In East Africa, in the records of the rocks dating back to about two million years ago, you can find a sequence of worked tools that our ancestors designed and executed. Their lives depending on making and using these tools. This was, or course, Early Stone Age technology. Over time, specially fashioned stones were used for stabbing, chipping, flaking, cutting, carving. Although there are many ways of making stone tools, what is remarkable is that in a given site for enormous periods of time the tools were made in the same way—which means that there must have been educational institutions hundreds of thousands of years ago, even if it was mainly an apprenticeship system. While it's easy to exaggerate the similarities, it's also easy to imagine the equivalent of professors and students in loincloths, laboratory courses, examinations, failing grades, graduation ceremonies, and post graduate education.
When the training is unchanged for immense periods of time, traditions are passed on intact to the next generation. But when what needs to be learned changes quickly, especially in the course of a single generation, it becomes much harder to know what to teach and how to teach it. Then students complain about relevance; respect for their elders diminishes. Teachers despair at how educational standards have deteriorated, and how lackadaisical students have become. In a world in transition, students and teachers bother need to teach themselves one essential skill—learning how to learn.
Except for children (who don't know enough not to ask the important questions), few of us spend much time wondering why Nature is the way it is; where the Cosmos came from, or whether it was always here; if time with one day flow backward, and effects precede causes; or whether there are ultimate limits to what humans can known. There are even children, and I have met some of them, who want to know what a black hole looks like; what is the smallest piece of matter; why we remember the past and not the future; and why there is a Universe.
Every now and then, I'm lucky enough to teach a kindergarten or first-grade class. Many of these children are natural born scientists—although heavy on the wonder side, and light on skepticism. They're curious, intellectually vigorous. Provocative and insightful questions bubble out of them. They exhibit enormous enthusiasm. I'm asked follow-up questions. They've never heard of the notion of "a dumb question."
When I talk to high school seniors however, I find something different. They memorize facts. By and large, though, the joy of discovery, the life behind those facts, has gone out of them. They're worried about asking "dumb questions;" they're willing to accept inadequate answers; they don't pose follow-up questions; the room is awash with sidelong glances to judge, second-by-second, the approval of their peers. They come to class with their questions written out on a pieces of paper, which they surreptitiously examine, waiting their turn, and a oblivious of whatever discussion their peers are at this moment engaged in.
Something has happened between first and twelfth grade, and not just puberty. I'd guess it's partly peer pressure not to excel (except in athletics); partly that the society teaches short-term gratification; partly the impression that science or mathematics won't buy you a sports car; partly that there is so little expected of students; and partly that there are few rewards or role models for intelligent discussion of science and technology—or even for learning for its own sake. Those few who remain interested are vilified as "nerd," "geeks," or "grinds."
I also find many adults are put off when young children pose scientific questions. It is critical that this cannot happen. Why is the Moon round? Why is the grass green? What is a dream? How deep can you dig a hole? When is the world's birthday?" Too often, many teachers and parents answer with irritation or ridicule, or quickly move onto something else: "What did you expect the Moon to be, a square??" Children soon recognize that somehow this question annoys the grown-ups. A few more experiences alike, and the child is lost to science. Why should adults pretend omniscience before 6-year olds, I am baffled. What is wrong with admitting we don't know something? Is our self-esteem that fragile?
