Every so often, the past gives us a little nudge (or a clout). Sometimes it’s gentle…a transportive song (for me it was The Killers ‘All These Things That I Have Done), the smell of a new shower gel that was just like the one Body Shop used to make in the nineties or a Facebook memory that says, “On this day, fifteen years ago…” and shows you in a shirt you no longer own; a defined cheekbone…
Other times it’s more insistent: news from old friends, a job you almost took reappearing, or the uncanny feeling that your life has circled back to a familiar place, only this time the furniture has moved.
Our relationship with the past can be a complicated one. It’s not something we have so much as something we negotiate. Like any relationship, it can turn unhealthy if one side starts doing all the talking. There are times when nostalgia can become clingy – whispering that things were simpler, that you were better, happier, more certain. And there are other times when we treat the past like an estranged relative we’d rather not acknowledge: locked in a box marked “lessons learned,” kept safely out of sight.
Neither approach works for long. The past, inconveniently, refuses to stay where we put it.
This week, I heard that one of my old haunts had closed, permanently. A small bar where I used to work and socialise over twenty years ago. Back then it was the best of times: cheap beer (if you knew where to stand), loud music, and the easy companionship of people who had no idea where life might take them. It was the kind of place where ideas seemed bigger after midnight, where someone always had a theory about politics or God (normally me) or the perfect sandwich, and everyone else nodded like converts. I thought of Orwell in Down and Out in Paris and London, describing those drunken nights when the broke and the brilliant crowded into smoke-filled rooms, “putting the world to rights” with the unearned confidence of youth. They were penniless philosophers, dreamers in aprons, declaring revolutions between refills. For a few hours, everyone was sure of everything. Then morning came, and certainty drained away with the dregs of the bottle.
That’s what I remember most about those bar years: the illusion of endless time, and how intoxicating that was. You didn’t realise that the people sitting beside you — full of opinions, laughter, and half-plans — were already dissolving into memory.
The truth is, the past has a way of colouring how we see the present. If you leave it unchecked, it can start editing the story for you — turning every current challenge into a rerun of an old disappointment, or every opportunity into something that slipped through your fingers once before. But when you stay in conversation with it, not silencing it, not submitting to it: you start to see the past as a teacher, not a tyrant.
I once read somewhere, no idea where, but it was a philosopher reminding us that memory is not a library but a garden. You don’t just store things there; you cultivate, prune, replant. You decide what grows and what quietly composts into something useful. I’ve come to think that’s the healthiest way to manage our relationship with the past: treat it as something alive, something that needs tending.
When I look back at my own past — the countries, the schools, the people — I can see how each version of myself still lives somewhere inside me, occasionally shouting advice I didn’t ask for. The younger one says, “Be bold, take the risk.” The tired one says, “Be sensible, you’ve learned this lesson before.” And the present self stands in the middle, trying to referee the debate.
Maybe that’s the work of adulthood: learning to let the past speak without letting it drive. To take its wisdom without accepting its fear. To love who we were without wanting to move back in with them.
On a cellular level, we are literally not the same person we were back then. What gives us our identity, even our personage, are our memories. The philosopher John Locke argued that personal identity is founded on consciousness, not on the substance of the soul or body. What makes a person the same person over time, he said, is the memory of past experiences.
So, we’re stuck with it. Our past is the necessary scaffolding of our identity, the backstory of every decision. But like any relationship, it needs boundaries. We can listen, but we don’t have to obey. We can remember, but we don’t have to recreate.
The past, at its best, is a mentor who steps aside once the student can stand alone. At its worst, it’s a ghost who keeps rearranging the furniture.
The trick, I think, is to keep it close enough to converse with, but far enough to keep perspective. To let it remind you where you came from but not dictate where you go next. And to plan for the future – to see opportunities not turned pale by thought of past failures, but instead grasped by the ‘new’ you.
There was an international break in March. For those unaware, the ‘international break’ is normally a couple of weeks where football (soccer, but I’ll be calling it football today) that is played in England’s top tier (the Premier League) pauses so that players can play for their own countries in international friendlies or cup qualifiers. It’s also a break for fans like me whose team, like a toothache which leaves them in perpetual discomfort and concern with brief moments of relief, are not at their best.
I support Everton FC.
