Uscolia

By Gabriel Lanyi

Learning without teaching – a journey to the land of native fluency
The human brain is a brilliant self-learning machine, proficient at rule-building and pattern-recognition. What we generally refer to as “teaching” – an instructor conveying knowledge to a student and then testing the amount of information absorbed – is an illusion. We are fooled into thinking that schools can teach us anything, because in the midst of all the wasted instruction, they also provide some necessary exposure, which the brain utilizes for learning. But all learning is in fact internal, beginning and ending inside the brain.

Beyond the illusion of teaching
We all acquire our native languages without fail and without any teaching proper – by exposure, observation and imitation. Understanding this process provides valuable insight into the brain’s method of learning, and reveals how we can achieve effective learning without teaching in other areas as well.

A first-hand account of the legendary Uscolian studios
Uscolia tells of an extraordinary journey to the island of Uscolia, where there are no schools, and generations of creative youths acquire fluency in various disciplines such as music, math, and sciences without teaching, in free-flowing facilities called studios. The author also describes his hands-on experience in applying Uscolian principles within the context of an ordinary family home.

Discover the capacity for native fluency and learning without teaching in Uscolia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SycoraxBooks
• Release date: Feb 29, 2020

Gabriel Lanyi

Gabriel Lanyi is a writer, editor, translator living in Jerusalem, Israel. He is the author of Uscolia, the story of the land of native fluency and of learning without teaching. Until learning without teaching is fully understood in the rest of the world, however, finding a good piano teacher is the next best thing.

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Uscolia

Gabriel Lanyi

Sycorax Books

Boston

Words count

First Sycorax Books edition 2016

Copyright © 2016 by Sycorax Books

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Uscolia / Gabriel Lanyi – 1st American ed.

ISBN 978-1-941245-11-8

First edition

Contents

Chapter I — In the Fog

Chapter II — Awaking in Uscolia

Chapter III — Native Fluency

Chapter IV — Thanks for the Memory

Chapter V — The Art of Doing

Chapter VI — Impossibility of Teaching

Chapter VII — In the Studio

Chapter VIII — Questions

Chapter IX — Native Fluency in Practice

Chapter X — In the Studio Spirit

I

In the Fog

There has been a crisis in education for the past 2000 years, he said. It was in the waning days of the old world order, just before the dawn of the new era, in the year 2 BG (before Google). ’Tis nothing new. He was taking small spoonfuls of the mango sorbet. I’ve seen that face, I just couldn’t place it.

But the questions always pose themselves in a different manner, said a woman with a heavy French accent.

The same question is being asked in every century: What’s wrong with how we teach? Why do we fail? How can we do better? These questions have been passed down from generation to generation of teachers and educators. But the teaching-learning model was never questioned.

With a few exceptions, Ben, interjected a member of generation X in a Greenpeace crewneck. Most notably, Socrates. Ben... Ben what? It was on the tip of my tongue. Something repetitive, like Benbella.

Right, William, said Ben. And look what happened to him. This was intended as a joke, but only William laughed. "There is a long tradition of questioning the way teachers teach. But the problem is not how we teach but that we teach. Learning should be based on something other than teaching." He returned to the sorbet to let this sink in, or perhaps to allow them to disagree. Most of them looked like academic, Oxfam, renewable energy types.

Like in Uscolia? Tell us about it, Ben. We never heard the full story. Ben Benson! Of course... now it all came back. For a long time I had thought that Uscolia was a spoof, like Ahua, the island discovered by the apocryphal N. Aalberg and consisting entirely of a website.

Uscolia, said Ben, is too great an object to cram into a few casual sentences.

Before we go to Uscolia, said Julia, our gracious hostess, on whose terrace in Lausanne we were watching the sunset over Lake Geneva. What exactly is wrong with the teaching-learning paradigm?

For one, much of teaching takes place against resistance, said Ben. One wonders why, considering that there is nothing children like more than learning and honing their skills. Some said that he used to be a child psychologist, before retiring, although he looked far too young to be retired. Others thought that he was a venture capitalist. I've heard also that he wrote music reviews under several pen names. And he was known as a child advocate.

Admittedly, replied our hostess. But in the past hundred years there’ve been strong deschooling movements. She happened to be vice-chair of the World Forum for Children of the Future, which all her other guests were attending in town. I was the only non-professional at the gathering, having met Julia only the day before, at the art gallery she owned in Geneva. We found that we were both Dada enthusiasts.

All based on teaching. Ben waited until the last contour of the sun disappeared below the lake. In many progressive schools students can opt out of classes they wish not to attend, but once they opt in they are still taught. Homeschooled children are excused from attending school, but are taught, by parents or others, at home. The problem is not with the school but with teaching. If only we could create a school without teaching...

Then now we’ve come to Uscolia, said the woman with the French accent. They addressed her as Roxanne. Julia, bring a large carafe of fresh coffee and some madeleines to help jog Ben’s memory.

