by Neil Postman
This is by no means an original idea, but, unlike, for example, H. G. Wells or Jules Verne, who also wrote on this subject, Spielberg puts the idea in a form that is essentially religious, or at least spiritual; that is to say, he does not merely excite our imaginations about our Spaceship Earth. He insists on our moral obligation to it. Anyone who has talked to young people about either of these films will know how clearly they grasp the sense of responsibility urged on them, as well as how deeply runs their emotional response to the idea that we can no longer take for granted the well-being of the planet.
We have here, then, a narrative of extraordinary potential: the story of human beings as stewards of the Earth, caretakers of a vulnerable space capsule. It is a relatively new narrative, not fully developed and fraught with uncertainties and even contradictions. (For example, I hesitate to invoke the image of the starship Enterprise from Star Trek, because for all its dramatic appeal, Captain Kirk is essentially a benevolent tyrant, democracy being rejected as an appropriate form of social organization for penetrating the “final frontier.”) Nonetheless, the story of Spaceship Earth has the power to bind people. It makes the idea of racism both irrelevant and ridiculous, and it makes clear the interdependence of human beings and their need for solidarity. If any part of the spaceship is poisoned, then all suffer—which is to say that the extinction of the rain forest is not a Brazilian problem; the pollution of the oceans is not a Miami problem; the depletion of the ozone layer is not an Australian problem. It follows from this, of course, that genocide is not a Bosnian problem, hunger not a Somalian problem, political oppression not a Chinese problem. “Never send to know for whom the bell tolls,” wrote John Donne. “It tolls for thee.” If ever there was a narrative to animate that idea, the Earth as our one and only spaceship is it.
Moreover, I need hardly point out that this form of global consciousness does not significantly conflict with any traditional religious beliefs. I am not aware of any deity who would take satisfaction in the destruction of the Earth, or, for that matter, the disintegration of cities, or hostility among people holding different points of view. One can be a Christian, a Muslim, a Taoist, a Jew, or a Buddhist and yet be imbued with a commitment to the preservation of the planet. In like fashion, the story of the Earth as a spaceship does not conflict with national or tribal tales; it does not require that one reject or even be indifferent to one’s national, regional, or tribal loyalties. One can be an American, or a Norwegian, or a Frenchman, or, for that matter, a Lapp and, without sacrificing one’s identity, can be enlarged by adopting the role of Earth’s caretaker.
One can, that is, unless driven by a competing narrative which insists that one’s own nation is all that counts in Heaven and Earth. As I write, at least one school system in the state of Florida has adopted a story requiring teachers and students to believe that the United States is superior to all other nations—one assumes, in all respects. A similar story has been proposed in New York City (but, for the moment, rejected). This is an idea that calls to mind the desperate efforts of the Queen in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs to reassure herself of her preeminent and unfailing beauty. “Mirror, mirror on the wall,” she daily asks, “who is the fairest one of all?” But in that case, the mirror tells the truth, thus putting poor Snow White in harm’s way. It is a terrible burden to place on children to require them to ask this question about nationhood and of a mirror that is programmed in advance always to reply, “America, America.” In addition to its being a perversion of the American Creed, such a story is a sign of a desperate quest for a meaningful narrative, and one’s sympathies must be extended to those who conceived of this. It is, nonetheless, doubtful that its disoriented authors can find the Earth as spaceship an acceptable narrative. But, I believe, many will, for this is an idea whose time has come. It is a story of interdependence and global cooperation, of what is at the core of humanness; a story that depicts waste and indifference as evil, that requires a vision of the future and a commitment to the present. In this story, if the students ask, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, which is the fairest of us all?,” the mirror replies, “This is a pretty stupid question. Have you not noticed that you are all on the same ship? That you must rely on each other to survive, and that you have not taken sufficient care of your home?”
