Crunching the learner

A brave boy walks to school. His heart sinks at the thought of another day with tests, assessments, measurements. When did we decide that the most important reason to put children through the learning machine is their capacity to contribute to an aggregate indicator of national learning?
Many children find it hard to accept the regime around school, the dressing, the sitting still, the memorisation, the testing. Is it always irrational to stand up against this model of learning?
The testing regime has grown untiringly for decades. While students half a century ago had one comprehensive test at the end of their learning trajectory — the exam — children today are tested every week in most of their subjects, and regularly in all of them. This doesn’t begin in secondary school, but sets in already from Year 1, when they are five, six or seven years old. It is futile to complain about it; children and adults alike have come to accept the state of education, even when children experience the test load as overwhelming. Yes, it’s true that children can learn to cope with tests, and with the stress they experience in conjunction with them, but could it be that the testing regime in schools has grown beyond all reasonable limits in recent years?
One thing we know is that school systems — at least from the advent of neo-liberalism in the 1980s — have been increasingly geared toward measurability: where before children went to school to become good citizens, to become men, or, even, learn a trade — from the late 80s learning became increasingly operationalised and measurable. It wasn’t enough that children in time, over the course of, say, eight or ten years, learned how to function in society, but we now had to know exactly how much they learned. Learning had to be quantified, otherwise it might not exist. How could we know children had learned anything if we didn’t have a number for exactly how much they had learned, so that we could compare their learning to older children (when they had been at the same age) to see if children today learn more (or less) than children of past years, and if they learn more or less — if they are smarter, according to a certain view of wisdom — than children of other schools, other countries. Will our children win in the learning competition?
To comply with these demands, schools and teachers had to create learning trajectories that taught distinct learning modules, so that pupils could be tested on the extent to which they had acquired the content of the module. The results of these tests then became the ground for aggregate numbers on learning at the level of class, school, region, and country, organised by subjects and age cohorts. Some expressions of this increasingly numerical and statistical regime — founded on the utilitarian, means-end rationalism that to some is the only rationality worth its salt — are the PISA numbers: national “league” tables that compare aggregates of these numbers over time. These tables in turn supply politicians with arguments on how to shape and reform schools, curriculum, and learning regimes. They undergird the education of teachers in pedagogy seminars, and they become an increasingly monopolised reason behind the form curricula and teaching plans take in education systems.
It is in this statistical meat-grinder that children try to chart their own path. To comply with the quantitative regime, teachers are obliged to test pupils from a very young age at many points along the school year in every subject. The time and effort they put into satisfying the test regime is taken away from time teachers previously had to fulfil the other, and perhaps more important, task they used to have: to shape young people into good citizens that functioned well in society. Because, while knowledge of algebra is easy to measure, knowing how to establish and maintain good, friendly relations is more opaque and difficult to assign a simple number. The task teachers and other adults in schools have to provide children with a friendly and inclusive environment where they feel confident and important is no longer considered as important as being able to deliver a definitive number in response to the directive to assess learning.
Could it be that this is what our children find it so hard to accept? The demand on them, mediated by us, their parents, to submit to this regime that dehumanises them, turning them into calculable components in a gigantic statistical meat-cruncher, makes them feel small and irrelevant, and that they strongly oppose both their own subjection to it and the fact that the adults around them allow it to go on?
I wonder.