Don’t worry. I’m not about to angrily disgorge a thousand words about the state of Everton FC on my blog. In fairness, things are looking up: new stadium is looking fabulous, the financial fair play rule issues that have dogged us for so long seem to be resolving themselves and finally, it looks like we are signing players in the right positions, I mean, how many times have we been obstreperously banging on about full backs who can…wait…wait…Dillon…happy place…you promised – remember?
I did. Actually, this blog will combine Everton, football in general, the Doctrine of Divine Simplicity from Thomas Aquinas and the philosophical concept of ‘mereology’. These all sound like rather strange bedfellows, so I’ll explain as succinctly as I can how they came together in my brain and what I mean when I make the statement: I love Everton more than football.
It’s Spring Break, I’ve had a little more thinking time.
It all began because it’s the international break (as mentioned earlier) and I was recalling a conversation I’d had with a work colleague, in a bar in Tashkent, when we were chatting about the England international team. It was just before the European championships and he was asking me about my thoughts on such and such player and potential systems England could play as well as my view on other players from other European countries and honestly, I couldn’t really engage too deeply on this because I don’t really care about the England football team, I love Everton.
I am, what is classically referred to as a ‘club over country’ man.
Well, the discourse remained buoyant and frothy dark beer kept coming and I was probably very erudite and sophisticated and at one point during a feisty encounter, while the table received multiple index finger jabs, my friend said: ‘I think you love Everton more than football’.
Let me tell you something about frothy dark beer. Frothy dark beer drank too excess does not mix well with coherent, rational philosophical thought. Therefore, I agreed with him about the Everton thing and popped that comment into my long-term memory. I say ‘popped’, I probably fell over a couple of times through the frontal lobe on the way, leaned on a brick wall around the limbic lobe, threw up all over hypothalamus (which will stain, no doubt) before eventually arriving at the hippocampus wearing inexplicably only one shoe.
However, it got there and stuck around and was unexpectedly recalled after I’d engaged this week in another favoured past time, reading about the concepts of God. My preferred concept of God (because like ice cream, we all like different flavours) is a ‘Simple God’. Now, I want you to read my blog and enjoy my musings, so I am going to explain this as succinctly as possible. Before I do, let’s be clear, I am no theologian and certainly not an academic. I read this stuff because it’s excellent mental exercise and very interesting.
A simple God is popular with several medieval philosophers, but I’m taking directly from Thomas Aquinas. Aquinas was a fascinating chap and wrote extensively and exhaustively about God including his most famous work Summa Theologiae but ended giving it all up after an epiphany because, and he states: “All that I have written appears to be as so much straw after the things that have been revealed to me.”
I thought ‘epiphanies’ were meant to be good things, so there you go. Anyway, they made him a saint so I’m sure he’s not complaining.
Parked within his hefty tomes is the Doctrine of Divine Simplicity (DDS) which states that God is completely without parts or divisions—He is not made up of separate qualities or components like created things – He simply, is. Unlike humans, who have distinct attributes (e.g., we have wisdom, power, and goodness as separate qualities), in God, His wisdom, power, and goodness are all identical with His very being. He does not “have” existence; He is existence itself. This means God is unchangeable, eternal, and perfect, because any change or division would imply imperfection. I don’t know about you, but I need an example to help me with knotty concepts so an example of this is light. We know that a pure beam of white light may appear simple, but when passed through a prism, it reveals different colours. God, however, is not like the divided light; He remains fully unified, with no separation between His attributes. It’s a hugely problematic position to hold and has come under fire a great many times over the last 800 years or so, however, I really enjoy the argument’s structure its overall ontological deliberations and (unlike God’s necessity) I have a good grasp of it.
Reading through DDS during the international break dislodged the ‘You love Everton more than football’ comment from my hippocampus (never found the shoe) and given that I am on Spring Break (did I mention that I have a little more time) it occurred to me that I wonder if it makes sense to love the whole of a thing (Everton) more than an important part of it (football).
To give this a proper good going over, I am going to need another philosophical concept and one that I grasp even less than God’s necessity. It’s from the branch of philosophy related to formal logic and it’s the one that the mathematicians love and the one I’m most likely to swerve at parties. If you’ve ever tried your hand at the metaphysics of logic, then you have my respect – these guys are a league of their own. However, I try to be sociable and know I will always learn something, so I grab a handful of kettle chips (but no dark frothy beer…especially with the logicians) and try and get involved.