The Fallen Angel
I use a religious metaphor here to emphasize the point that what I shall describe is not merely a method or an epistemology but a narrative, and one of almost universal acceptance. The story as it is told in various places and forms is essentially a religious idea, and I trust that this fact, by itself, will turn no one away. Most serious narratives are rooted in a spiritual or metaphysical idea, even those narratives—inductive science, for example—that are suspicious of metaphysics. In fact, as I shall have occasion to say in a moment, science is more committed to the story of the fallen angel than any other system of belief.
This is the story: If perfection is to be found anyplace in the universe, it is assumed to exist in God or gods. There may have been a time when human beings were perfect, but at some point, for various reasons, their powers were diminished, so that they must live forever in a state of imperfect understanding. Indeed, for us to believe that we are godlike, or perfect, is among the most serious sins of which we are capable. The Greeks called the sin “hubris.” The Christians call it “pride.” Scientists call it “dogmatism.”
The major theme of the story is that human beings make mistakes. All the time. It is our nature to make mistakes. We can scarcely let an hour go by without making one. “I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ,” Oliver Cromwell pleaded, “think it possible that you may be mistaken.” That we may be mistaken, and probably are, is the meaning of the “fall” in the fallen angel. The meaning of “angel” is that we are capable of correcting our mistakes, provided we proceed without hubris, pride, or dogmatism; provided that we accept our cosmic status as the error-prone species. Therein lies the possibility of our redemption: Knowing that we do not know and cannot know the whole truth, we may move toward it inch by inch by discarding what we know to be false. And then watch the truth move further and further away. It is a sad story, to be sure; its melancholy poignancy is captured in the myth of Sisyphus, the story of Job, and scores of other tales the world over. It is a noble story, as well, and a funny one, its humor expressed in the wise Yiddish saying, Man tracht un Got lacht (“Man thinks and God laughs”). The saying tells us exactly where we stand, as do the famous lines of Omar in The Rubáiyát: “The Moving Finger writes; and having writ / Moves on: nor all your piety nor wit / Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line / Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.” And yet the struggle goes on, does it not?
The most explicit and sophisticated example of how this narrative improves the human condition is, of course, science. This would hardly be worth noting except for the fact that in the popular mind, and certainly in school, science is thought to be something other than a method for correcting our mistakes—namely, a source of ultimate truth. Such a belief is, in itself, an instance of the sin of pride, and no self-respecting scientist will admit to holding it. “The scientific method,” Thomas Henry Huxley once wrote, “is nothing but the normal working of the human mind.” That is to say, when the mind is working; that is to say further, when it is engaged in correcting its mistakes.
Taking this point of view, we may conclude that science is not physics, biology, or chemistry—is not even a “subject”—but a moral imperative drawn from a larger narrative whose purpose is to give perspective, balance, and humility to learning.
It is strange, then, that there are scientists who, putting aside their acceptance of uncertainty in their “subject,” are true and unshakable believers in some social or political doctrine; stranger still that there are devout individuals who, knowing fully of their fall, believe nonetheless that their understanding has penetrated the will of their god. We have here a mystery that goes to the heart of education. How can we explain
the quest for certainty, which is so easily converted to an unseemly, unjustified, and often lethal dogmatism? This is the question John Dewey struggled with, as well as Bertrand Russell and scores of other modern education philosophers, including those who answer, “Teach critical thinking,” without having the faintest idea of how that might be done or giving any thought to the psychological sources of the opposition to it. It is the question Jacob Bronowski addressed in his monumental project, both a television series and a book, called The Ascent of Man. Although deeply religious, Bronowski forgoes, at the start, use of a religious metaphor and turns to Werner Heisenberg’s Principle of Uncertainty as a narrative to give meaning to the idea that all human knowledge is limited. The principle states that the act of discovering the velocity of an electron changes its position, and vice versa, so that we can never know both the position and velocity at the same time. Although referring to subatomic events, the principle is often used as a metaphor for the fundamental uncertainty of all human knowledge. But Bronowski prefers the phrase The Principle of Tolerance, because, he says, though there may be knowledge of which we can be sure, such knowledge is always confined within a certain tolerance—meaning, within some limited sphere. Yes, we know things, but much of it is wrong, and what replaces that may be wrong as well. And even that which is right, and seems to need no amendment, is limited in its scope and its applicability.
