The Sixties (12 page)
Authors: Jenny Diski
And what could frighten the grown-ups more than subverting the education system of those who have yet to become students?
The change-over from the two-tier grammar/secondary moderns to comprehensive schools
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that began under Harold Wilson in 1965 had speeded up, and by 1970, in spite of the new Conservative government and Margaret
Thatcher becoming Secretary of State for Education, the dismantling of the old system was unstoppable. The division of children
at the age of eleven by examination into either academic or ‘practical’ schools (to become university students or to leave
school at fifteen respectively
†
) had largely gone, but mixed-ability teaching was an untried and under-researched discipline and the result usually was that
both ends of the ability spectrum were short-changed. By the end of the decade, the comprehensive system was far from proving
itself a force for social equality and liberal education. Many schools had given up and divided year groups into separate
classes according to academic ability. Grammar and secondary modern schools coexisted in effect within the comprehensives.
Nobody really knew what they were doing and it was showing. At the East End comprehensive where I taught, each year was split
into seven groups labelled with one letter of the word HACKNEY. In order to prevent the children from being demoralised by
finding themselves in the bottom two groups (which were designated by the teachers ‘remedial’), each year started at the other
end of the word. 1H, 1A, 1C, 1K, 1N, 1E, 1Y became 2Y, 2E, 2N, 2K, 2C, 2A, 2H the following year. Not even the poorest of
intellects could fail to know where they were in the ability hierarchy. In Islington, a passionately child-centred, progressive
headteacher Michael Duane, had tried to put ideals into practice at Risinghill Comprehensive. In 1965 it was closed down as
an experiment out of control. The book that came out about it in 1968 made Duane a hero, and Risinghill a rallying cry, though
there were serious problems with Duane’s new lack of order, as there had been with the old excess of it.
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The comprehensive system had stopped looking like an experiment in the liberation of working-class children and seemed already
to be achieving little more than providing a minimally educated workforce for an industrial economy. The power of institutions
to make even new ideas conform to the requirements of the status quo was evident, but we were still close enough to the Sixties
and our youth to believe that it could be subverted. Schools and schooling became a cause among the young liberal and radical
Left. Teachers, students and academics considered alternative forms of teaching. The question was again what should be taught
and how pupils could participate in their own learning. Education under the dead hand of the institution deprived children
of the social and philosophical freedom to think, often even of the ability to obtain basic literacy and numeracy – a serious
problem that comprehensive schools have still not solved. The majority of children were leaving school with just enough knowledge
to take up the unskilled jobs society needed doing. Those who call themselves realists and pragmatists will tell you, then
and now, that that is precisely the purpose of state education. We chose to believe (and I still like us for it) that everyone
was capable of doing better than that – of having broader horizons, and of being educated into a wide curiosity that might
mean they were dissatisfied with their lot, but which also gave them the tools for independent thought.
This, of course, was the paternalism of an educated youthful elite with world-changing on their mind, who rejoiced in dissent,
having enjoyed several years of living it without the fear of long-term unemployment. Or, to put it another way, it was an
imaginative merging of us and the children (only a few years apart in age). The Peter Pan generation were trying to give our
younger selves the liberated childhood we had belatedly discovered and were presently acting out, just as our parents had
funded us to have a carefree misspent youth that they had lacked. Idealistically, numbers of us enlisted in the education
system (in those days, just having a degree qualified you to become a teacher, and for those of us who didn’t have degrees,
there were teacher training colleges and, of course, grants to attend them that could be lived on). Not having been to university,
I got a grant and started teacher training, while postgraduates went directly to work in inner-city comprehensive schools
which by now had major problems with discipline and motivation. Sink schools, they were being called by the panicking press.
We would work in the system, at the tough end, work with the kids, on their side, and change things radically. We weren’t
disciplinarian or jealous of our status, so we talked to the pupils and required dialogue in return. On the whole, it worked
rather well; we had to do less ducking to avoid chairs being thrown than our colleagues who enforced pointless rules and shouted
their theoretical authority at kids who didn’t believe a word of it and couldn’t care less. We may have done more social work
than actual teaching, but our classroom discipline techniques, which mostly involved taking a non-combative stance and actually
liking the kids, were quite effective, and we thought that once we’d got them quiet enough to listen we could say some things
that mattered. Our logic was as compelling as that which had made us already believe we would change everything just by our
novel presence in the reactionary world. It was a takeover, but an inevitable one. A generational takeover, by the generation
that thought differently. The kids would recognise our benevolent and socially radical intentions and join us in the endeavour.
