“Original ideas that have value.”

Firstly, I think that this guy is absolutely awesome. Aside from his brilliant, cogent points about education, the state of the world, and life in general, his delivery is brilliant, and honestly, all heavy subjects aside, this is good, solid, stand up comedy.  His jokes are great, and I love his delivery.  But on to the heavy stuff. 

“If you think about it, the whole system of public education around the world is a protracted process of University entrance. And the consequence is that many highly talented, brilliant, creative people think they're not. Because the thing they were good at at school wasn't valued, or was actually stigmatized.”

Coming from an artistic and somewhat oddball family, I think that precise feeling, as Sir Ken so succinctly puts it, is really what has driven me, in one way or another, to struggle so mightily with various educational endeavors throughout my life. Both of my parents are creative, artsy people, both manage to survive without really going fully onto the grid, and it was long after I was well ensconced in the public education system before I realized that I was already one of the oddball kids in class, and that I was going to stay that way. Not because of money, social class, or some childish notion like popularity or clique or status. I didn't fit in with most of the other kids because I thought about everything I saw in quite a different way.

It probably didn't help my social standing that I was fairly vocal about all of the weirdness that I saw, or that I tended to do things that made people laugh and pay attention to me, whether intentional or not. I would imitate funny things I saw, in class, or from movies or TV, and I found that the more I could make people laugh, the less I would be shunned or picked on for being "the weird kid." It turned out to be a useful survival tactic, because in the trenches of elementary and high school, "weird kids" needed all the help they could get. If you didn't fit in, the pack descended on you, mercilessly.  But if you made them laugh, you either de-fanged their attacks, or made them your friends. Strictly speaking, it might not have earned me the greatest social standing a young person could hope for, but it got me by, and it reduced the beatings, at least a bit.

I don't delve into this to garner a bunch of pity or attention for trials and tribulations through my school years. Rather, I bring this up because being creative, funny, and sharp-witted worked wonders with the children my age, but sadly, with all but a few rare teachers, it was a lost cause in the fight toward changing how the actual "school" part of school happened for me. Whatever the subject, the approach was all the same, largely. Generally, it went something like this: "Sit, and drill this exercise endlessly, the way we tell you to, and even if it makes no sense, eventually it will be beaten into your head. I don't care if it makes no sense, or if you hate it, or if you're lost. Do the worksheets.  Do them all.  Do them on time.  Do it over and over and over, no matter how miserable you are.  Do it enough, and you will understand.  This is your education."

One piece of one subject really stands out. Like so many, I was hopeless with certain parts of my math classes, and fought tooth and nail not to have to do it, hated every assignment, and just suffered in general. It started in grade school, and continued for many years.  For whatever reason, subtraction was the bug. I was good with multiplication, added like a champ, even caught on to that tricky bugger division when we got there, but certain pieces of subtraction always tripped me up. Stupid mistakes ground themselves into my consciousness, and once firmly entrenched there, I found myself tripping over the same problems over and over. The conversations still ring in my head.

"Nathan is such a bright boy, I don't know why his arithmetic grade is suffering," My teacher would tell my parents.

"We work with him on his homework every night. Is there another way for us to help him? Is there some approach that might work better?" I imagine my mother sitting in a chair made for an 8 year-olds butt, at a parent teacher conference in a dimly lit third grade classroom, with cut-outs of apples and pumpkins on the walls. In the movie version, I think she'd probably be wringing a handkerchief in her hands, but I doubt that really happened. Either way, the teacher's response was, without doubt, something like this:

"I've tried everything. He just needs to practice more. Here, give him this worksheet of fifty extra problems. Make sure he does them over the weekend."

Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. I realized the injustice and horrendous missed chance about 15 years later, when I was working as a waiter. I'd spent a lifetime, or at least a good part of one, silently fumbling over simple subtraction when it would come up in day-to-day situations, and it always nagged at me, a silly, mis-learned splinter in my brain, always bringing up that formative frustration I'd have, feeling stupid, and inadequate, and hopelessly at sea, floundering in the land of C's, when I was continually reminded, with no shortage of guilt and shame, "You're a gifted boy. There's no reason you should get anything less than an A."

And then I got a job as a waiter, and some co-worker, who obviously had a much cooler math teacher than I did, looked at me struggling with the change I needed to make for a table.  I believe she said something like:

"What are you, retarded? You add up, and make the change. What's the tab? $37.50? Count up, fifty cents makes thirty eight, two bucks makes forty, ten bucks makes fifty. Twelve fifty. What are, stupid or something, I learned that in like third grade. Now go bus table twenty-two, or Alex is liable to tear you a new asshole."

If only someone had taught me to subtract in the other direction, instead of all that bullshit of borrowing and neat little rows and columns, I could have been spared such chastisement in my early working years, and perhaps not felt so dumb in school. But at the time, you learned the way they told you to learn, or you didn't learn at all.

I think Sir Ken Robinson is right. It all has to change.