The branch of logic I require is called mereology:
Mereology is the philosophical study of part-whole relationships, exploring how entities are composed, how they interact, and what it means for something to be a part of something else. Mereology focuses on concrete objects, such as a wheel being part of a car or a brick being part of a house, as well as abstracta, like a melody being part of a symphony or a chapter being part of a novel.
A key topic in mereology is the push-pull between what’s termed constituent ontology and a non-constituent ontology. Ontology is the branch of metaphysics that studies the nature of being, existence, and reality and a constituent ontology examines whether objects are fundamentally composed of more basic constituents or if wholes exist independently (non-constituent ontology). For example, as shown above, constituent ontologies, define entities based on their decomposable parts (e.g., “a car consists of an engine, wheels, and a chassis”). A non-constituent ontology might instead classify a car based on its function (e.g., “a car is used for transportation and is related to roads and traffic laws”).
Arguments about the coherence of DDS have been played out between these two competing ontologies with a far greater detail, sophistication and application then what’s about to happen here! I’m in it for the mental workout.
On first blush, it makes perfect sense to say that the F.C. part of Everton FC is pretty intrinsic. I would certainly agree that Everton FC would not exist physically without a stadium, or ticket sales, or staff and players or a whole myriad of physical constituent parts. Everton is contingent upon its physical parts – like a car is contingent upon its physical parts. What’s interesting here is that stadiums, tickets and persons who play football are all concrete that is to say they all exist in our physical world or to put it how philosophers would frame it: they are temporally located and extend through space, like you, right now, reading this, in whatever place you’re at, whatever time you’re in.
However, ‘Everton’ and ‘Football’ are not physical; they are not concrete; they are in of themselves abstract. I can go to Goodison Park (at least till June!), buy scarves with the Everton crest. As well, I can point at 22 persons kicking a ball for ninety minutes in adherence to the rules of football – but I cannot touch ‘Everton’ or ‘Football’. They are both concepts – they are both abstract. So the concept of Everton FC could equally be realised as having the following parts: A community of persons, either in that area of Liverpool or anywhere in the world with a shared love of the values of Everton. Seen as parts, these values have (in my view) virtuous properties for example: charity work, community projects and team values such as togetherness, perseverance, loyalty and honour. The ‘Football Club’ (FC) part is a sporting pastime that could equally be any other sporting pastime related to the geographical location on ‘Everton’ or intrinsic value parts related to ‘Everton’. Therefore, the parts of Everton: community, history; geography; tradition; spirit are equal in relation to the part of ‘football’ (a sport that is played by a set of rules and outcomes) giving us Everton FC.
Everton’s function is as a club that plays football, but it also serves as a community focus, charitable exercise, embodiment of values that could be considered virtuous (teamwork, perseverance, fair play, community focused) a function that provides a continuous tradition that links these values (parts) across decades of history.
Furthermore, by applying a non-constituent ontology to the concept of Everton FC as a whole and by not placing any kind of hierarchal ‘part-whole’ structure onto ‘Everton’ and ‘Football Club’ I can talk of Everton FC’s parts as being relational or associative to its whole. Football Club is a part of Everton but only in relation to the club not as a constituent part (as Everton is also a geographical place with values). Everton is in equal relation to its other parts: community, spirit, charity etc. as it is to ‘football’
So, when I consider the parts of Everton FC as relational and I think about the part of ‘football’ as well as its other parts – there’s sense in saying that in relation, the parts of the club that are identified as ‘Everton’ as: honour; community; charity; perseverance; tradition are in of themselves more virtuous than ‘football’ and are more deserving of my love than a game of football.
So, I can love Everton more than football.
That said, if they sign a good ‘right back’ next season along with a couple of wingers who could provide decent service to a number nine…I could easily be swayed.
I’ve been putting this off for some time now, primarily because it’s ‘high calorie’ self-indulgent. However, it occurs to me that if I don’t openly ruminate on this topic, it will consume me whole (or at the very least leave me perennially grumpy). So, if you’re happy to join me on this groan fest, then let’s sketch some chalk symbols on the floor and “EXORCISE THE DEMON”.
*Adjusts stuck on name tag and stands up* *clears throat*
“I’m middle-aged now”.
