The Industrial Hangover in Education
I could also title this column, Middle School: The Everlasting Black Hole of Education. I’m not an education expert, only a parent, but the trouble with middle school is easily enough perceived.
My son’s a very good student, but I sometimes think that his intellectual and creative apogee to date came when he was three, in preschool, and first exposed to the educational “system.” At this age his mind was wide open, he had no experience by which to decide that education bored him, and he was, like all children and humans, an innate learner. He had never been in daycare or school before, but bounded in his first day at preschool, declaring that he was “so excited” about it. There was something natural and ingenuous about intellectual adventure and enterprise that seems, for most children, to get increasingly dulled or deadeningly formalized as school progresses.
We parents didn’t get that enthusiasm from our children this September, when 6th grade rolled around. Some of that is just the age, of course. Some of it, however, is the charmless quality of education, especially in middle school.
Middle school education might be hampered by a misperception that the age is a hopeless, futile hell of hormones and social torments. By this logic of futility, maybe we should just ship middle school students off to an island, where they can look in the mirror, text each other, giggle at sexual innuendos, and play video games for a few years until they pull themselves together.
By middle school, there’s a pervasive sense among students in my son’s class that “sitting in chairs” all day long is tedious—and who can blame the kids who feel this way (how often do we park ourselves in chairs for eight hours straight, without breaks of our own choosing, or the liberty to cruise Facebook for a diversion?).
I wouldn’t say that students at this school are mindlessly fed material to regurgitate on tests—it’s much more interactive than that—but much of their performance still hinges on their recall of concepts for tests, and their memorization capacities.
The intellectually passive “prepping for the test” phenomenon in the literal form of practicing and remembering items for the test is worse in the assessment-fixated public school system, where reputations and viability depend on their students’ performance, narrowly constituted.
There isn’t nearly enough writing in middle school curricula—and the dearth of meaningful writing is a problem across the spectrum of the American educational system. There are too many moments when conversations that begin with a good “why” question elicit an “I don’t know” response, rather than an attempt to figure it out, or form a hypothesis.
Much of the educational difficulty comes down to an industrial era hangover. The industrial hangover means that we’re teaching in the 21st century in preparation for an early 20th century economy. Students learn punctuality, the performance of often rote tasks, and the value of being well-mannered and pliant at their desks. In an industrial economy, ingenuity and creativity doesn’t pay off on the assembly line or in corporate middle management, so those qualities and traits aren’t emphasized. Homogeneity prevails over individuality.
The industrial hangover is complemented at my son’s school with a strong dose of pop psychology about self-esteem and an emphasis on “study skills,” which include learning how to take notes, plan for assignments, and organize your material in a logical way. I’m undecided as to the value of these study skills. It seems to me that when kids are inspired to learn something they figure out easily enough how to manage their research and material, simply as a collateral benefit of their curiosity.
On the other hand, some parents have told me that they wish their kids could have learned study skills in middle school, as they were struggling even to prepare basic papers and sets of notes in college.
The emphasis on social and study skills is one approach to middle school. Although it has elements of the industrial hangover pedagogy, it’s also dedicated to building esteem and soft skills. It’s the Middle School as Summer Camp approach.
Another approach, evident in some of the competitive public school magnet programs, is to nerd the kids out on a diet of massive homework assignments, and to focus them intensively on mathematics at 6th grade.
If the “study skills” approach is Middle School as Summer Camp, then this approach is Middle School as Boot Camp. While middle school as summer camp lacks competition—indeed, shirks from it—the boot camp approach ratchets it up. These programs are seized by the notion, perhaps, that homework certifies that a program is rigorous, or they believe the school of education research which holds that homework is beneficial (as with most themes in education, you can read peer-reviewed research that makes opposite points convincingly—either that homework matters or that it matters not at all). The program intends to kick children’s butts with work, perhaps emulating a hazy perception of Southeast Asian educational philosophies.
Neither approach seems attuned to the times.
The question, and problem, is ultimately a big, existential one. What do we intend to teach our children to do, and what lives do we want them to have? Predictions about the trajectory of the economy and culture are highly fallible, but it’s a safe bet that since we don’t know what the economy 20 or 30 years from now will reward, it’s best to teach children the skills to be independent learners who are self-directed, creative, innovative, persistent, and curious, as opposed to functionaries of a defunct industrial status quo.
