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Since I began publishing in this Observatory, I decided to group my writings into series under different titles: The School Ritual, The Education We Want, The Experts as Disciples… Now, I have created a new category, inspired by a friend’s comment that my texts motivate her to “make community.” I liked this compliment very much, and it made me want to concentrate on that topic: Creating community is, in fact, one of the efforts most important to me in the current context and, of course, in the pedagogy of all times.
However, as always in my case, as soon as an idea arises, a trail of questions appears behind it. In this case, the following: Can community be made through writing? Is it possible to communicate by this means, honestly, in the sense of a back-and-forth flow, not only to issue a message but to receive a reply? (Without this feedback, communication becomes a pure emission of information instead; such is the criticism made about the media, saying that, in reality, they are only information channels).
Nevertheless, isn’t also writing a one-sided activity? This question is not banal in a space like the Observatory, where, among other things, we write about education, nor is it for those who apparently do not know how to do anything but write. (Regarding the latter, if we really want to build community, we must include them, or otherwise settle for our community to be limited to those we live with daily).
Therefore, knowing if we can build community through writing is a concern worth pondering. St. Paul, who used to communicate with his community by letter, affirmed that “the letter kills,” referring to the fact that what is written strangles the spirit that the spoken word ─the voice, the breath─ can transmit. Is it true? Answering this question requires detouring and clarifying if letters really exist in spoken language or are only materials for writing.
An essential linguistic hypothesis says that our spoken speech constitutes a continuum without divisions, so it is irrelevant whether things are named or should be denominated in one way or another; such separations only appear when we stop to analyze what has been said. Thus, the abstractions that we know as letters, words, and sentences are the result of a gradual process that begins (let us invent a little history) when it occurs to a human being that just as a stick nailed halfway can mean “I passed through here,” a scribble can represent a fragment of speech. Then (i.e., centuries later), while refining his scribbling (his writing), that human being realizes that the things he enunciates, however different they may be (stick, steps, far), have common elements (aaaaa… pppp… sssss…) and that these can also be represented with different scribbles.
They are the letters.
Yes, the letters, minimum units to which the science of enunciation arrives, formal elements of incalculable meticulousness and rigor, so much so that in the distant future, a great musical composer will discover his primal and powerful martial nature and will parade them like an army (I am speaking of course of Cri-Cri, the Mexican Singing Cricket, who in his wonderful March of the Letters says:)
First, you will see
that passes the A…
It seems that I am playing, but the little ones who start elementary school know very well the seriousness with which I speak. The power of the letter is such that as soon as we stop writing, the word catches its breath and returns to that flow of its own in which vowels are not distinguished from consonants, words from phrases, or phrases from sentences. (Remember those ancient texts in which punctuation marks did not yet exist? Yes, they look like the work of many of our students.)
Speaking and writing are entirely different, almost opposite functions of language.
Moreover, in speaking, continuity exists not only within what one says but also in the other’s response. That is why comparing a discussion table with a ping pong table is possible, where the answer is expected as an echo, as something naturally returning. (Every time there is no response, the encounter sadly approaches its end.)
Yuval N. Harari, the Israeli historian, tells us that this coming and going of speech, that flow from here to there and from one person to another, is the factor that allowed our species to survive. According to him, human communities prospered due to gossip, through which incipient humans talked to each other about their peers, and thanks to this, they were able to form larger collectives than their ape ancestors, who, to know each other (and take care of each other or form alliances), only had a current experience. Language allowed humans to communicate not only present facts (“Here comes the lion!”) but also past experiences and future expectations:
─ Why are you hurt?
“Because that man hit me!
─ And why did he hit you?
─ To take away my food.
─ I will be careful with him.
Well, in writing, the natural flow of speech seems at risk.
In a perfectly iconoclastic statement, the great French poet Paul Valery said that reading poetry is a solipsistic act (individual to the point of secrecy) disguised as communication and coexistence. That is, whoever reads poetry thinks he is in communication with someone, but in reality, he is only in contact with himself. The same happens to the poet, who believes that he speaks in the presence of another but is alone, alone in his soul.
─ Is that what Paul Válery said?
─ Yes.
─ I will be careful with him.
