reasonably principled even though, had the authorities known some of the events which transpired behind our doors, we would have been in deep trouble, I might become a mirror in which others could see their own stories reflected. And affirmed. By my own example, I hoped to become a living refutation to the cult of anointed expertise which has poisoned every aspect of our liberties. Time we were done with this thing. This was once a land where every sane person knew how to build a shelter, grow food, and entertain one another. Now we have been rendered permanent children. It’s the architects of forced schooling who are responsible for that.
I credit any success I had in finding a way to be valuable to young people to the accident of my family and the accident of growing up in a place—Monongahela—where people punched anyone who minded their business too closely. And to the fact that my libertarian upbringing turned me, inadvertently, into a saboteur of oppressive schemes. Lest that pass as idle hyperbole, let me confess that every single day of my life as a schoolteacher I chanted a litany to myself while shaving in the morning. In it I pledged to find, that very day, a way, however small, to throw sand in the gears of the system. Someday I’ll write about the particulars, but probably under a nom de plume because the details would surely result in a stretch behind bars! I urge all of you who ask me about what to do in your own schools to become such saboteurs, to become little drops of water that erode this wasteland of forced institutional schooling.
The last two essays in the book, “We Need Less School, Not More” and “The Congregational Principle,” represent my attempts to find the broad outlines of a solution to the problem of modern schooling. Once, long ago, we had the problem solved and became a beacon of hope to others because of it. The rise of industrial society—with cheap, unlimited energy promising riches without precedent, if only the liberty impulses of ordinary people could be reined in—covered the traces of those earlier discoveries, yet not so deeply that they can’t be unearthed again, that they can’t be resurrected and become the banner to follow. Read these essays slowly, forgetting how comprehensively schooling destroyed your grasp of the vital nature of historical understanding, argue with the nuances of my reasoning—the best America is about argument, not about premature consensus. Both pieces explore inexpensive alternatives to the inane institution that chokes the life out of our children.
Since Dumbing Us Down, I’ve written four other books, one an epic poem, still unpublished, called “The Adventures of Snider, the CIA Spider.” But Dumbing Us Down remains my favorite because it opened my eyes to the harm I had caused in order to make a living.
These days I’m trying to build a rural retreat and library on 128 acres I own in upstate New York. I want to call the place “Solitude,” and that name will explain almost everything about it. If I hadn’t owned that land and been able to escape the cacophony of New York City to be with myself from time to time, my spirit would surely have perished, my soul been mutilated beyond repair. I’m only a hundred thousand or so short of finishing the thing, so if you hear of an angel, let me know. I’d hope to use the first Solitude Retreat to show every town and village, every big city neighborhood, how easy and valuable it is to provide such a public resource—a place where one can be alone with oneself, with no schedule, no agenda, no lectures, no classes, n
o planned recreation.
And I’m up to some major mischief, trying to produce a long definitive documentary film about the history and the anomalies of (as well as the antidotes for) modern institutional forced schooling. I’m only six or seven million short on that project—but a script is in hand, a national network of assistants created, a production crew organized, and a sample made. If you think of Ken Burns’ Civil War, you’ll get an idea of the scope of the project. Incidentally, the former student who badgered me into writing “Psychopathic School”—and through it, this entire book—is a fine filmmaker; he’ll be the director.
Both these undertakings are discussed at some length on my website (www.johntaylorgatto.com), where, if the daemon overtakes you, you can also send me your thoughts from time to time. I can’t promise to answer because, like you, I’m often overwhelmed, but I do promise to read every communication twice and to think hard about what you say—and if our paths ever cross, the first Iron City is on me.
God’s mercy on us all,
—John Taylor Gatto
Oxford, New York
January 2002
Postscript 2005
From the Publisher
On April 7, 2004, the Mid-Hudson Highland Post carried an article about an appearance that John Gatto made at Highland High School. Headlined “Rendered Speechless,” the report was subtitled “Advocate for education reform brings controversy to Highland.”
The article relates the events of March 25 evening of that year when the second half of John Gatto’s presentation was canceled by the School Superintendent, “following complaints from the Highland Teachers Association that the presentation was too controversial.” On the surface, the cancellation was in response to a video presentation that showed some violence. But retired student counselor Paul Jankiewicz begged to differ, pointing out that none of the dozens of students he talked to afterwards were inspired to violence. In his opinion, few people opposing Gatto had seen the video presentation. Rather, “They were taking the lead from the teacher’s union who were upset at the whole tone of the presentation.” He continued, “Mr. Gatto basically told them that they were not serving kids well and that students needed to be told the truth, be given real-life learning experiences, and be responsible for their own education. [Gatto] questioned the validity and relevance of standardized tests, the prison atmosphere of school, and the lack of relevant experience given students.” He added that Gatto also had an important message for parents: “That you have to take control of your children’s education.”