True, Ben, you never told us how you ended up in Uscolia to begin with, said William.

Ben shook his head. I told it many times years ago, but you treated it as fiction.

We were young and foolish, said Julia, and above all, single. Now we are all eager and interested parents with young children to raise. Julia pointed in the general direction where William, Roxanne, and myself were sitting, and smiled at me.

Our children are grown, I said, raising my hands in a don’t-look-at-me gesture, not willing to assume responsibility for the course the evening was to take.

There’s no such thing as grown children, said Julia. Besides, you never know what’s in the oven. I was going to answer this, but I desisted because I didn’t want to become the center of attention of people I hardly knew. Luckily Julia went on without breaking stride: It’s not every day, Ben, that you are here to give us a first-hand account.

All this is common knowledge by now, protested Ben.

Maybe in your part of the world, said Julia, but we haven’t heard it, at any rate, not from you. All we have are rumors. We’re in the fog. And we know of no one, except for you, who can deliver an authoritative, definitive account, from the horse’s mouth. How did you stumble upon Uscolia in the first place?

I never dwelt on how I ended up in Uscolia, said Ben. It is the burlesque part of the story and I care little for it. He poured himself a cup of coffee and took a madeleine from a tray the maid had just brought in. Then he leaned back in the easy chair and began to tell in an even voice the story of a weekend spent in Neah Bay, on the northwestern tip of Washington State, with three entrepreneurs, closing a deal for a venture capital firm in Seattle. They had just taken a break before dinner and were walking on the beach, watching the occasional windsurfers. As the wind picked up, Ben suggested that they hire some equipment at the motel and go out to ride the high swells. His partners, though a few years younger, seemed to be deterred by the wind, and asked when was the last time he sailed. It had been a while, but Ben was confident in his skills, having learned how to windsurf at a young age.

Could you go out in a wind like this? asked one of them. It was a fresh breeze. Maybe 20 knots.

I could go out in a business suit, holding a briefcase, and not wet the cuffs of my trousers, answered Ben. This had to be seen to be believed, so a wager was made for a hundred dollars, and half an hour later Ben appeared on the beach in a navy blue, herringbone suit on top of a white shirt with silver cufflinks and a silver buff solid tie. Under his shirt was a wetsuit, and under his jacket a harness.

That’s not fair, complained one of the bettors. You didn’t say you’d roll up your pants above your knees.

I didn’t say I wouldn’t, answered Ben. He was wearing a comfortable pair of black dress Oxfords over bare feet. On his shoulder was slung a black Ferragamo briefcase holding a copy of the contract they were working on and his socks.

Two youngsters carried the 12-foot Mistral MOD board and the rig with its large, 7.4 square meter sail to a launch on the beach, popped the mast into the mast base, and put the Mistral in the water. Ben stepped on the board, grabbed the boom, and as his partners watched from the shore, did a few duck gybes and tacks. It was a perfect day for sailing. Ben hooked into the harness line, slipped his feet into the footstraps for comfortable planing, and with the board skipping lightly over the swell let the wind carry him out in the direction of Japan until his partners on the beach looked no larger than matchsticks. The wind was out of the northwest, and Ben followed a westerly direction on starboard tack.

As the sun set the wind picked up some more, and Ben decided to turn back toward the shore to collect his hundred dollars. Just then, out of the north, a heavy fog advanced like a solid wall, and within seconds enveloped him completely, reducing his field of vision to about six feet. It felt like being in an airplane entering a cloud; with the fog, the wind intensified considerably and the water became choppy. He considered for a moment whether to try to outrun the fog, but concluded that it was not a good idea, and chose to stay the course, trusting that he was headed east on port tack and hoping to see land in about fifteen minutes. He checked his watch. About half an hour later there was no land in sight; he knew that the wind had changed direction and he was not heading east.

He had never sailed in this area and didn’t know the wind patterns. And of course, there were no fog horns. He thought that perhaps the wind was now coming straight out of the west, in which case he should soon make land somewhere on Vancouver Island. This didn’t happen either, so after some time he had to admit that he had no idea where he was headed. He was advancing at a high rate of speed. It got dark. He checked his watch again. He had been sailing for about two hours. Slowly the fog thinned out and eventually lifted. This was a relief. Ben dropped the sail in the water and sat down on the board to look around and survey his surroundings. He couldn’t see a single light, in any direction. The sky was overcast, no stars, no moon. The hundred dollars never seemed farther away, although the cuffs of his trousers were metaphorically speaking still dry. He had no idea which way to turn, and decided to choose a direction and stay with it, hoping that it was the correct one. He stood and uphauled the sail. On the assumption that the wind was blowing from a generally western direction, he continued to sail downwind on port tack looking for a light. There was none in sight. Another hour later the signs of fatigue and thirst made themselves vividly felt.

