The same bulky, worn-out textbook can still be found on the corner of every desk in the majority of Texas public schools. The covers deteriorate. The spines break. And if you know where to look, you’ll discover a version of American history that many historians would find difficult to identify.
Many scholars, including the conservative Thomas B. Fordham Institute, have referred to the curriculum standards developed by the Texas State Board of Education over the years as a politicized distortion of the historical record. In an attempt to meet those requirements while selling books to the second-biggest textbook market in the country, publishers discovered something even more concerning: ambiguous, deceptive passages that treat disputed ideology as accepted truth. The idea that Moses and King Solomon were key figures in the development of American democracy is about to be taught to students in Texas public schools. In a direct letter to Thomas Jefferson in 1825, John Adams categorically denied this assertion.
It’s difficult to ignore how peculiar this moment is. The argument over what American children should learn is still being fought over paper in a time when anyone can publish anything instantly and Wikipedia can fix a mistake in a matter of seconds instead of waiting seven years for the next print run. For the argument, the medium seems inappropriate. Perhaps that’s the point.
Beneath all the rhetoric about biblical influences and the reasons behind the Civil War, the true question is this: Why does a state board with fewer than twenty elected members, chosen by a small portion of the electorate, have the authority to determine what millions of students think about their own nation? Even if the institutions haven’t kept up, technology has already eliminated this structural issue.
The publishing industry seems to be at a similar crossroads as the music labels were in 2002, just before iTunes completely changed the landscape. The labels were outdated rather than malicious. The logistics of physical distribution had been the foundation of their power. The reasoning behind their authority vanished along with that barrier. One could argue that publishers with contracts for textbooks in Texas are in a similar situation. Printing costs put pressure on their margins. Their content is restricted to a format that cannot be altered, updated, or customized. Additionally, they are bound by a political approval process that requires concessions of which no one is especially proud.
All that is altered by digital content. A textbook can contain metadata, such as state standards codes, reading-level markers, and sourcing information, once it is a file rather than a tangible object. Instead of having just one required text, you could theoretically have dozens of approved texts. A school district in Dallas might make different decisions than one in El Paso. Materials that align with a family’s religious beliefs could be used without imposing those same beliefs on a family three blocks away. Instead of being executed, local control is actually practiced.
The potential for crowdsourcing is what becomes more intriguing—and somewhat unsettling. Curriculum development could benefit from the same intuition that created Wikipedia, which despite its initial skepticism has proven remarkably dependable over time. Content that is engaging, fact-based, and effective would increase. Instead of passing with a board vote, content centered around a political agenda would have to compete in an open marketplace of ideas.
Whether any state government is prepared to cede that level of authority is still up in the air. Choosing what a generation learns first has significant influence. The textbooks demonstrate how hard Texas has battled to maintain that authority. However, the cloud doesn’t request authorization. The instruments are already in place. The willingness to put them to use is all that’s lacking, along with perhaps the integrity to acknowledge that a single solution would never work in a nation this complex.