Highland High School senior Chris Hart commended the school board for bringing Gatto to speak, and wished that more students had heard his message. Senior Katie Hanley liked the lecture for its “new perspective,” adding that “it was important because it started a new exchange and got students to think for themselves.” High school junior Qing Guo found Gatto “inspiring.” Highland teacher Aliza Driller-Colangelo was also inspired by Gatto, and commended the “risk-takers,” saying that, following the talk, her class had an exciting exchange about ideas. Concluded Jankiewicz, the students “were eager to discuss the issues raised. Unfortunately, our school did not allow that dialogue to happen, except for a few teachers who had the courage to engage the students.”
What was not reported in the newspaper is the fact that the school authorities called the police to intervene and “restore the peace” which, ironically enough, was never in the slightest jeopardy as the student audience was well-behaved and attentive throughout. A scheduled evening meeting at the school between Gatto and the Parents Association was peremptorily forbidden by school district authorities in a final assault on the principles of free speech and free assembly.
There could be no better way of demonstrating the lasting importance of John Taylor Gatto’s work, and of this small book, than this sorry tale. It is a measure of the power of Gatto’s ideas, their urgency, and their continuing relevance that school authorities are still trying to shut them out 12 years after their initial publication, afraid even to debate them.—May the crusade continue!
—Chris Plant
New Society Publishers
February, 2005
Postscript 2017
From the Publisher
In 2002, when I joined New Society Publishers, I was given a handful of books that were a clear reflection of New Society’s mission and mandate, to further educate myself.
One of those books was a previous edition of Dumbing Us Down. Such a little book—I thought I might take a few minutes and flip through it. I took it home to the house I shared with my four-year-old son.
And all my plans changed. My son was set to start school later that year, but this little book packed a mighty punch—strong enough to convince me, a full-time employed single mum, to homeschool for three years. In my situation, that’s all I could manage. I was incredibly fortunate to work for New Society, which has a strong family-first policy, and for a few years I was able to balance a full-time job and homeschooling.
Most importantly, I assembled the tools I needed to enable me to take control of my son’s education, and I was able to help him assemble an equally important tool kit to allow him to follow his curiosity and develop strong critical thinking and reasoning skills, all of which help him to better navigate a rapidly changing world.
In turn, Gatto’s work has shaped my own navigations, providing an as-needed booster shot to strengthen my own skills and follow my own curiosity. In fact, it was my incredible honor to serve as his editor for the subsequent Weapons of Mass Instruction. Working closely with John through that process showed me even more clearly what a towering but gentle and kind intellect he truly possesses, and that he’s made it his mission to use this tool for the betterment of all of us.
As Christopher Plant, founding publisher of New Society Publishers, said in his own comments about this book in 2005:
It is a measure of the power of Gatto’s ideas, their urgency, and their continuing relevance that school authorities are still trying to shut them out 12 years after their initial publication, afraid even to debate them....
Now, 25 years after their publication, in these increasingly turbulent times, Gatto’s ideas are still under fire, thrown up against standardized testing, slashed school budgets, burntout teachers, or any of the multitude of assaults on the education system. It becomes ever more important for us to take back control of our children’s—and our own—learning.
What a deep debt of gratitude we owe to Mr. Gatto. And what amazing things he’s accomplished with this small, mighty book.
—Ingrid Witvoet, Managing Editor
Gabriola Island, BC
March 2017
Also Available
by John Taylor Gatto
Weapons of Mass Instruction: A Schoolteacher’s Journey Through the Dark World of Compulsory Schooling
John Taylor Gatto
John Taylor Gatto’s Weapons of Mass Instruction focuses on mechanisms of familiar schooling which cripple imagination, discourage critical thinking, and create a false view of learning as a by-product of rotememorization drills.
We have been taught to think of success as synonymous with schooling, and yet some of the most creative minds didn’t go to high school—witness Carnegie, Rockefeller, Margaret Mead, or they dropped out—Bill Gates or Steven Spielberg.
This book explores how compulsory schooling has stripped youth of their best qualities to produce a nation of employees and specialists.
6″ × 9″ • 240 pages • US/CAN $16.95 • PB ISBN 978-0-86571-669-8
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