In the last program of his television series, Bronowski is seen standing in a pond on the grounds of the old Auschwitz concentration camp. Near-overwrought by what Auschwitz symbolizes, he resorts, as so many have done before him, to a religious metaphor. “Into this pond,” he says, “were flushed the ashes of some four million people. And that was not done by gas. It was done by arrogance. It was done by dogma.… When people believe that they have absolute knowledge … this is how they behave. This is what men do when they aspire to the knowledge of gods.”2
At the end, and after having reviewed the entire history of humanity’s struggle to discover knowledge, Bronowski offers a single lesson: We must cure ourselves of the itch for absolute knowledge. How to do this, is the question. A course in “critical thinking” is surely not an answer. An increase in the number of science courses is even less of an answer. The Germans once had the most rigorous science program in the world, and produced true-believing Nazis. The Russians, later, were almost a match, and produced true-believing Communists. The quest for certainty, for absolute authority, cannot be stayed by courses or curriculum afterthoughts. But suppose the purpose of school was to cure the itch for absolute knowledge. Suppose we took seriously the idea that we are dangerous to ourselves and others when we aspire to the knowledge of the gods. What then?
The American Experiment
All children enter school as question marks and leave as periods. It is an old saying, but still useful in thinking about how schooling is normally conducted. It is also applicable, in various forms, to other situations and institutions. For example, we might say all nations begin as question marks and end as exclamation points. This must have been the way some Florida patriots were thinking when they made it obligatory for schools to teach that America is superior to all other countries. Someone obviously feels that the American Creed is an exclamation point, a finished product, a settled issue. But this version of the meaning of America, assuming anyone could actually believe it, leads directly to the kind of blindness that Bronowski warns against. Even worse, it gives dogmatism a bad name.
Every school, save those ripped asunder by separatist ideology, tries to tell a story about America that will enable students to feel a sense of national pride. Students deserve that, and their parents expect it. The question is how to do this and yet avoid indifference, on the one hand, and a psychopathic nationalism, on the other.
As it happens, there is such a story available to us. It has the virtues of being largely true, of explaining our past, including our mistakes, of inviting participation in the present, of offering hope for the future. It is a story that does not require the belief that America is superior to all other countries, only that it is unique, youthful, admirable, and opened wide to unfulfilled humane possibilities. No student can ask more of his or her country. No school can offer more.
I propose, then, the story of America as an experiment, a perpetual and fascinating question mark. The story includes the experience of those who lived here before the European invasion, and of those Europeans who provided the invaders with both their troubles and their ideas. After all, every story has a prologue. But the story properly begins, as Abraham Lincoln saw it, with a series of stunning and dangerous questions. Is it possible to have a government of the people, by the people, and for the people? And who are the people, anyway? And how shall they proceed in governing themselves? And how shall we protect individuals from the power of the people? And why should we do all this in the first place?
Any reader of this book will know of these questions, and many more. It is not my intention to give a history lesson. My intention is to make the point that these questions are still unanswered and will always remain so. The American Constitution is not a catechism, but a hypothesis. It is less the law of the land than an expression of the lay of the land as it has been understood by various people at different times. Stephen Carter, a law professor at Yale University, in his book The Culture of Disbelief, argues with one widespread view of what is meant by the statement “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.” He claims that the purpose of this provision is to protect religion from the state, not the state from religion, as so many seem to think. On June 29, 1994, the New York Times carried on its first page an account of a Supreme Court decision on this very matter, in which, in effect, six judges disagreed with Carter and three agreed. Maybe next time the score will be different. Scores are important, but not as important as the process that produces them, a point of view that should surprise no one, since America was the first nation to be argued into existence. The Declaration of Independence is an argument, and was composed as such. Tom Paine’s The Rights of Man is an argument, and, in fact, one with serious flaws (not nearly as cogent an argument, I’ve always thought, as the argument—by Edmund Burke—it was intended to refute). All Supreme Court decisions are arguments, including some deeply embarrassing ones—for example, the Dred Scott decision, which calls to mind the Lincoln-Douglas debates, our best-known and possibly our most skillfully crafted arguments. Of course, I do not mean to suggest that all our arguments have been made by people of the quality of Jefferson, Paine, and Lincoln. The idea, from the beginning, was to allow everyone to participate in the arguments, provided they were not slaves, women, or excessively poor (although it is hard to imagine how anyone could have been poorer than Tom Paine). Through argument (or more precisely, the cessation of argument) the slaves were freed and admitted to participation, and their progeny are now among our most vigorous arguers; then women; then the poor; and more recently, students and homosexuals and even, God help us, radio talk-show hosts.