Yes, I will be careful with him. At least, as I write this, I cannot shake off the radical certainty that I am in contact with someone, specifically with you, esteemed reader (male and female). In Spanish, I usually say “dear reader” (male gender), but now I reduce the term to “esteemed” (male and female) so that ─if Valery is correct and you do not exist, it does not harm me so much; that is, outside of jokes, I’m not sure you exist, but at the same time, I have a radical certainty that you are there.)
Now let’s see how this optimism of mine almost immediately comes face to face with another way the letter kills.
In these times when the Observatory publishes me regularly, the doors have opened to me to join a caste from the annals of history who enjoy an audience that reads them. This caste –once called the scribes – is now called the intellectuals. For centuries, its members formed a small although mighty group (perhaps writing itself emerged as a weapon of power), which kept extending its influence until one day it appropriated all the teachings (and, consequently, the schools) and finally, with the arrival of modernity and democracy, imposed itself on the whole world.
Their primary weapon is called literacy.
Literacy, that precious commodity that has even been considered a condition for freedom, has only in a very few cases been intended for us to learn to make community in writing. Let us not deceive ourselves; the truth is that it does not seek to expand our spirit, as St. Paul wanted, nor does it allow us to understand ourselves and others through the written expression of our ideas and emotions. We do not learn to write to know what we have been thinking, embark on a journey of discovery, or put into practice all those beautiful and profound maxims that can be found if you google: “Phrases about writing.”
If we were taught the written letter, we would learn to read, i.e., to read what others write and to write what others dictate to us. Focusing on school, do we find it true that taking notes and repeating them on an exam is still, in most cases, the culmination of the learning experience, the fact that is most worth studying? Of course, some bold people dare from time to time to write personal letters, and there are those who, daring, write about some experience of their own (Writing! That is, reducing to a few words the turbulent flow of impressions, experiences, and knowledge that comprise their life). However, writing to honestly communicate, build community, express ourselves publicly, and share something… ah, no, that is reserved for a few! I do not doubt that if one could teach reading without learning to write, that would happen. Nobody or very few are interested in what non-intellectuals write. It is sad, but the written word of that majority is destined to die without transcending or, in the best of cases, to bog like a message in a bottle in search of a very unlikely recipient. (It has a low probability that, fortunately, we still value and which we call hope).
Thus, we come to the third way in which the letter kills, that is, the fact that the only way to learn to express oneself in writing is to do it. As with all tools, only continuous exercise results in mastery. This is true for both spoken and written language: if no one listens to you, you lose the motivation to speak; if no one reads you, the same. Those privileged by the media are getting more and more resources, while those who are not read are left behind.
Is this building community? Does “community” mean that some have resources and others do not? The question reminds me of something I read recently in an article in the newspaper El País, which mentioned that the UNAM (National Autonomous University of Mexico) has never had a female rector, and the question was asked: “Can we talk about autonomy without equal opportunities?” So, similarly, can there be a community where some write, and others must settle for reading or, at best, spreading the rumor?
Despite all the criticisms that can be hurled against social networks, many of us see in them a place where the general population begins to exercise their right to written expression. Intellectuals and academicians are stinging that others have this resource and that they write with the same assiduity, concentration, and authority in the media. Although I consider the concern about isolation and obsession that the media can cause legitimate, I believe that the effort that intellectuals put into criticizing social networks makes it seem that they cannot bear to lose control of the written. Why do we think we can spend hours writing, reading, and answering important texts, but the other mortals cannot? According to us, those who do not know how to write and do not have clear habits of creation and thought should leave those particularities that occupy them so much and turn to seeing, listening, and reading us (However, instead of doing so, they even dare to invent their own spelling and grammar!)
Turning over to others the resources we have hoarded is not easy. However, it must be clear that in today’s world, there is no way to think about a true democracy without creating a written community. Communication is not in the means of communication but in the ends (i.e., we, the people). It does not reside in the intellectuals who know and are familiar, but in the sentimental ones, the emotionally intelligent, who are the majority.
Below is a comments section. I always go to it hoping to hear what you must tell me, dear existing reader. I am sure my colleagues at the Observatory hope to find comments, too. I believe the resources are here to make this a meeting space.
Translation by Daniel Wetta
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This article from Observatory of the Institute for the Future of Education may be shared under the terms of the license CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 
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