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When test scores fall or attendance drops, we repeat the refrain that schools are failing. The response is always the same: more accountability and tighter pacing are needed, more assessments, fewer “distractions.”
We double down on standardized testing and compliance, then act surprised when students feel less connected, teachers feel more constrained and families are further marginalized.
Over a century ago, the philosopher John Dewey warned against this. He argued schools should be democratic communities where young people learn to live together, not just comply or produce scores. For Dewey, education wasn’t just preparation for life, but life itself, practiced daily.
Dewey couldn’t predict social media, but he understood something we still struggle to face: democracy does not sustain itself. It has to be practiced. Today, young people spend hours online where ideas spread instantly, misinformation travels fast and disagreement collapses into ridicule or silence. These platforms shape students’ sense of truth, authority and belonging before they enter a classroom.
In this context, schools matter more than ever as places that model democratic participation. I’ve seen this in philosophy circles I’ve hosted with retired Eugene teacher and University of Oregon philosophy instructor Paul Bodin, where students ask high-level moral and ethical questions, challenge each other’s thinking and, most importantly, learn to listen and seek clarification. This instruction offers a counterweight to online spaces and scripted curriculum: relationships and discussions that last beyond the school day. Students learn that in-person communities are where dialogue has consequences and people are accountable to each other.
History shows what happens when we ignore this. Education historians David Tyack and William Tobin documented a pattern: new promises layered on old structures, more accountability without real change. Schools are asked to address social and economic inequality while being organized in ways that reproduce it, sorting students by testing data, rationing opportunities and claiming the results are merit-based.
That pattern persists in today’s debates about learning loss and achievement gaps. Lost in those conversations are whether we as a society will confront the conditions shaping students’ lives, or keep pretending that better test prep can compensate for hunger, unstable housing and untreated medical needs.
Schools have become one of our most reliable public institutions. Families turn to them when food runs out, money is tight or a child needs counseling. Yet we rarely design schools to meet these realities. Instead, we insist that educators “stick to the curriculum,” as if learning happens apart from health, safety and dignity.
Meanwhile, the structure of the school day undermines the learning that democracy requires. Traditional schedules fracture knowledge into disconnected subjects and discourage curiosity.
Students rush from class to class, rarely given time to make connections or pursue ideas deeply. Teachers collaborate less than they want, curricula are bought for promises of higher test scores and classrooms become something to endure rather than inhabit.
This fragmentation is reinforced by digital platforms, which encourage constant switching and little reflection. Democracy depends on habits social media doesn’t reward: patience, listening, revision and care. If schools want students to become thoughtful citizens, they must first function as civilized communities.
This is urgent because we know better. Standardized tests capture only a narrow slice of learning. Excessive testing disproportionately harms students already facing inequities. And when schools prioritize relationships, academic outcomes improve.
The question isn’t whether schools can change — they can. It’s whether we’re willing to let go of the illusion that control and test scores produce equity.
Democratic schools don’t ask students to leave their lives at the door or treat them as problems or data points. They understand learning isn’t just reading and writing, but also navigating institutions, telling one’s story and being heard. If schools abandon this purpose, young people will still learn to participate in public life, but they’ll do so elsewhere, shaped by algorithms instead of relationships.