Institutions couldn’t resist our will if we participated in them. Now we got the idea of ‘boring from within’. They would
become
our
institutions, new, compassionate, world-changing, and above all equitable. We’d done drugs, expanded our minds, read and trekked
the world, east and west, and now we were going to teach. Obvious really. Of course, we had many moments of discouragement
– it turned out there were some kids who didn’t want our benevolence at all, and sometimes we had to duck chairs along with
the oldest and most unregenerated of our colleagues. A fellow world-changer, a member of IS, who taught remedial classes (EY
or HA according to the year), slammed into the staffroom one breaktime and threw herself despairingly into a chair, announcing,
‘These kids are no good for socialism’ – but, for all that, how could we not prevail in the end?
Ivan Illich, a former turbulent priest who had worked in Latin America, thought otherwise. In 1971, he published
Deschooling Society
.
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His target in this and his other books was the institution, by which he meant institutions of every kind – educational, technological,
industrial, medical: the divisive and divided fortresses of knowledge itself. The institutions aped and were always and unalterably
governed by economic forces for their own benefit. There was no possibility of changing the world by tinkering with the institutions
that controlled it. The nature of education had to change fundamentally, he said. I read Illich, as well as others
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who advocated the idea of taking education into the hands of the local community, of creating new, small institutions, rethinking
the content and meaning of learning, and I somehow managed to participate both in the noble idea of changing education from
within its fortifications, and the new free school/community school movement. While I did the required teacher training, I
was intensely involved in the (somewhat unintentional) Freightliners Free School. It wasn’t contradictory, to my mind. The
free school would be the ideal practice (a live experiment, not a rehearsal as were the teaching practices of the training
colleges) for the changes that we would implement in the comprehensives to turn them into the humane, creative institutions
they ought to be. But I was not reading Illich very carefully. I (and others) misread his clear statements of libertarianism
as liberalism.
Universal education through schooling is not feasible. It would be no more feasible if it were attempted by means of alternative
institutions built on the style of present schools. Neither new attitudes of teachers toward their pupils nor the proliferation
of educational hardware or software (in classroom or bedroom), nor finally the attempt to expand the pedagogue’s responsibility
until it engulfs his pupils’ lifetimes will deliver universal education.
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Neither the Free School movement, nor the new influx of radical teachers into the comprehensive system, had suggested
not
teaching. We were trying for
good
teaching, better and wider teaching. It wasn’t what Illich was on about at all.
The free-school movement entices unconventional educators, but ultimately does so in support of the conventional ideology
of schooling...Even the seemingly radical critics of the school system are not willing to abandon the idea that they have
an obligation to the young, especially to the poor, an obligation to process them, whether by love or by fear...And there
is, finally, a shared view of youth which is psychologically romantic and politically conservative. According to this view,
changes in society must be brought about by burdening the young with the responsibility of transforming it – but only after
their eventual release from school.
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Rereading Illich now, I wonder what happened in my head, back in 1971, when I got to those passages? Did I simply not see
them? Did I refuse to read them in such a way that what they actually said entered my consciousness? His analysis of the result
of liberals taking over the schools was precise and accurate, it was to turn out, but it was paralysing unless the economic
and industrial reality we lived in was torn into small pieces. People would only be free when they educated themselves and
each other
all at the same level
. Illich was too radical for the radical generation. We were not so idealistic that we trusted in Illich’s radical alteration
of society ever happening. And though we didn’t want to see ourselves as part of the old reactionary system, nor, truth be
told, did we want to risk losing control of what we valued. We supposed, without quite articulating it, that left to itself,
a self-educated population would fail to notice the literature, philosophy and art of which we thought so highly. Illich didn’t
care whether they noticed or not. He wasn’t coming from a left/liberal position. He wasn’t interested in making things nice,
or expanding minds according to anyone’s view of how minds should or could be expanded.
I took my fifteen-year-old class from Hackney on a school trip to the Roundhouse to see the radical and often-naked Living
Theatre company from the US perform. I thought that my pupils’ dropping jaws at the sights and sounds they encountered would
function in a similar way to the Methedrine the psychiatrists at the Maudsley injected into my veins. That they would be abreacted
into art. But the absolute freedom of the individual was Ivan Illich’s only interest, whatever its consequences.