So many private and public schools say that they do this, in glossy publications and tours, but I just don’t see it happening, and I am not sure why that is so.
It leaves me with a sad, wistful feeling of connections missed--of knowing that we could be doing better, and that we’re leaving talent and genius on the table, but that we don’t seem to have the stamina or the insight to change.
The Lumina Foundation lays out steps for increasing access to quality post-secondary education credentials.
- America's post-high school education landscape was not created with the modern student in mind. Today, clear and flexible pathways are necessary to help individuals access education that can help them lead a better life.
- Elizabeth Garlow explains the Lumina Foundation's strategy to create a post-secondary education system that works for all students. This includes credential recognition, affordability, a more competency-based system, and quality assurance.
- Systemic historic factors have contributed to inequality in the education system. Lumina aims to close those gaps in educational attainment.
- In 2019, Lumina Foundation and Big Think teamed up to create the Lumina Prize, a search to find the most innovative and scalable ideas in post-secondary education. You can see the winners of the Lumina Prize here – congratulations to PeerForward and Greater Commons!
French newspapers report that the trial hasn't lived up to expectations.
- The French government initially invested in a rural solar roadway in 2016.
- French newspapers report that the trial hasn't lived up to expectations.
- Solar panel "paved" roadways are proving to be inefficient and too expensive.
During World War II, the U.S. incarcerated over 100,000 Japanese Americans in concentration camps throughout the West.
- Now that the issue of concentration camps in the U.S. has once again reared its head, it can be beneficial to recall the last time such camps were employed in the U.S.
- After Pearl Harbor, the U.S. incarcerated over 100,000 Japanese Americans in camps, ostensibly for national security purposes.
- In truth, the incarceration was primarily motivated by racism. What was life like in the U.S.'s concentration camps?
On February 19, 1942, President Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9066, which authorized and directed military commanders "to prescribe military areas … from which any or all persons may be excluded, and with respect to which, the right of any person to enter, remain in, or leave shall be subject to whatever restrictions the Secretary of War or the appropriate Military Commander may impose in his discretion." Under the authority of this executive order, roughly 112,000 men, women, and children of Japanese descent — nearly two-thirds of which were American citizens — were detained in concentration camps.
How did the camps get their start?
With the benefit of a nearly 80-year perspective, it's clear that the internment of Japanese Americans was racially motivated. In response to Japan's growing military power in the buildup to World War II, President Roosevelt commissioned two reports to determine whether it would be necessary to intern Japanese Americans should conflict break out between Japan and the U.S. Neither's conclusions supported the plan, with one even going so far as to "certify a remarkable, even extraordinary degree of loyalty among this generally suspect ethnic group." But of course, the Pearl Harbor attacks proved to be far more persuasive than these reports.
Pearl Harbor turned simmering resentment against the Japanese to a full boil, putting pressure on the Roosevelt administration to intern Japanese Americans. Lieutenant General John DeWitt, who would become the administrator of the internment program, testified to Congress
"I don't want any of them here. They are a dangerous element. There is no way to determine their loyalty... It makes no difference whether he is an American citizen, he is still a Japanese. American citizenship does not necessarily determine loyalty... But we must worry about the Japanese all the time until he is wiped off the map."
DeWitt's position was backed up by a number of pre-existing anti-immigrant groups based out of the West Coast, such as the Joint Immigration Committee and the Native Sons and Daughters of the Golden West. For many, the war simply served as an excuse to get rid of Japanese Americans. In an interview with the Saturday Evening Post, Austin Anson, the managing secretary of the Salinas Vegetable Grower-Shipper Administration, said:
"We're charged with wanting to get rid of the Japs for selfish reasons. We do. It's a question of whether the White man lives on the Pacific Coast or the brown men. ... If all the Japs were removed tomorrow, we'd never miss them in two weeks because the White farmers can take over and produce everything the Jap grows. And we do not want them back when the war ends, either."
