Order: The Precondition of Learning

I remember once, when I took my daughter ice-skating, that I noticed a gentleman ensconced in a corner behind the rental counter, sharpening the blades on the skates of one of the children.  What made the scene so memorable was the intense concentration of this gentleman as he went to his work; no Olympic medalist ever had her skates prepared with greater attention to detail.  It was remarkable to reflect, as we sat by the side of the rink and watched the children twirl and glide around the ice with varying levels of grace, how all of their artistry was made possible by that gentleman’s hidden devotion to his craft.

Every remarkable human achievement similarly rests on the foundation of some humble, often forgotten labor.  What we observe is the excellence; what we neglect to acknowledge is the often tedious and onerous work that makes it possible.  When it comes to the craft of the teacher, the fruits of her efforts reveal themselves in the authentic absorption and command of the material on the part of her students.  But the thin, precarious precondition upon which the possibility of such learning depends is classroom management.

It is a basic rule of classroom teaching – perhaps the basic rule of classroom teaching – that no real learning can take place in an environment replete with commotion and distraction.  For all its foundational, indispensable importance, however, I have hardly ever heard modern educators give this principle the kind of outsized emphasis it deserves, which of course explains why modern classrooms are replete with commotion and distraction.  The modern classroom is routinely described by those who preside there as a scene of engagement or inspiration or safety or discovery - but order, hardly ever.

Here is a statement from which many readers will recoil, but which is blindingly obvious to anyone who has spent more than a week in a classroom: the greatest potential impediments to a child’s ability to learn in the classroom are the other children.  The ability to learn depends on the ability to concentrate, and the uncooperative behavior of any student in the classroom is bound to impede the concentration of the other students.  This means that the teacher must always regard and deal with students in the classroom under two competing aspects: as a potential locus of learning, and as a potential hindrance to it.  Again, this is language which is liable to make modern persons squirm.  The mush-mouthed, insufferably sentimental manner in which we have become accustomed to talking about education and childhood development has rendered many modern persons completely incapable of addressing these topics candidly.  But if we aim at a true mastery of the craft of teaching rather than its marketable simulacrum, it is necessary to acknowledge these basic dynamics of the classroom.

The adroitness to manage students under these two aspects - to draw out the energies necessary to comprehend the lesson while always restraining those energies within their constructive boundaries – is probably the key attribute which determines success for a teacher, and is never gained except by years of steady exertion and failure.  The normative expectation that ought to confront any young teacher entering into the profession should be that he or she develop this capacity in time.  Likewise, the normative expectation that ought to be presented to children entering a school - and to their parents - is that they have come to a place where they will not only be learners themselves, but citizens of a community of learners, defined by rules and standards they must respect for the good of all.

I started this small site a few years ago to be a place where I could share my musings about classical education, and contribute my talents and experience to a burgeoning movement I feel blessed to be a part of.  So here is a thought that has been preoccupying me of late: has the classical education movement done enough to promote these basic expectations?  Have classical educators dwelled too exclusively on their students’ encounter with Truth, Goodness, and Beauty to remember the prior importance of “sit up and pay attention?”  Have we been so enamored with the telos of our craft that we have neglected its preconditions? 

How clear is it made to young people entering the field of classical education, for instance, that their job involves not only sharing their passion for Milton or mollusks or what-have-you, but first prevailing over all the competing childhood impulses that would inhibit the possibility of that sharing taking place?  What portion of the professional development opportunities on offer to these teachers seek to cultivate the skills of classroom management?  What portion on offer to administrators is focused on school culture and disciplinary procedures?

When it comes to families, how explicitly are they informed of the expectations surrounding classroom comportment and cooperativeness?  While routinely (and rightly) promised a more substantive learning experience for their children in the classical school, how routinely is the evident corollary drawn out for them that the attainment of that experience will require more from their children than would be expected in a non-classical setting?  How clearly is it made that this experience is on offer to all of the children, and so any student enrolled in the classical school is expected not only to learn, but to conduct himself in a manner conducive to the learning of others?

The typical critique which classical educators make of contemporary schools is that they are far too utilitarian in their aims, that by seeking to place students on track for placement in a competitive college and career field, they have unduly constricted the horizons of their courses of study, and of the young people subject to those courses of study.  All of that is fair as far as it goes, but a school in which students go to their work with such instrumental aims in mind is actually likely to be one of the better schools on offer.  Far more commonly, at far more schools, the students do not go to their work at all, for any reason whatsoever.  Classroom disorder is endemic across the country; the ability of millions of students to learn is fatally impaired every single day by the misbehavior of their peers, and the unwillingness or incompetence of their teachers and administrators to put a stop to it.  In such settings, students can hardly be motivated to apply themselves to their studies, even with promises of lucrative remuneration held before their eyes.  It is not John Dewey and his progressive theorizing undermining the learning environment there, but little Jimmy Dewey and his inveterate habits of distraction.  What is needed, then, is something more than a competing philosophy of education.

If the classical education movement purports to offer a remedy to the specific ills of the schools in our day and age, then it must present some alternative to the scenes of rampant disorder plaguing classrooms across the country.  It must be a place where the educators apply themselves with special assiduity to establishing the orderly conditions under which learning can take place, and where families accept that their children will be asked to be cooperative with those efforts. It should not need to be said that if the classical school offers its students more, it is because it demands more out of them. But in fact, it does need to be said, forthrightly and repeatedly. So let’s say it, over and over, until it becomes universally accepted that a classical school is a place where the greatest learning may be achieved because all that precedes the act of learning has been tended to with the greatest attention.