I want to say that my own origin lies in having been raised Unitarian Universalist with the most amazing minister who never invoked “God” as anything more than the common good or interpersonal kindness. I want to believe that UU Sunday school attendance, or, more interesting to me even at that young age, ditching class and sticking through the “adult” section of the worship, where she would give the most awe-inspiringly inspirational sermons, would be enough to awaken any child as a rationalist. Alas, I am fairly certain I was prepared for rationalism even before my family moved to the church while I was in elementary school, and alas, that minister retired all too soon.
Another possibility is the fact that I was raised in a neighborhood co-op, where each afternoon I would spend at the home of a different friend, experiencing their family culture, and the diversity among those households—race, religion, nationality, economic status, orientation, language, profession—instilled an early understanding that any adherence to convention was a matter of choice.
There is one more influence, less grand, perhaps, than the others, but I think perhaps most concrete as an awakening “event”. My grandfather used to visit often when I was young. He liked to play a game with my siblings and me where he would point at an aeroplane flying overhead and declare “there goes a bird!” and my sisters and I would reply “grandpa, that’s a plane!”, and he would point to a squirrel and say “look at that groundhog climbing the tree over there!” and my sisters and I would reply “grampa, that’s a squirrel!”, and so on for all manner of things.
My grandfather also smoked, and from everything I’d learned even at that early age, smoking was bad. One day, I decided to ask my grandfather to quit, because that was what you were supposed to do with bad habits. He told me that he would quit smoking if I would stop being silly and call those little feathery animals that flapped around in the air by their proper name: ‘aeroplane’, and those furry little critters that dug up the garden and left burrow holes all over the park ‘squirrels’.
And I did.
It was a while before I saw my grandfather again, and eventually he came to stay with my family for his final years, but after I resolved to speak his language around him (even if I kept to the “real” terminology elsewhere), I never saw him light another cigarette. I don’t know if he actually quit, and for the sake of the fable, it doesn’t really matter. What I carried from then on was an understanding that there was a clear distinction between fact and fiction and that each has value, but as much as I might enjoy my conversations with my grandfather, and the benefit of humouring his fiction, I needed to place a filter between that and my true model of the world. That is, my curiousity in one (fact or fiction) wouldn’t always suffice for an understanding of the other, but even the existence of a fiction had the potential to influence reality.
As an educator, I recognize this sort of potential in all young children, who create entire worlds of make-believe, complete with their own characters, societies, codes-of-conduct, and even laws of physics, each of which world is kept quite distinct from the others. The point where imagination becomes rationality is the point where the child can recognize, consciously, for any rule in their imagined world, “how is that different from the world we live in?”, and “what else would be different if that were the rule?”, and establish a curiousity about those sorts of inferences. That is, when the child’s fiction genre of choice shifts from Adventure to Speculative.
I want to say that my own origin lies in having been raised Unitarian Universalist with the most amazing minister who never invoked “God” as anything more than the common good or interpersonal kindness. I want to believe that UU Sunday school attendance, or, more interesting to me even at that young age, ditching class and sticking through the “adult” section of the worship, where she would give the most awe-inspiringly inspirational sermons, would be enough to awaken any child as a rationalist. Alas, I am fairly certain I was prepared for rationalism even before my family moved to the church while I was in elementary school, and alas, that minister retired all too soon.
Another possibility is the fact that I was raised in a neighborhood co-op, where each afternoon I would spend at the home of a different friend, experiencing their family culture, and the diversity among those households—race, religion, nationality, economic status, orientation, language, profession—instilled an early understanding that any adherence to convention was a matter of choice.
There is one more influence, less grand, perhaps, than the others, but I think perhaps most concrete as an awakening “event”. My grandfather used to visit often when I was young. He liked to play a game with my siblings and me where he would point at an aeroplane flying overhead and declare “there goes a bird!” and my sisters and I would reply “grandpa, that’s a plane!”, and he would point to a squirrel and say “look at that groundhog climbing the tree over there!” and my sisters and I would reply “grampa, that’s a squirrel!”, and so on for all manner of things.
My grandfather also smoked, and from everything I’d learned even at that early age, smoking was bad. One day, I decided to ask my grandfather to quit, because that was what you were supposed to do with bad habits. He told me that he would quit smoking if I would stop being silly and call those little feathery animals that flapped around in the air by their proper name: ‘aeroplane’, and those furry little critters that dug up the garden and left burrow holes all over the park ‘squirrels’.
And I did.
It was a while before I saw my grandfather again, and eventually he came to stay with my family for his final years, but after I resolved to speak his language around him (even if I kept to the “real” terminology elsewhere), I never saw him light another cigarette. I don’t know if he actually quit, and for the sake of the fable, it doesn’t really matter. What I carried from then on was an understanding that there was a clear distinction between fact and fiction and that each has value, but as much as I might enjoy my conversations with my grandfather, and the benefit of humouring his fiction, I needed to place a filter between that and my true model of the world. That is, my curiousity in one (fact or fiction) wouldn’t always suffice for an understanding of the other, but even the existence of a fiction had the potential to influence reality.
As an educator, I recognize this sort of potential in all young children, who create entire worlds of make-believe, complete with their own characters, societies, codes-of-conduct, and even laws of physics, each of which world is kept quite distinct from the others. The point where imagination becomes rationality is the point where the child can recognize, consciously, for any rule in their imagined world, “how is that different from the world we live in?”, and “what else would be different if that were the rule?”, and establish a curiousity about those sorts of inferences. That is, when the child’s fiction genre of choice shifts from Adventure to Speculative.