Ironically for Anson, the mass deportation of Japanese Americans under Executive Order 9066 meant there was a significant shortage of agricultural labor. Many Caucasians left to fight the war, so the U.S. signed an agreement with Mexico to permit the immigration of several million Mexicans agricultural workers under the so-called bracero program.
Life in the camps
Hulton Archive/Getty Images
Circa 1943: Aerial view of a Japanese American relocation center in Amache, Colorado, during World War II. Each family was provided with a space 20 by 25 ft. The barracks were set in blocks and each block was provided with a community bath house and mess hall.
For the most part, Japanese Americans remained stoic in the face of their incarceration. The phrase shikata ga nai was frequently invoked — the phrase roughly translates to "it cannot be helped," which, for many, represents the perceived attitude of the Japanese people to withstand suffering that's out of their control.
Initially, most Japanese Americans were sent to temporary assembly centers, typically located at fairgrounds or racetracks. These were hastily constructed barracks, where prisoners were often packed into tight quarters and made to use toilets that were little more than pits in the ground. From here, they were relocated to more permanent camps — replete with barbed wire and armed guards — in remote, isolated places across the seven states of California, Arizona, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, Utah, and Arkansas.
Many of these camps, also known as War Relocation Centers, were little better than the temporary assembly centers. One report described the buildings as "tar paper-covered barracks of simple frame construction without plumbing or cooking facilities of any kind." Again, overcrowding was common.
As a result, disease became a major concern, including dysentery, malaria, and tuberculosis. This was problematic due to the chronic shortage of medical professionals and supplies, an issue that was not helped by the War Relocation Authority's decision to cap Japanese American medical professional's pay at $20 a month (about $315 in 2019 dollars), while Caucasian workers had no such restriction. As a comparison, Caucasian nurses earned $150 ($2,361) a month in one camp.
The U.S. government also administered loyalty questionnaires to incarcerated Japanese Americans with the ultimate goal of seeing whether they could be used as soldiers and to segregate "loyal" citizens from "disloyal" ones. The questionnaires often asked whether they would be willing to join the military and if they would completely renounce their loyalty to Japan. Due to fears of being drafted, general confusion, and justified anger at the U.S. government, thousands of Japanese Americans "failed" the loyalty questionnaire and were sent to the concentration camp at Tule Lake. When Roosevelt later signed a bill that would permit Japanese Americans to renounce their citizenship, 98 percent of the 5,589 who did were located at Tule Lake. Some apologists cite this an example of genuine disloyalty towards the U.S., but this argument clearly ignores the gross violation of Japanese Americans' rights. Later, it became clear that many of these renunciations had been made under duress, and nearly all of those who had renounced their citizenship sought to gain it back.
Since many children lived in the camps, they came equipped with schools. Of course, these schools weren't ideal — student-teacher ratios reached as high as 48:1, and supplies were limited. The irony of learning about American history and ideals was not lost on the students, one of whom wrote in an essay --
"They, the first generation [of Japanese immigrants], without the least knowledge of the English language nor the new surroundings, came to this land with the American pioneering spirit of resettling. ...Though undergoing many hardships, they did reach their goal only to be resettled by the order of evacuation under the emergency for our protection and public security."
Potentially the best part of life in the camps — and the best way for determined prisoners to demonstrate their fundamental American-ness — was playing baseball. One camp even featured nearly 100 baseball teams. Former prisoner Herb Kurima recalled the importance of baseball in their lives in an interview with Christian Science Monitor. "I wanted our fathers, who worked so hard, to have a chance to see a ball game," he said. "Over half the camp used to come out to watch. It was the only enjoyment in the camps."
When the camps finally closed in 1945, the lives of the incarcerated Japanese Americans had been totally upended. Some were repatriated to Japan, while others settled in whichever part of the country they had been arbitrarily placed in. Those who wished to return to the West Coast were given $25 and a train ticket, but few had anything to return to. Many had sold their property to predatory buyers prior to being incarcerated, while theft had wiped out whatever else they had left behind. Many, many years later, the 1988 Civil Liberties Act mandated that each surviving victim be paid $20,000, though that seems like a small fine to pay for irrevocably changing the courses of more than 100,000 lives.