Author: Jerry Leger

A man who argues the same point for forty years and won’t give up, even when everyone in the room stops paying attention, has a subtle stubbornness about him. That man was Sir Ken Robinson. He didn’t yell. He didn’t strike a pose. He gently, almost apologetically, told audiences that the way we educate children is flawed while standing on stages in a dark suit with his hands folded. And for some reason, everyone believed him.

He was the fifth of seven children born into a working-class family in Liverpool, close to Goodison Park. When Ken was nine years old, his father, a docker, was paralyzed in an accident at work. After contracting polio at the age of four, Ken spent eight arduous months in the hospital and was left with a limp. It’s the kind of upbringing that could account for a lifetime of resentment. Rather, it appears to have made him more patient. You get the impression from watching this develop over the years in interviews that he discovered early on that neither life nor the kids in our classrooms fit neatly into a mold.

It was almost an accident that the speech changed everything. Robinson gave a 19-minute talk titled “Do Schools Kill Creativity?” at a TED conference in California in February 2006. He didn’t take any notes. He made jokes. He strayed. By the time of his passing, the video had been translated into over sixty languages and viewed hundreds of millions of times on YouTube and the TED platform. Ministers pretended not to see it, parents shared it at dinner parties, and teachers circulated it in staff rooms.

The odd thing was that politicians were less inclined to interact with Robinson as he gained popularity. In 1997, the government of Tony Blair hired him to oversee a study on creative education. All Our Futures, the resulting report, was quietly shelved by Whitehall after receiving praise from educators. Years later, under Dominic Cummings and Michael Gove, his ideas were met with the kind of contempt that only soft-thinking people could muster. Robinson, on the other hand, appeared unfazed. In 2018, he said to The Independent, “I’d probably be doing something wrong if I didn’t piss somebody off.”

His main point was surprisingly straightforward. He claimed that children are naturally inquisitive, creative, and willing to make mistakes. That is something that schools, especially the test-driven, league-table-obsessed ones, instill in their students. Naturally, literacy and numeracy are important, but he liked to say that treating them as the entirety of education was like baking a cake and hoping the eggs would show up later. He desired that dance be taught with the same gravity as math. Instead of micromanaging teachers, he wanted them to be trusted. Instead of acting like factories, he wanted schools to act like gardens.

His theories might have been more effective in theory than in practice. Sometimes, even sympathetic readers questioned how “fostering imagination” could be scaled across a national curriculum. However, the diagnosis persisted. He was onto something genuine, as anyone who has witnessed a teenager lose interest in art class because it didn’t count toward university points or witnessed a child’s spelling test panic will attest.

In August 2020, he passed away in London at the age of seventy from cancer. The foundation bearing his name is currently run by his daughter Kate. Even though the schools he criticized are largely unchanged after five years, his statements continue to circulate, being pinned to classroom walls, quoted in PTA meetings, and repeated late at night by weary educators who question whether any of it still matters. There’s a persistent sense that it does.