I live in a tree of blessings. I have a loving family and am loved. I have friends I cherish deeply and (currently) all my faculties are obedient to my will. However, this term’s blog is about cleansing an existential blemish, vis-à-vis: this doom-themed season of the boxset of my life that I’ve been re-running recently. It’s linked to the shorter distance (mathematically speaking) between my ultimate demise and the time I could stay out till 5am. It’s not exactly an existential crisis, more an existential ‘put the coat in the washing machine at the wrong heat setting’ issue. But I still need to move on and do it in a way that I can air Season Six and simply blame the writers for the dark nature of the previous episodes and get on with really trying to like the current Top 10 or at the very least staying out till after 9.30pm. Therefore, I am hopping on the ‘cherry-picker’ and maneuvering away from the tree of blessings and into the ‘fart-hole of pity’ just long enough to make a lick of sense of this feeling of the inevitability of tragedy. Come with me, when has a ‘fart-hole of pity’ not been swinging!
The ultimate problem is a sense that, after nearly half century on the globe, the world is ultimately a dark place. I don’t mean eschatologically as in climate change (though, that is depressing) or politically (imminent arrival of power to right wing leaders across the 49% of the global population who will vote in their country’s elections this year) or the unending, unyielding contrived culture wars that threatens to topple other people’s lateness as the most irritating thing I can do nothing about.
Just that, we – as humans – are fundamentally dark. Or at the very least, our sense making of the world can be shaded. I mean, it’s true to say that suffering is inked into our skin. And fine, I admit it, I have been reading a little Schopenhauer of late…sorry.
In case you’ve never met him, here’s his picture:
Enthused
Arthur Schopenhauer was a German philosopher known for his pessimistic outlook on life and his emphasis on the concept of the will. I won’t delve too much into this, suffice to say that Schopenhauer posited that the will is the fundamental aspect of human existence and drives all human actions and desires. He saw the will as an irrational and blind force, underlying both individual actions and the workings of the universe and with pessimism and suffering at the heart of this existence. Schopenhauer believed that life is inherently filled with suffering and that human desires and pursuits ultimately lead to dissatisfaction. He viewed existence as characterized by an endless cycle of striving, suffering, and fleeting moments of pleasure. He’s the mayor of ‘Fart-Hole of Pity.’
However, one can’t help but feel an alignment with such a view in middle-age. And he’s not alone of course. Religion, particularly the Christians, place the inherent failures of humans as a necessary part of our existence. Their way out of perpetual misery is salvation through a prophet who…guess what: Suffered. Other religions assign a strict adherence to rules and roles in life as a way of finding meaning in all this suffering and rage. What is there, however, for those of us who found the pews too uncomfortable and songs lacking a little edge?
We are left with simply ignoring it – which (and let’s not under play this hand) is not without its advantages. Do you sometimes feel that life is an eternal struggle which ultimately ends in failure? Yes, I did like ‘Eternal Flame’ by The Bangles and would love another Cornetto – thanks. We could all be ‘Alexas’ – innocuously misinterpreting our misanthropic moaners by offering alternatives:
“Can we ever get out of this head space of suffering”?
“Okay, here’s ‘We gotta get out of this place’ by The Animals”.
I need to confess. We are only visiting ‘Fart-Hole’ today. I have already been here. And I found a way out so that visiting is an indulgence rather than a planned retirement. And my panacea for middle-aged maudlin of a ‘all life is suffering’ nature came from another existentialist and one whom I never touched upon before…Albert Camus and more specially his book: The Myth of Sisyphus.
I was aware of Sisyphus. I knew he was the chap from Greek Mythology who pissed off the gods and as punishment for his actions, when Sisyphus died, was condemned to Tartarus, the deepest part of the Greek underworld. His penalty was to roll a massive boulder uphill, only for it to roll back down every time he neared the top, forcing him to repeat the task for eternity.
Not unlike teaching.
I jest, of course, but actually: no – this was what nudged me into the direction of Camus. I was comparing teaching to Sisyphus to a poor colleague who was simply trying to mark her work. I was bemoaning (probably) how some saw teaching and learning as a linear experience for all involved with neat assessments at the end. As any teacher will tell you, learning is not linear (apart for a lucky few). The truth is that learning is a colossal effort, and its dissemination to young minds is the boulder to be toiled on the mountain in Hades. With each roll, that rock of learning is taught over and over and over, by turn and turn again; imparted in several different, colorful, targeted, formative inquiry-based differentiated ways till you get finally get that boulder to the top of the hill…and still…the children don’t get it. So, as you watch the boulder roll right back down the hill again, you stiffen your sinews, put your back against the stone and roll it back up to the peak.