Our history allows us to claim that the basic question posed by the American experiment is: Can a nation be formed, maintained, and preserved on the principle of continuous argumentation? The emphasis is as much on “continuous” as on “argumentation.” We know what happens when argument ceases—blood happens, as in our Civil War, when we stopped arguing with one another; or in several other wars, when we stopped arguing with other people; or in a war or two when, perhaps, no argument was possible.
Of course, all the arguments have a theme that is made manifest in a series of questions: What is freedom? What are its limits? What is a human being? What are the obligations of citizenship? What is meant by democracy? And so on. Happily, Americans are neither the only nor the first people to argue these questions, which means we have found answers, and may continue to find them, in the analects of Confucius, the commandments of Moses, the dialogues of Plato, the aphorisms of Jesus, the instruction
s of the Koran, the speeches of Milton, the plays of Shakespeare, the essays of Voltaire, the prophecies of Hegel, the manifestos of Marx, the sermons of Martin Luther King, Jr., and any other source where such questions have been seriously addressed. But which ones are the right answers? We don’t know. There’s the rub, and the beauty and the value of the story. So we argue and experiment and complain, and grieve, and rejoice, and argue some more, without end. Which means that in this story we need conceal nothing from ourselves; no shame need endure forever; no accomplishment merits excessive pride. All is fluid and subject to change, to better arguments, to the results of future experiments.
This, it seems to me, is a fine and noble story to offer as a reason for schooling: to provide our youth with the knowledge and will to participate in the great experiment; to teach them how to argue, and to help them discover what questions are worth arguing about; and, of course, to make sure they know what happens when arguments cease. No one is excluded from the story. Every group has made good arguments, and bad ones. All points of view are admissible. The only thing we have to fear is that someone will insist on putting in an exclamation point when we are not yet finished. Like in Florida.
The Law of Diversity
America has always been a nation of nations, our schools always multicultural. But educators have not always been concerned to emphasize this fact, in part because of the belief that through schooling a common culture could be created; in part because immigrant cultures were thought to be inferior to Anglo-Saxon cultures. The second idea is in justifiable disgrace. The first is still functional, as reflected, for example, in the popularity of the idea of “cultural literacy,” as developed by E. D. Hirsch, Jr. He argues that the role of schooling is to create a common culture but that we cannot have one unless our citizens share a common core of knowledge—that is, facts, about history, literature, science, philosophy, wars, cities, popular arts. After consulting with appropriate experts in a variety of fields, Hirsch took the trouble to list thousands of names, places, and events that comprise the store of facts of a “culturally literate” person. He insists that most of these be given attention in the course of our children’s schooling. I have, in another place, criticized Hirsch’s project on several grounds, among them his indifference to providing meaning to schooling, and the clear impossibility in an “information age” of making such a list without being maddeningly arbitrary. For almost every item on Hirsch’s list, there are at least ten others that are not on it and whose importance can be argued with equal justification. In other words, Hirsch’s list is not a solution to the problem of how to create a common culture, but an unintentional expression of the problem itself. That is why in this book, which is also concerned with how to form a common culture, I have placed little emphasis on what facts can be known, much on what narratives can be believed. (In providing our children with a sense of meaning, we would do much better to take as a guide Schindler’s list than Hirsch’s list.)
