The matrix, children and freedom
This essay is intended for publication in Norway, and may not be fully adapted to an international context. Then again, depressingly, it probably is.

In the dystopian masterpiece The Matrix (1999), the main protagonist Neo gets access to a truly amazing piece of learning technology. By ramming a rather menacing looking spike into his neck, his fellow crewmembers on the hover ship Nebuchadnezzar can upload knowledge directly into his brain. He excitedly starts binging whatever is available on the ship, for hours. Impressed by his stamina, the crew believes he might be “The Chosen One” — a messiah-like figure, prophecised to rescue humanity from doom.
I’ll ignore the learning theory that seems to operate here, and ask a simple question: What if Neo were an avowed pacifist, thus refusing any knowledge of violence to be injected into his skull? This would surely worry his crewmates, who know that Neo will have to face many threats within The Matrix. And at this point they have already invested a lot in him. On the other hand, the crew can’t know what kind of skills he will need (and — spoiler — he does eventually gain abilities that seem wholly unconnected to his time with the learning machine).
The crew of the Nebuchadnezzar could deal with their predicament in any number of ways, but among the most stupid and unethical, surely, would be the option of forcefully injecting Neo with knowledge and competence he doesn’t want. Not just because it would violate Neo’s basic human integrity, but because it would also damage the trust and cooperation they depend on to complete their mission.
Indeed, Neo could become their enemy.
I sometimes present my students with a horrible cliché. I tell them that to become proficient learners they should aspire to be like children. “Grab whatever understanding your have, test it and see what happens”, I say. “Whenever you fail, you’ve probably learned something useful, and so you should try again”. Reaching a crescendo, I urge them to “be free of prejudice, be honest and fearless once you’ve decided on a course of action, and don’t give a shit about what others may think and feel about it”. And being a teacher, here’s what I won’t — can’t — really say, as it flies in the face of what school is: “Most of all, you should embrace your obsessions, because it’s those that will carry you through adversity and failure, and make you grow”. Of course, it’s all rather futile. They can’t control themselves that way. Nor can I control what they become obsessed with. I can’t make my three-year-old wish to read, though there is no law of nature I know of that would forbids it. Perhaps in the future, with the right knowledge, all children may wish to learn how to read.
The idea of force-feeding Neo with violent capacities seems positively benign in comparison. Enslaving a mind comes close to being the ultimate evil. If free will is to mean anything at all (and I count myself among those who don’t think it does), it must be the freedom to have our own wishes, goals and aspirations. Attempts to control the will of children is called manipulation or brain washing, while ignoring it is often called parenting or schooling. Consistently working towards the realization of childrens wants is widely considered a form of child abuse, making them ill-prepared for a reality where their wishes count for nothing. Good parents say “no” and make demands, so that their children learn to do what they should — even when they don’t want to. We also happen to live in a world where good parents are right; most children spend a considerable part of their childhoods bored with activities they did not choose.
Like pacifist Neo, children must be put through school because the skills and knowledge taught there are important (though unlike Neo, kids won’t need the knowledge any time soon, and often don’t acquire it at all). Some of what children learn on their own, for instance by playing computer games, is considered unimportant. So we have two types of knowledge: the important and the unimportant. However, there is no a priori way to distinguish the two, so the task of identifying and compiling the former tends to be entrusted to some committee of experts.
Reading might be the prime example of “important knowledge”. People who cannot read in a culture as saturated by symbols as our own will probably have a difficult life. Unaided, they cannot understand a price tag, read the name of a bus stop, read letters or fill out forms. I certainly don’t think such a life would be without its advantages (for one it forces some social interaction), however it would also be a lot more cumbersome than it needs to be, and perhaps impose a burden on relatives and friends. But precisely because reading is so important in our culture, we should expect everyone to be highly motivated to learn how to do it. Indeed, our culture is an imperfect (but therefore ethical) technology to make children want to read.
So the importance of reading is not an argument in favor of compulsory reading instruction. A more reasonable justification is that basic literacy will be taken for granted in middle school, and keeping up with the curriculum will be impossible without reading skills. However, whatever students are expected to learn in middle school, it is, surely, not as important as reading. And so it goes, all the way up to universities; the knowledge is “important” because it allows the procurement of less important knowledge in the future. Not less important for society, of course, but ever more unimportant as a means to live a good life and be a good citizen (and whether the primary purpose of schools is to produce scientists, citizens or just happy people seems to be an unsettled matter).
Economists have a useful term, opportunity cost, referring to the fact that whenever we invest our money — or our time, or attention — somewhere, we are giving up the opportunity to do something better with those same resources. So if I invest 10 000 dollars on a TV, my opportunity cost is the vacation, new kitchen or anything else that might have proved more valuable to me. And one hour spent editing this article is one hour not spent cleaning the house (which is sorely needed, according to my wife). Here’s a seriously important question: What is the opportunity cost of making children invest their time and attention into the subjects of the Common Core?
It’s impossible to give a concrete answer to this question, because children left to their own devices may do any number of things. But for the most part, they will spend less time engaged in activities they find uninteresting. And that’s important. When pursuing a subject out of individual interest, the human mind shifts into a different gear. When truly interested, we become more critical, more attentive, and more likely to recall what we learn. We can handle failure, and work more efficiently. It’s as if many of the skills that teachers hope to instil in their students (often by way of futile micromanagement and a stream of interventions) come naturally when the subject is right.
My humble suggestion is that the alternative cost of forcing subjects on unwilling children is staggering, that the very concept of “unimportant knowledge” is incoherent, and the idea that a committee is able to prophecise what kind of knowledge will be needed by every single human in the country in a few decades is plain crazy.
As an epilogue, I want to preempt three objections:
1: “Do you have anything constructive to say, or is it all just criticism?”
I don’t have a clue how to solve any of this, and I hope readers will consider my lack of constructive proposals as a recognition that these are truly difficult problems. But I remember Mason Hartman answering this question on some podcast, saying that it’s all to do with the universities (ad libbing here, sorry Mason). I agree. As long as higher ed is seen as the desired end point of the education system, it becomes polluted by a very reductive view of good lives and good citizens. In this sense, the falling prestige of higher ed may be a good thing in the long run.
2: Do you really want to live in a world where high schoolers become blank faced at the mention of Shakespeare, Pythagoras or Guatemala?
We already live in this world.
3: What about our responsibility to guide the next generation, to preserve our values and knowledge and help kids grow?
I don’t want us to leave the kids to themselves. My argument is that the best way to assume this responsibility is to answer their questions honestly and treat them as competent little human beings with the same rights as you and I enjoy. Foremost among them, the freedom to pursue our interests and decide how we want to spend our day.
Thank you, sincerely, for reading this.