This is a difficult letter for me to write…and an even more difficult letter for you to read, so I hope that you are sitting down.
Remember when we first met? I trembled in excitement upon hearing of a textbook option for New York City’s social studies curriculum. Once I had you (or the fourth grade version of you at the time), it was as if a great weight was lifted from me—finally, a concrete guide to instruction.
I was smitten just by looking at your spine…the glow off your glossy cover…the sharp color photos that littered almost every page.
Those first few months were incredible, weren’t they? Every day was something new, something exciting. We were so wild, so adventurous…we could take on the world. To be honest, we were into some really kinky shit, but that was all in the fun.
Each year, another book would await me, and my love affair renewed. The roller-coaster ride we shared made the mundane phone order to the central office in Tweed so—dare I say—exhilarating. The maps, the optional activities, the worksheets and games: at last, I thought, I found the one.
Yet, something changed.
At first, I thought it was just me. After a while, we settled into our routine. Occasionally, you provide a surprise to spice things up—a game on the Internet, or a music selection. That, however, was the exception to the rule. To be fair, that routine suited me fine…for a while.
Then, maybe it was my weakness…but I started to feel restless. The chapters and units weren’t doing it for me anymore. I felt trapped.
It was then that I met someone else…more like some other people, plural.
There were some websites on the Internet. I was leery, at first. But then, they lured me with their siren song of primary source documents, streaming video and interactive games. Once I saw the ever-changing and ever-expanding volumes of media, lesson plans, worksheets and graphic organizers, that old excitement, that feeling of adventure exploded over me again.
I had mentioned that I was attached, that I couldn’t turn my back on my beloved. They, in turn, mentioned some shocking things about you: that you don’t fact-check your information that well, that there are numerous mistakes in historical maps, that terminology and vocabulary are often misstated.
Worst of all, they said that by watering down the content for the sake of “readability”, you were holding me back—and even worse, holding my students hostage to shoddy literature.
I wouldn’t believe it. They were just jealous, after all, I thought. How could they appreciate the passion, the connection we have…besides, if there were flaws, you would have told me, right?
Well, I did some digging myself. On page 161 of the grade 3 book, this is what you say about the Roman Empire:
“The Roman Empire lasted about 500 years, but then broke apart. It had grown too large for its rulers to control. However, ancient Rome still affects the world with its ideas about government, architecture, and more.”
Fair enough, it is only for 3rd graders, but sometimes you water down way too much. Look at page 163:
“In the mid-1900s, World War II broke out. Many countries fought in this war, including Italy. Italy was on the side that lost.”
Umm, that’s it? No mention of the nightmare of a 21-year fascist dictatorship that preceded it? No mention of the other countries that bear more responsibility for losing—the ones that had more blood on their hands. Those kids can get that…why do you treat them like morons?
If that’s not bad enough, I found outright lies—lies that you should’ve told me about. Why did you keep it a secret that the leaders of the New Netherland colony were incorrectly called “governors” instead of the correct “directors-general”?
I’m not even going into the problems in the 5th grade book.
Why? Why did you hold me back so many years? Why the lies? The deceit? The lack of clarity and depth of content?
I’m sorry, but our relationship has really run its course. It’s over.
Please, no tears…it’s not entirely your fault. I was too stupid to realize how badly written you were. I didn’t see your limited vision and lack of depth.
Basically, we’ve really grown apart these past few years. I expanded my base of knowledge and resources through the internet, seminars, grants and lectures.
You just can’t grow past your binding.
You were suffocating me, and screwing my students in the process. There’s nowhere else for this to go.
Believe me, it’s better for both of us.
Goodbye, and good luck. Perhaps we’ll see each other again… that odd day that I need to waste a period with busywork in June.
Just don’t wait up for my call. Sorry, babe.