While we’re busy teaching our kids to tend school gardens, they’re failing provincial tests in reading, writing and math. The folly of the new enviro-propaganda
This fall, hundreds of Toronto students are harvesting beets and zucchini from their school gardens. I say: nice photo op, bad idea. The argument for school gardens assumes that by grubbing in the dirt, kids will learn to love eating vegetables. They won’t think chickens hatch into this world as deep-fried nuggets. And they’ll develop a respect for nature.
Here’s the counter-argument: our students shouldn’t be out scrabbling in the hot sun when one in five can’t pass the Grade 10 literacy test administered by the provincially funded Education Quality and Accountability Office. And while Canadian students score high internationally in reading, mathematics and the sciences, Statistics Canada says our relative ranking is declining due to improved performance by other countries. In this era of global competition, we can’t afford to let other nations nip at our heels.
Half of Toronto’s population was born outside Canada, and it’s a safe bet many of them came here for a better life, including a good education for their offspring. A lot of immigrants originate from agrarian regions of countries such as India, Pakistan, China and the Philippines. The last thing these newcomers need is a morality crusade about carrots. Yet more than 200 of Toronto’s nearly 600 public schools now have gardens, and an army of well-meaning parents, volunteers, activists and advocacy organizations with a social agenda is successfully lobbying for more.
The schools I’ve visited tell me that growing your own food is worthy, wholesome and educational. That’s what Chairman Mao said when he shipped millions of Chinese youth to the countryside—and abandoned them there. I know whereof I speak. I moved to China in 1972, at the height of the Cultural Revolution. As a third-generation Canadian, I didn’t speak Chinese. I knew only what my profs at McGill University had taught me: that China was a revolutionary utopia.
At Beijing University, where I studied Mandarin and Chinese history, I enthusiastically embraced Maoism, including the precept that students must “reform” their wayward thinking through physical labour. It was, to put it delicately, horticultural hell. My classmates and I harvested wheat and hauled pig manure and dug ditches. At one point, we marched 20 kilometres to a farm, where we tilled the land for nearly a year. It being the silly ’70s, McGill gave me full credit toward my Asian history degree, and I graduated on schedule. Intensive farm work, however, vaporized my Chinese classmates’ one precious chance at an education. Today, they’re called China’s Lost Generation.
Mao’s agrarian fantasy and the Cultural Revolution sputtered to an end with the Great Helmsman’s death in 1976. China immediately relaunched its vaunted education system, with rigour. This past year, Shanghai beat the rest of the world in reading, math and science in standardized tests managed by the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development.
So it’s alarmingly déjà vu to see the gardening campaign underway at so many Toronto schools, both public and private, even if it’s a far more touchy-feely version. Toronto Waldorf School, where tuition and fees exceed $16,000 a year in the higher grades, is an enthusiastic proponent of whole-earth education. It has a chicken coop, a few goats and a $150,000 organic greenhouse that recycles grey water. A farming and gardening program, centered on its three-acre teaching garden, is an integrated part of the curriculum from Grade 3 through Grade 9. Ninth graders spend three weeks living and working on organic farms, some as far away as Europe.