I mused on this at home and came across Albert’s book ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’. So, what’s Camus’s view?
The main idea of Albert Camus’ “The Myth of Sisyphus” revolves around the concept of the absurdity of life, which at times, I am sure, we can all agree on. Camus argues that life is inherently meaningless (a la Arthur) and absurd, yet humans must confront this absurdity and find meaning and fulfillment in the face of it. Therefore, view Sisyphus as a metaphor for the human condition: despite the seemingly futile nature of his task, Sisyphus finds purpose and meaning in his struggle. Camus suggests that embracing the absurdity of life allows individuals to find freedom and authenticity.
What I found not only as a comfort but also a practical fix to when the wheels start coming off was that the cyclical nature of the absurdity of life cannot be ignored and must at times be faced – but be faced with what it is not what others can contrive it to be. There is an authenticity in shouldering suffering and a freedom in choosing to push back again. But that only comes when you choose the seriousness of a thing, which whilst not always in your power given any Herculean labour on any given day: you can at least defang its bite: filing through to its absurdity and meaninglessness.
I may from time to time miss my indestructible youth; my realization that the chap in the mirror bears no resemblance to the namesake in my head and be worried about what the next eight months may bring geo-politically. However, ask anyone old enough to remember or care…there’s nothing new. Just all things repeating, again. And that’s absurd. But we shoulder the suffering, freely and with character. And we get to make our meaning.
In the city we currently call home, the main language appears to be Russian. The ‘second’ language is Uzbek – but only with the confines of its capital, Tashkent. I am reliably informed that the more we explore Uzbekistan, the more we will hear its own language. This is the fourth foreigncountry I have lived in and my first since France (over 25 years ago) where English is not the main international language. We were given fair warning that this would be the case and decided as a family to embrace this challenge and put various language apps and some good old-fashioned confidence and bravado to good use.
Five months in and we have a good grasp of some basic phrases, numbers and can read the letters phonetically. It’s not bad given the overstuffed confection box of new experiences we’ve had to sample and familiarize ourselves with, including navigating the weekly grocery shop. We have started using the local markets to buy the bulk of our groceries – if for not for any other reason than it is certainly cheaper. But we have found it has, to some degree, accelerated our learning of the Russian language. There are a couple of stalls where I am now recognized with a degree of familiarity:
“As-salamu alaykum” shouts the dairy guy as he sees me coming to buy our weekly 8 liters of milk ( we really should simply invest in a cow) – his hand warmly outstretched.
Walaykum-asalma” I reply.
Uzbekistan being 90% Muslim means you mostly hear the Arabic greeting – and the locals are always surprised to hear me giving the correct Arabic response!
I got round to learning the Russian numbers and alphabet and, along with some stock phrases and most often used nouns, he and I can converse very simply on what is required on that day.
Most folks we interact with have as little working English as we do Russian. However, there’s a cashier in our local supermarket ‘Korzinka’ who is always pleased to see me so she can use some of her English (and I my Russian). I popped in yesterday and store was uncharacteristically busy. I searched on my Google Translator for the phrase ‘it is busy today’ but then remembered that I am some ways off a reciprocal conversation – and even if I managed to say the sentence correctly – there could be no back and forth. And that’s when I realized how much I miss the simple exchange between strangers.
All my life I have taken for granted, as an English speaker, the ability to converse with those around me – but not just converse but convey light and shade – depth and width depending on the nature of the interaction. This ability, this often-daily connection has been temporarily suspended…and I miss it.
There are many situations where we find ourselves conversing with someone new. Maybe it is purposeful, with utility at its core; there’s something I need from this new person and likewise, a service they may be paid to give. Then there’s situations where a shared experience is heightened by turning to a fellow patron and exchanging views, emotions, reactions, and insights. When you think about it – communicating with strangers is something that happens so frequently, fluidly, fleetingly and, at times, fruitfully – that its position within the framework of our human experience is less functional and more proprietorial.
A stranger is another person with whom we are not familiar. And there are no guarantees that the time of interaction with a stranger will necessarily inform greater familiarity. As I have stated, interactions with strangers vary from the purposeful to the accidental – from the obligatory to the exploratory. What I miss, funnily enough, is the obligatory. Maybe it’s my Englishness…that’s not a rabbit hole I plan to explore here! I think that for the most part, we all recognize and agree with Aristotle that we should pursue a ‘good’ life and part of that goal is an obligation to a degree of civility and adherence to a ‘moral code’. Therefore, what troubled me most, given my newfound challenging situation? Is it that I could be perceived as rude? I mean, there aren’t a great many Caucasian men here in Tashkent, so I would assume most folks would initially surmise my foreign status – and I certainly know the greetings.