The right of free assembly has been politically recognised and culturally accepted. We should now understand that this right
is curtailed by laws that make some form of assembly obligatory. This is especially the case with institutions which conscript
according to age group, class, or sex, and which are very time consuming. The army is one example. School is an even more
outrageous one.
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We wanted small, local groupings of teachers and learners, not none at all. His ‘web’ of learning was a loose, always shifting
network, that depended not on any kind of qualification or well-meaning, but only on individuals who simultaneously and freely
wanted knowledge and offered knowledge, and who needed only to be provided with the means (an imagined universal computerised
access) for each to get in touch with the other. That was the point, to dispense completely with structure, to undercut the
authority of hierarchy and the hierarchy of authority. Crucially, the majority of the activists in my generation were never
as interested in individual liberty as we were in finding ways to implement our own ideas of how the world should be. I’m
not sure, on Illich’s still startlingly strict definition, if we were interested in liberty at all. Certainly, we didn’t
get
that ‘freedom’ was not solely the property of the liberal Left. Yet again, aside from a rigorous few, we were too young, and
not thinking coldly enough, to imagine what a Margaret Thatcher might do with the word. Illich could well have joined Thatcher
and Reagan’s theoretical advisers. I’d resist the claim that the Sixties generation were responsible for the Thatcher years,
as I would resist the notion that the Jewish community in Germany were responsible for the advent of the Nazis, but sometimes
I can’t help but see how unwittingly we might have been sweeping the path in readiness for the radical Right, preparing, with
the best of good intentions, the road to hell for paving.
I think perhaps we were also romanticising some nebulously defined educational processes at the cost of a simpler acquisition
of basic skills. The intention was to get children engaged in learning, interested in what they were doing without having
to be competitive. Learning how to learn, rather than learning the same old facts without being given an understanding of
the basis of them. Ideas which in my view are still admirable, and still sorely lacking in education systems, but in noticing
the barriers to education we rejected some kinds of learning that simply made life easier. We hadn’t, most of us, by then,
had children of our own to observe. The fact is that young children are wonderfully programmed for learning by rote. Why understand
the alphabet or times tables, when you can chant them meaninglessly and learn them fast to have at will for the rest of your
life? Child-centred education was, at least in part, our own misty eyes centring on our wishful thinking about childhood.
We had all learned to read by reciting the alphabet, and sing-songed the multiplication tables until we had them off by heart,
and can still call them up whenever needed, even in our sixties chanting the alphabet or the eight times table in our heads
in moments of need. We made life more difficult, I think, in respect of elementary learning, for both pupil and teacher by
demanding that everything had to be understood. Get the automatic stuff under your belt and then you can have all the time
in the world to sit back and learn to understand it to your heart’s content, is what I would say now. And I do wonder if the
awful educational backlash of the subsequent Thatcher and post-Thatcher Blair years that continues to demand efficiency over
content, measurable outcomes becoming everything, were not, in part, fuelled by our over-emphasis on making the relevance
of every aspect of learning a priority. We forgot what pleasure we had had from irrelevance, from the strange and the half-understood,
and even from the difficult. There was also an embarrassment about our own abilities, the gifts of our own minds. We tended
devotedly to the lower end of the ability spectrum but paid little attention to the more able. They were us, after all, and
we were quite ashamed of our privileges. It got to the point where in some sense we punished the brighter kids for not being
underprivileged. When Allie had been at the free school for a while, she became very taken with looking at buildings in a
new way that had been pointed out to her on school visits round London with the local architect. She began to think she might
want to be an architect. She told this to one of the play-leaders at the adventure playground whom she had known and been
friends with in the days when she bunked off school all the time. ‘You’re getting a bit above yourself, aren’t you?’ he said.
The radicals couldn’t always cope with education actually having an effect. If the oppressed stopped behaving like the oppressed,
we didn’t really like it. And there was another side. One day Allie came to me and said she wanted to go back to regular school.
I said that was fine if it was what she wanted, but I wondered why. ‘I want to be like my mates,’ she said. ‘I want to bunk
off like they do. With Freightliners being our special school I have to keep on going to it, and I just want to be normal.’