And what did you learn today?
Condensed
from “Papa, My Father”
Leo
Buscaglia
When Papa was growing up, at the turn
of the century in a village in northern Italy, education was for the rich. Papa was the son of a dirt-poor farmer. He used to tell us that he couldn’t recall a
single day when he wasn’t working. The
concept of doing nothing was never a part of his life. In fact, he couldn’t fathom it. How could one do nothing?
He was taken from school in the fifth
grade over the protestations of his
teacher and the village priest, who saw in him great potential for formal
learning. Papa went to work in a
factory.
The world became his school. He was interested in everything. He read all
the books, magazines, and newspapers he could lay his hands on. He loved to listen to the town elders and
learn about the world beyond this tiny, insular
region that was home to generations of Buscaglias before him. Papa’s great
respect for learning and his sense of wonder about the outside world were
carried across the sea with him to America and later passed on to his family.
He was determined that none of his children would be denied an education.
Papa believed that the greatest sin
was to go to bed at night as ignorant as when we awakened. “There is so much to
learn,” he’d say. “Though we’re born stupid, only the stupid remain that way,”
To ensure that none of his children
ever fall into the trap of complacency,
Papa insisted that we learn at least one new thing each day. And dinner seemed the perfect forum for
sharing what we had learned that day.
Naturally, as children, we though this was crazy. There was no doubt,
when we compared such paternal
concerns with those of other fathers, Papa was weird.
It would never occurred to us to deny
Papa a request. So when my brothers and
sisters and I congregated in the bathroom to clean up for dinner, the inevitable question was: “What did you learn today?” if the answer was
“nothing,” we did not dare sit at the table without first finding a fact in our
much-used encyclopedia. “The population
of Nepal is….” Now, armed with our
fact, we were ready for dinner. I can
still see the table, piled with mountains of pasta, so large that I was often
unable to see my sister sitting across from me.
Dinner was a noisy time of clattering
dishes and animated conversations,
conducted in Piedmontese dialect since Mama didn’t speak English. The news we recounted, no matter how insignificant, was never taken lightly.
Mama and Papa listened carefully and were ready with some comment, often
profound and analytical, always to the point.
“That was the smart thing to do.” “Stupido, how could you be so dumb?” “Cosi sia, you deserved it.” “E allora., no one is perfect.” “Testa dura (hardhead) didn’t we teach
you anything?” “Oh, that’s nice.”
Then came the grand finale, the moment
we dreaded most—the time to share the day’s new learning.
Papa, at the head of the table, would
push back his chair, pour a glass of red wine, light up a potent Italian cigar,
inhale deeply, exhale and take stock of his family.
This
always had a slightly unsettling effect on us as we stared back at Papa,
waiting for him to say something. He would tell us that if he didn’t take time
to look, we would soon be grown and he would have missed us. So he’d stare at
his children, one after the other.
Finally his attention would settle on
one of us. “Felice,” he’d say, calling me by my baptismal name, “tell me what
you learned today.”
“I learned that the population of
Nepal is…..”
Silence.
It always amazed me—and reinforced my
belief that Papa was a little crazy—that nothing I ever said was too trivial
for him. First, he’d think about what
was said as if the salvation of the world depended upon it. “The population of
Nepal. Hmmm. Well.”
He would then look down the table at
Mama, who would be ritualistically fixing her favorite fruit in a bit of
leftover wine. “Mama, did you know that?”
Mama’s responses always lightened the
otherwise reverential atmosphere.
“Nepal?” she’d say, “Not only don’t I know the population of Nepal, I don’t
know where in God’s world it is!” Of
Course, this only played into Papa’s hands.
“Felice,” he’d say. “Get the atlas so
we can show Mama where Nepal is.” And the whole family went on a search for
Nepal.
This same experience was repeated
until each family member had a turn. No
dinner ended without our having been enlightened by at a least half a dozen
facts.
As children, we thought very little
about these educational wonders. We were too impatient to join our less educated
friends in a rip-roaring game of kick-the-can.
In retrospect, I realize what a
dynamic educational technique Papa was offering us. Without being aware of it, our family was growing together,
sharing experiences and participating in one another’s education. And by looking at us, listening to us,
respecting our input, affirming our value, giving us a sense of a dignity, Papa
was unquestionably our most influential teacher.
Early in my college years I decided
upon a career in teaching. During my training, I studied with some of the most
renowned educators in the country. When I finally emerged from academia,
generously endowed with theory and jargon
and technique, I discovered, to my great amusement, that my professors were
imparting what Papa had known all along—the value of continual learning.
He knew there is no greater wonder
than the human capacity to learn, that the tiniest particle of knowledge has
the power to better us. “How long we live is limited,” he said, “but how much
we learn is not. What we learn is what
we are.”
Papa’s technique has served me well
all my life. Now before my head hits the pillow each night, I hear Papa’s
voice: “Felice, what did you learn today?”
Sometimes I can’t recall even one
thing I have learned. Though exhausted
after long hours at work, I get myself out of bed and scan the bookshelves to
find something new. With that
accomplished, Papa and I can rest soundly, assured that a day has not been
wasted. After all, one never can tell when knowing the population of Nepal
might prove useful.
Discussion
Questions:
1)
What values
are exemplified in this story?
2)
What was the
gift of Papa to Felice?
3)
What do we
learn about lifelong learning in this story?