Education is a bewildering process. Is it a “leading out of” or “away from” ignorance, derived from Latin ex (“from,” “out of,” “away from”) plus ducere (“to lead”)? Or, is education a process of “going toward” knowledge? Both?
One of the logicians at the University of Aberdeen in the nineteenth century finished his career as a book-writing emeritus professor. And here’s where education becomes bewildering. In a collection of his writings called Practical Essays, Alexander Bain takes on a variety of topics that have to do with how we become what we become.*
Bain argues for an inborn inclination of interests. In practical terms, he says that if one person is intensely interested in, say, botany, another might have to force the interest at the expense of some other interest. In other words, your obsession with your hobby can’t be mine unless I were born into it like you. (You can’t teach an old dog new tricks) Bain argues for an innate likemindedness. If I were to attempt to become the expert that you are, I would have to sacrifice something of what I am “naturally.” I could, therefore, educate myself (or be educated), but it would come at considerable expense of time and effort and probably never rise to the level of expertise you have. That seems to make some sense, but the underlying premise might be amiss. Should I assume that you were born to be whatever you are? If not, then I have to ask whether or not you had to be led into you interests (or I into mine).
This might seem just so much speculating from a nineteenth-century mind who wrote his works before the rise of modern psychology and neuroscience. But we are still pondering the relationship between “nature” and “nurture” more than a century later. Ask yourself, “Why do I have the interests I have? Is it because my brain was wired to be what it is and that I am innately talented in certain, but not in other, ways? Am I the product of nurture? Is my experiential background the reason for my hobbies and interests, for my attitudes and emotions, and for my passions for certain kinds of information?”
Further, ask yourself about your education. In one of his essays, Bain addresses the relationship between learning from “book-reading” and “observation of the facts at first hand.” He writes, “From want of opportunity, or from disinclination, many persons have all their information on certain subjects cast in the bookish mould [sic.], and do not fully conceive the particular facts as these strike the mind in their own character.” How do you weigh your experience against your book-learning? What is the extent of your practical, out-in-the-field “education.” There does seem to be a difference in expertise between those who couple practical experience with their book-learning and those who rely on one at the exclusion of the other. That’s the reason, I suppose, for internships or apprenticeships of any kind at the end of a “formal” education.
Obviously and for various biological causes, we aren’t all similarly capable. You and I might, however, question whether as “old dogs” we can learn “new tricks.” If we can learn new tricks, we might then ask, “to what extent and at what cost to our practice of our old tricks?”
Bain could not have known much about neurons in his time and could not have known that we can make new connections among even old neurons, that the brain is capable of “growth” throughout our lives. You and I have till the end of our lives or the onset of some debilitating brain injury or disease to decide whether or not we are “trapped” in a singularity of talent or interest or whether or not we might put effort into (or even force ourselves into) mastering something new, something no one around us would expect us to master.
Is your future education from or toward? What if our word education had derived from a different Latin prefix, the preposition Ad (toward)? Would we then express a difference between our education and our "aducation"?
* Alexander Bain, LL.D., Practical Essays, London, 1884. Online at
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/17522/17522-h/17522-h.htm
One of the logicians at the University of Aberdeen in the nineteenth century finished his career as a book-writing emeritus professor. And here’s where education becomes bewildering. In a collection of his writings called Practical Essays, Alexander Bain takes on a variety of topics that have to do with how we become what we become.*
Bain argues for an inborn inclination of interests. In practical terms, he says that if one person is intensely interested in, say, botany, another might have to force the interest at the expense of some other interest. In other words, your obsession with your hobby can’t be mine unless I were born into it like you. (You can’t teach an old dog new tricks) Bain argues for an innate likemindedness. If I were to attempt to become the expert that you are, I would have to sacrifice something of what I am “naturally.” I could, therefore, educate myself (or be educated), but it would come at considerable expense of time and effort and probably never rise to the level of expertise you have. That seems to make some sense, but the underlying premise might be amiss. Should I assume that you were born to be whatever you are? If not, then I have to ask whether or not you had to be led into you interests (or I into mine).
This might seem just so much speculating from a nineteenth-century mind who wrote his works before the rise of modern psychology and neuroscience. But we are still pondering the relationship between “nature” and “nurture” more than a century later. Ask yourself, “Why do I have the interests I have? Is it because my brain was wired to be what it is and that I am innately talented in certain, but not in other, ways? Am I the product of nurture? Is my experiential background the reason for my hobbies and interests, for my attitudes and emotions, and for my passions for certain kinds of information?”
Further, ask yourself about your education. In one of his essays, Bain addresses the relationship between learning from “book-reading” and “observation of the facts at first hand.” He writes, “From want of opportunity, or from disinclination, many persons have all their information on certain subjects cast in the bookish mould [sic.], and do not fully conceive the particular facts as these strike the mind in their own character.” How do you weigh your experience against your book-learning? What is the extent of your practical, out-in-the-field “education.” There does seem to be a difference in expertise between those who couple practical experience with their book-learning and those who rely on one at the exclusion of the other. That’s the reason, I suppose, for internships or apprenticeships of any kind at the end of a “formal” education.
Obviously and for various biological causes, we aren’t all similarly capable. You and I might, however, question whether as “old dogs” we can learn “new tricks.” If we can learn new tricks, we might then ask, “to what extent and at what cost to our practice of our old tricks?”
Bain could not have known much about neurons in his time and could not have known that we can make new connections among even old neurons, that the brain is capable of “growth” throughout our lives. You and I have till the end of our lives or the onset of some debilitating brain injury or disease to decide whether or not we are “trapped” in a singularity of talent or interest or whether or not we might put effort into (or even force ourselves into) mastering something new, something no one around us would expect us to master.
Is your future education from or toward? What if our word education had derived from a different Latin prefix, the preposition Ad (toward)? Would we then express a difference between our education and our "aducation"?
* Alexander Bain, LL.D., Practical Essays, London, 1884. Online at
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/17522/17522-h/17522-h.htm
RSS Feed