Topic Edit: Tears in America(8)

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The Silence of Memory: A Reflection on Rote Learning

I often find myself staring into the fog of my childhood, searching for the contours of my elementary school years.  It’s not that I’ve forgotten something dramatic or formative—it’s that almost nothing stands out.  Perhaps my school days were so uneventful, so quietly routine, that they left no distinct imprint.  Or perhaps my memory, like a chalkboard wiped clean, simply refused to hold on.

Each morning began the same: I’d sling my backpack over my shoulder and walk to school, step by step, without urgency.  The homeroom teacher taught every subject, and I’d spend each hour scribbling notes into a notebook, watching the clock tick toward the end of the day.  Then I’d walk home, and the cycle would repeat.  A few exams each semester marked the passage of time, and then came the break—vacation, brief and unremarkable.

I don’t remember any close friendships.  No faces linger in my mind.  What I do recall, faintly, is the sting of a wooden stick on my palm—delivered by a stern teacher and the class president in fifth grade.  And after school, the joy of pushing desks aside to wrestle with friends, laughter echoing in the empty classroom.

The classroom itself was a place of silence—not the silence of contemplation, but of submission.  Sixty students, one teacher, and a curriculum delivered like a monologue. We were vessels to be filled, not minds to be engaged.  There were no debates, no presentations. Learning was a transaction: information in, obedience out.

This wasn’t unique to elementary school.  The same pedagogical pattern followed me through middle school, high school, even university.  Rote learning wasn’t a phase—it was a system.  And while it may have been efficient, it was also deeply impoverishing.   It taught me how to memorize, but not how to think.  It trained me to absorb, but not to speak.

As an adult, I’ve struggled with expression.  Discussions feel daunting.  Writing feels like excavation.  I used to think it was simply a personal flaw--a lack of innate talent.  But I’ve come to suspect it’s also because I was not properly trained to articulate, to debate, to create-- especially during those elementary school years, a critical period when our capacity to express begins to take root.

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