The Fantastic Futility in our Education System

Exactly half of our problem stems from the stubborn belief that there can be no other alternative to the one we presently labour under. To arrive at such unseemly assumptions blindsides us to the degree of unfathomable near-headedness so utterly prevalent today. So entrenched in this muck are we that we deign to forget, or not think of a time before schools and institutions made of shingles and slabs. Our sodding ancestors thought not to waste their lives on classroom lectures from teachers of varying capabilities and contradictions, and wandered about the woods to make hay when the sun shined.

Of course, such antiquity sounds counter-productive and hopelessly inefficient, which is mostly because it is, but bear in the mind, the evolution from these primitive experiences have been startlingly infructuous in themselves – not nearly as effective as you’d expect them to be. My gripe with this is that the resultant batches of brain-dead twats pitched out of the system are soon to devolve the society of Da Vinci and Machiavelli into a bunch of soggy old typewriters with ravenous sex-drives. The ever-constant law of carnal idiocy submits that the mentality to breed more of their kind is particularly proliferating with people in possession of half a brain simply because they like to surround themselves with more of ‘their people’, than the ones who’re smart enough to excel at nearly everything they themselves seem to fail at.

For it is nigh impossible to learn something unless you are sufficiently invested in it, a quirk which surfaces only if you find your subject of choice worth investing in; that is to mean – interest. There is nary a point in compelling people to study or learn something he doesn’t want to. Dangling a six-figure pay-packet at the end of the course works for Jews and charlatans, I’ll be the first to admit; but the life in the rest of us doesn’t agree to smother itself completely; culminating in a glorious half-arsed attempt to secure that ‘flexible-work hours’ job in ungainly alien territories.

An argument may be made here for the requirement of certain skillsets (measured in modern universities by grade points) to be able to indulge in certain jobs and hence the necessity to study those that need be studied. To that I respond most scathingly. For, you need as much knowledge in banking to be a banker, as you need story-writing skills to be a porn film director. What you learn in universities and what is expected out of you in a profession of your choosing are so far apart that in comparison, Port Louis feels like a day’s walk from Bourdeaux. With sufficient zeal the output of one voraciously grasping knowledge outside stodgy classrooms far exceeds that of the first-bencher who asks ridiculous questions to impress the teacher.

Dismiss it if you must, but great men were never made by attending lectures. They were in fact, made by practicing their craft, devoted entirely to the exclusion of all distractions. The primary distraction here being of doing the things you were not meant to do at all. I shudder to think of a state where Buanarotti would be forced to circle more correct dots than other three million architecture hopefuls in a smelly classroom lorded over by self-important invigilators. What if a virile Parisian youth by the name of Francois le Francais scored more in the test? Would we not have our Capella Sistina? Or is it more probable that Monsieur Le Francais would have orchestrated it? Really? This dainty young chap was to be European Renaissance’s last hope?

To truly flourish in our inestimable creative genius, we must know we must first be subjugated, molded and casted before we may be hardened into gold. But not by people casually assigned to you to learn from. Instead, we must learn from the one person worthy of judging us. We, ourselves, and us. In a better society, we must find, and do what must be done, and not wait for the educators to tell us when, how and what is to be done.

Take a pause and glance back in time to remember the last time you liked someone else deciding what you are capable of and what you are not? If some senile fool thinks he has the full measure of you through the approximation of your hastily scribbled answers to his equally slapdash questions, remember it is not a moment too late to kiss him on the cheek and remind him that he’s lived a good long life and that the next era of prodigies and wonders will shine perfectly bright without him.