No, my melancholic reflection was not ushered in by some worry of being rude.
More plausibly it could be that I always have something to say! Now, there’s some truth to that! I am not going to sit here typing away and pretend that my personality is not underpinned by a social confidence that enjoys watching myself navigate conversations. But again, that’s not what is at the core of the malaise. It is simply because I am not fulfilling that obligation to converse and connect. Every interaction is like a simple melody – it has a beginning, a middle and an end. I have the beginning, it’s typed into my Google Translate and I often practice how to say it so that it’s not too ‘Franglaise’ (or should I say…Englussian…?), but there is the middle part that will come…the listener ready for the a reciprocal comment in Russian…and it will not come. I am in the current sticking point in this stage of my learning where I feel the scald of inability to completely fulfill my obligation.
I am confident, as with my French, that I will reach a degree of simple conversational Russian if we stay in Tashkent long enough. What I will remember, however, is that some obligations should not be seen as being needfully and dutifully filled with dispassionate execution – maybe, more than I realize, some obligations should be coupled with warmth. Why? Because some obligations pin my humanity, badge my morality and can simply make my day.
Those of us in teaching have all experienced that exhausting final term at school. Behavioral problems from the usual suspects, every teacher running on empty but pushing ourselves and our charges over the line with as little drama as possible. We try to maintain discipline with increasingly wearied and fatigued cohorts of children (whose parents also hanker for the last day of school) as we continue to operate in the long shadow of Covid. But for certain there must be a discussion on how to address the behaviour problems encountered throughout the school over those final four months. In the concluding full staff meeting before planes are boarded, bars propped up or beds receive the dead weight of teacher ‘husks’ – the plan to address issues since January are disseminated and lo and behold out trots – ‘it’s time to go back to basics.
There’s a contrary itch in an idiom that states that to achieve progression we must first achieve regression – but I understand the mis en scene. As an appeal to the head – it’s about simplifying a complex operation and re-establishing how it works at its most basic level, and it’s easy to see how problems arise. How about this as an analogy: Over a period of time, an operating system that worked well with a basic structure whereby the main cogs ran simply and operated their primary functions without fault has incorporated into it more complex machinations. The belief being that the convoluted ways of working would either improve on the basic fulcrum of the system, meet new demands on the system or favorably tweak some issues. So far so good. Then, over more time these more convoluted moving parts start to take on the role as the new base system of operations and their more multifarious and intricate ways of working deemed ready to be front loaded yet further with systems thus causing more problems in of themselves instead of positively performing their primary function. The result is that folks look at the assembled muddle and say ‘Hey, remember when it worked really well because it was simple, and it did those simple things well…let’s just do that again!’
The biggest issue with my mechanical analogy is that whilst we could imagine a machine which at its most basic form worked seamlessly – the same cannot be said of a human constructed values-based organization. For when a school talks about going back to basics, for example requiring pupils to line up silently before they enter the classroom, you have to ask yourself: Are we doing this because lining up is a simpler more basic way of managing a classroom before learning? Or are we doing it because returning to some previous more basic way of working is just good in of itself?
My assumptions about ‘back to basics’ is twofold:
It implies that more complex or convoluted ways of working are to blame for errors given the nature of complexity.
That going ‘back to basics’ is of itself a virtuous action – but that this can be construed as a token phrase rather than really exploring values and individual well-being.
Let’s examine these two points:
I will take ‘lining up in silence outside the classroom before the lesson’ as an example of ‘back to basics best practice’. Let’s ignore that this strategy suits secondary school (where pupils move about from class to class) more than it would say an Elementary homeroom teacher. My problems are not situated there. Why is lining up in silence outside the classroom considered a fulcrum ‘basic’? Is it because it works simply, or is it because it feels good?
