"Why are we learning this?

by Edie Abraham-Macht

Why are we learning this? It’s the most commonly asked question in classrooms.

When asked, teachers generally reach for an instrumental answer. There isn’t always one in easy grasp, but it’s the reflex.

Today we consider a different, deeper ‘why’ thanks to help from Margaret Atwood. In the 2004 Kesterton Lecture at the Carleton School of Journalism, Atwood does what great writers do best: reveals a deep truth that both makes me feel something and makes me want to be a better person. 

Science is about knowledge. Fiction, on the other hand, is about feeling. Science as such is not a person, and does not have a system of morality built into it, any more than a toaster does. It is only a tool -- a tool for actualizing what we desire and defending against what we fear -- and like any other tool, it can be used for good or ill. You can build a house with a hammer, and you can use the same hammer to murder your neighbour. Human tool-makers always make tools that will help us get what we want, and what we want has not changed for thousands of years, because, as far as we can tell, human nature hasn't changed either.

​​How do we know? We know if we consult the myths and stories. They tell us how and what we feel, and how and what we feel determines what we want.

What do we want? Here's a partial list: We want the purse that will always be filled with gold. We want the Fountain of Youth. We want to fly. We want the table that will cover itself with delicious food whenever we say the word, and that will clean up afterwards. We want invisible servants we'll never have to pay. We want the Seven League Boots so we can get places very quickly. We want the Hat of Darkness so we can snoop on other people without being seen. We want the weapon that will never miss, and that will destroy our enemies utterly. We want to punish injustice. We want power. We want excitement and adventure; we want safety and security. We want to be immortal. We want to have a large number of sexually attractive partners. We want those we love to love us in return, and to be loyal to us. We want cute, smart children who will treat us with the respect we deserve, and who will not smash up the car. We want to be surrounded by music, and by ravishing scents and attractive visual objects. We don't want to be too hot. We don't want to be too cold. We want to dance. We want to drink a lot without having a hangover. We want to speak with the animals. We want to be envied. We want to be as gods.

We want wisdom. We want hope. We want to be good. Therefore we sometimes tell ourselves stories that deal with the darker side of all our other wants.

An educational system that teaches us only about our tools -- the How To of them, their creation, their maintenance -- and not about their function as facilitators of our desires, is, in essence, no more than a school of toaster repair. You can be the best toaster repair person in the world, but you will cease to have a job if toast is no longer a desirable food item on the human breakfast menu. "The arts" -- as we've come to term them -- are not a frill. They are the heart of the matter, because they are about our hearts, and our technological inventiveness is generated by our emotions, not by our minds. A society without the arts would have broken its mirror and cut out its heart. It would no longer be what we now recognize as human.

The foundational principle Atwood puts forth here is that we humans are powerless to comprehend and act ethically in the world if we ignore the “why” that motivates our progress. Our most fundamental desires constitute this universal and timeless “why”—and humanities education is how we interrogate them.

Designing and teaching classes with Kaleidoscope has convinced me that Atwood is right. I’ve learned that understanding human wants, on both the group and individual level, is crucial for understanding human actions.

Joe Henrich’s The Secret of Our Success, which we use in the anthropology unit of our Social Sciences for Social Problems course, reveals that cultural learning, rather than the size of our brains, has long been the primary driver of human success. Culture gives us a massive portfolio of support and skills, and the adaptations that allow our species to live and thrive anywhere on Earth. And what is culture if not a collective expression of our deepest desires—both positive and negative? 

While we’re passionate about exploring the positive potential of human desire in our courses, we also understand that it’s important not to shy away from “the darker side of all our other wants,” as Atwood so beautifully puts it.

Teaching Identity & Prejudice two summers in a row has taught me that desire explains not only our greatest successes as a species, but also our greatest failures.

Discussing the (soberingly close) connection between identity formation and the perpetuation of prejudice shows that our desires for belonging and self-esteem can cause us to shut ourselves into insular groups, ostracizing and subjugating those we deem “other.” These practices, in turn, inhibit the sort of open exchange across lines of difference that is necessary for innovation. 

These two courses speak particularly strongly to this idea: if we can’t take the power of wanting into account, we will want for knowledge of ourselves and therefore of how to go about crafting a more just, inclusive world.

Each and every one of our classes, though, with their emphasis on building learning communities that are connected not only intellectually but also emotionally, is built with the knowledge that the intelligence of the mind only goes so far.

To be truly educated, we need our learning to tap into the ever-mysterious, sometimes painful, shockingly incisive intelligence of the heart.

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