Life in the Dock: Wonder over Relevance

Both Virginia Woolf and C.S. Lewis allegorically describe the disposition of a person in terms of whether they see themselves on the bench or in the dock. For Lewis, this is someone’s disposition as a creature in a created world, and for Woolf, this distinction bears out in our approach to art, specifically books. As citizens of the British Commonwealth, this would have been a ready word picture for them, as the bench is where the judge sits and the dock is the area reserved for the defendant. This device is helpful as we think about the meaning of relevance in education, as well.

 

Throughout much of my teaching career before being hired at Liberty Common, I attended countless meetings in which school leaders beseeched us to make the content “more” relevant to the children we were teaching. This seems intuitive–students will be more engaged and more diligent in completing work when the content interests them. But, there is a not-so-subtle difference between student interest and a pernicious kind of child-centered relevance.¹ The relevance they are describing puts the student on the bench and timeless curricula in the dock.

 

The shift to child judges happens in the ethos of our culture, homes, and schools. Most traditionally, ethos refers to our habitat–the place where our habits develop and the very air we breathe. It is not surprising that “having it my way” and “obeying my thirst,” as well as the ever-looming educational metrics of “postsecondary readiness” and “21st Century Skills,” have created a habitat in which Woolf’s courtroom has flipped. ²

 

In her essay How Should One Read a Book? Virginia Woolf says, “To read a book well, one should read it as if one were writing it. Begin not by sitting on the bench among the judges but by standing in the dock with the criminal. Be his fellow worker, become his accomplice.” The heart of “relevance,” as many in the educational arena use it, places students on the judge's bench and teachers as defense attorneys begging for mercy in the sentencing of The Odyssey or The Old Man and the Sea. Teachers await the judgement of those who deem their lessons as “worth my time,” or “not worth my time.” Worse yet is the judgement that comes as a result of the lesson or content having no relevance toward increasing a student’s future earnings. This leads to the death of wonder. 

 

Woolf goes on to address the struggle of books that feel irrelevant.

 

 

This humble approach, as the one in the dock, regards each course of study and topic as one worth a struggle. Stepping down from the judge’s bench–allowing the great works of the past, the metaphysical realities of mathematical concepts, and the laws of nature to find us wanting–is at the root of wonder. When we are tempted to approach educational endeavors as pragmatic pursuits toward the ends of increased wages and vain “interest” we upset the heart of one who could truly flourish. We often turn the educational journey on its head. The student is burdened with the responsibility to determine a “reality” that best suits their inclinations. They then enforce their sovereign will to reject anything that does not share their sympathies, while curricula must adjust to become “more” relevant.  To flourish and to wonder, however, is a journey to ever-sharpen our wits and affections to align with an external reality. It runs out that life in the dock is much more wondrous, and much less burdensome, than life on the bench. 

 

 

¹The term “child-centered learning” co-opts the obvious idea that we care deeply about children and we have even built schools just for them! It means, instead, that they “collaborate” with teachers to “co-create knowledge.” 

² Similarly to the previous note, “21st-century skills” and “postsecondary readiness,” seem like admirable goals but are primarily interested in career readiness and pragmatic outcomes. 

³ Eden Phillpotts, A Shadow Passes (London: Cecil Palmer & Hayward, 1918), 19.