I spare you the stages of exhaustion, hallucination, and despair. They have been amply described in countless books about shipwrecked, stranded, and lost travellers. After what must have been a few more hours, I thought I distinguished a light. I was not sure, because I had thought so earlier and turned out to be wrong. I steered toward it. The light grew brighter, and others joined it. I honed in on it automatically, mechanically, and I began distinguishing the shore, the marina, some human activity. I saw a boat launch with a person standing next to it. He wore a uniform. I pulled up. He grabbed hold of the boom and helped me step on the shore. The ground under my feet seemed shaky. He asked me something, which I didn’t understand. I remember wondering whether they had valet parking for windsurfers, and I reached into my pocket to give him a tip. Then I fainted.

II

Awaking in Uscolia

"I awoke in what looked like a hotel room. My suit was neatly hanging on a wooden valet next to my bed. I knew not where I was or how I got there. I had no recollection of anything since leaving Neah Bay. I closed my eyes and the image of a sign appeared before my mind’s eye, in large letters: ALL NEWBORNS ARE CREATED EQUAL. BUT A DAY LATER THEY NO LONGER ARE. It all came back in a flash. It was the sign I saw above the landing, just before I fainted. I could hear the Prelude of Bach’s cello suite in E-flat major reverberating through the building; wonderful poise in the baseline progression. The Prelude ended and restarted right away. Was someone practicing or just pressing repeat?"

Ben washed and dressed quickly and stepped out of his room to discover where he was and how he got there. The Allemande, a tad too slow maybe but clean and light, without dramatic gestures, was just winding down as he walked into the lobby. The style was distinctly Moorish, with elegant, slim teak columns, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, supporting delicate horseshoe and keyhole arches and lattice screens. Lancet windows discreetly filtered the morning sun falling on the mosaic floor. The sparse furnishing agreed with the architecture. Across from a sofa with spires and arches were several straight back chairs, with leather seats and nailhead trim. Between them were small octagonal camel bone tables with inlaid sides. Next to the reception desk stood a large armoire covered with calligraphic ornaments. It all created a light, uncluttered, unassuming atmosphere. Stepping out from behind the desk to greet him was a middle-aged man who shook Ben’s hand and led him to a table offering coffee and an assortment of light pastries.

Ben learned that he was lodging at the Alhambra, a small hotel situated no more than a three minute walk from the wharf whence he had been brought the night before, after passersby ascertained that he was uninjured and had probably collapsed of exhaustion. His host, who introduced himself as Hugo, owned and managed the Alhambra, which also served as residence for himself and his family. Ben and Hugo outdid each other asking questions, even as they were trying to answer the other’s inquiries—one about Ben’s strange appearance in his business suit at the wharf, the other about the identity of the place where he had landed. Ben tried to account for himself in as few words as possible, eager to learn more about his port of call, to which Hugo referred as Uscolia. Is Uscolia an island or a territory? he asked. Both, answered Hugo, describing Uscolia as a modest size island, on the continuation of the curlicue that winds around the 49th parallel separating the US from Canada, and about 170 miles from both Seattle and Vancouver. Ben searched his memory. The name had a vague, fairy tale familiarity, like Serendip and Samarkand, which you know exist somewhere, but you are not quite sure where. There was once a prince of Samarkand... To be looked up later.

A cup of Arabica and the elegant and uplifting Courante injected some life into Ben’s arteries. He asked whether the island belonged to the United States or Canada. To neither, really, said Hugo. Lying in the path of the meridian that divides the two countries, and awkwardly out of the way, neither bothered to lay a strong claim to it. Captain Cook didn’t trouble himself to name it, referring to it merely as the island. Manuel Quimper didn’t even mention it. The Nootka convention, which settled the British and Spanish claims in the area, conveniently ignored it, perhaps because at the time there was no human settlement on it. The first known permanent resident of the island was Bruno Uscolo, former student at the University of Seville, who in 1823, after the defeat of the liberal movement and the onset of the Década Ominosa, embarked in Cádiz as a supernumerary on the Oriana, a 170-ton brig bound for the trading centers and furs of the Pacific Northwest. Before they even went through the Straits of Magellan, Uscolo and the captain quarreled, and by the time they crossed the equator, Uscolo asked to be landed. The captain liked the stubborn young man, despite his liberal delusions, and at first refused, but as they passed the mouth of the Columbia river, and Uscolo realized that the captain was heading for Alaska, he demanded to be put to shore on an island he spotted at starboard. Having had enough of Uscolo’s antics, the captain lowered him in a boat, with his trunk and whatever provisions, tools, and weapons were deemed to give him a fair chance at survival, and bid him good luck.

Hugo didn’t go to into the details of how Uscolo reconnoitered the island and eventually chose a cove on the east shore for his residence, having found abundant water, fuel, and food; this has been the subject of numerous books and was in the public domain. He did mention, though, that Uscolo chose to build his log