I wanted to sit down and write about my experience of school. Though we had books at home and my mother became an infant teacher when I was about 12-years-old, my 11 years spent in England’s primary and secondary education systems were a complete waste of my time and the tax payers’ money. I learned almost nothing there and am sure that any English 16-year-old who lived centuries before me and never went to school knew much more about life and was more capable than me on leaving school. The only thing I remember learning was that Canada has nine provinces.
For some reason I just didn’t take to school. I attended lessons but didn’t attend to them. The classes were for the teachers, not for us. Very few of the pupils were any more interested in learning than I was and most of us just idled our way though the day and watched what the more disruptive boys were up to.
I was neither academically-minded nor hard-working and I don’t blame the school or my teachers for this. Yet had I been the parent of a child who actually did want to learn I would have been bloody annoyed that more of an effort wasn’t made to separate the wheat from the chaff and create a reasonable learning environment.
As I said, my intention was to try to analyse what went wrong between my school and me but then I read this review of Robert Weissberg’s Bad Students, not bad schools and the desire to write anything about education left me. The review articulated all my barely-formed thoughts with such clarity that I no longer felt the need to write anything about it.