Let’s consider the issue that newer, or more convoluted ways of working are to blame (instead of keeping things simple) for a breakdown in school discipline before class begins. Maybe the newer system that was in place was that pupils could enter the classroom but had to get started on a task that had been set for them. In this instance, teachers would plan for an activity as students walked in that could be accessed independently that either would prepare for the main learning ahead or put them in a good cognitive mindset. This is sometimes referred to as ‘bell work’. Certainly, a more convoluted approach to the start of class discipline than lining up outside silently and awaiting the teacher’s permission to enter. However, the argument is that the new approach is more appropriate to promoting learning, though I don’t want to get bogged down by this. Let’s just state that ‘bell work’ is a more convoluted and load heavy approach than lining up outside silently.
Maybe there had been a problem with the ‘bell work’ approach because a teacher had gone from say a GCSE history class with 16-year old’s straight to a Year 7 class with eleven years old’s and they didn’t have time to prepare a suitably engaging activity for them to dive in to. Possibly, the previous period of teaching had been fraught, and the teacher needed a five-minute breather and lining the pupils outside gives them the space to reset? Both perfectly rational reasons to have children line up outside.
However, that the more convoluted, but arguably more learning focused start to the class could at times be difficult to achieve, does not necessarily mean that it in itself is at fault for a breakdown in class discipline. Its more complex nature compared to simply lining them up does not necessarily make it at fault. Maybe the convoluted ‘bell work’ approach works, but meaningful help needs to be offered on supporting that teacher with different strategies when switching between grades. In this operating system (discipline and order before class) ‘bell work’ is a great way to engage children in being ready to learn – there’s nothing wrong with it. Therefore, to that end, there’s no need for a return to basics – we just need to take more time and give more care to embed a newer way of working because it’s not 1955 anymore and research has moved us on. Oops! Did you see what I did there? I threw in a little ‘values’ wink. Am I suggesting that when we talk about going ‘back to basics’ we are talking about a more ‘simpler time’ rather than a simpler way of working? There are ways of working throughout history that still work today…but sometimes ‘back to basics’ isn’t an appeal to review the machinations of a way of operating to ensure the foundations are sound – for at its worst, it’s a values laden treat: churned creamily with simplicity, dipped in sumptuous good old fashioned values and sprinkled with straight talking – no nonsense sparkles. Mmmmmm…so comforting.
As it happens there is, I think, an argument that going back to basics is in of itself a virtuous action. I make a play on how it can be used to give a false sweet sense of comfort that things will improve irrespective of the context, but for me that is where the issue is. If you were to say to a group of beleaguered or confused people that the plan was to go back to basics – there may well be a sense of relief and a hope for a more direct path. That said, it’s virtue is not located in its promise for a simpler time (that may have never really existed, except for false memories or dominant discourses) – it is its link to asceticism. That is its virtue.
Asceticism, in its strict religious meaning, is stark self-discipline. A rejection of any indulgences; abstention from practices that may cause erring or swerving the most pious path. If I can dilute this harsh definition – I think it would be fair to say that most religions hold it to be true that living a simpler life, a life less over burdened by technology or one that shrugs off over complicated or convoluted ways of thinking or acting , as a ‘good’ life. And intuitively we feel it to be so – think of detoxifying, de-cluttering, breaks from social media…these are viewed as important if not necessary ways of recentering and recalibrating what is important and what works. So much like our machine analogy at the top – seen through the lens of a virtuous action; going back to basics from a personal almost ‘spiritual’ way will inevitably offer some insight into why a way of being or acting is causing consternation or a lack of productivity. And there is benefit in that. There is benefit in going to back to basics both in personal reflection and in reviewing an operating system that may be at fault.
So what’s the problem?
Therefore, the problem arises when going ‘back to basics’ is a token gesture. This idiom should not be free from constructive criticism. When someone tells you they are taking something ‘back to basics’ are they offering a plan to reflect and review on a way a thing functions? A chance to re-establish what we know works and really try and embed newer systems to work well and not reject them because complex necessarily equals complications. Are they offering the space and time for an individual to re-calibrate and re-assess what is ‘good’ for them? Giving folks time to mentally recharge. Or are they simply hoping you’ll hear in your mind the faint lilting chimes of the ice cream truck – wistfully recalling how you once could leave your doors unlocked at night, no one had a mobile phone that now ruins everything and a tenner could buy you a movie ticket, fish and chips on the way home and still have change for a mortgage. And in your reverie, you agree to whatever is suggested because ‘back to basics’ feels like it can only be a good thing, right? Don’t be afraid to challenge this idiom when it’s presented to you whether it be an appeal to the heart or the head – but always accept a scoop of ice cream.
StoatAubergine 