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Many of our contemporary educational problems and controversies can be understood as part of a persisting American ideological commitment to success—to a firm belief in its possibility, to a desire for proof of its achievement, here and now. Even Cotton Mather, no pagan hedonist or crass materialist or psychologically "oriented" suburbanite, wanted his children to prosper—and saw in such a fate for them a realization of himself. Today many of us fight for our children as if it were heaven itself we have in mind as we roll up our sleeves or bare our teeth. If public schools lack certain qualities, then one must find them in private schools. If a particular community cannot provide what the child "needs," one must move elsewhere, or turn to various levels of political authority in urgent protest. If one book fails, or one educational philosophy, or one guru's written or spoken words, we do not become apathetic or skeptical or wryly amused; we do not turn to ourselves, and assume our own sovereignty, so to speak, as human beings who have a right, even an obligation, to hold on to certain ethical propositions, beliefs, standards—even at a sacrifice. Rather, we become restless, feel dissatisfied with someone or something "out there," and immediately undertake yet another search: so-and-so's new theory; a school that is radically different; or, in another direction, a school that won't give in to recent and suspect innovations. The men and women who settled this country in the 17th century and fought for its independence in the 18th century hoped that if they held themselves to account, worked hard and demanded much of their children, salvation would eventually come and, too, be anticipated by signs here on earth: the obedient, pious child as a prophet. We have yet to relinquish that role for our children; they may not forecast heaven or hell for us, but they are all we seem to feel we have—and our obsession with them may be our way of saying that we place little stock in the lasting value of everything else we have, often in such abundance.
Not that preoccupations do not undergo a change in character over time. Many parents today have become disenchanted with endless psychological explanation and proscriptions. The phenomenon of permissiveness was, to a degree, real, and not simply a cleverly used political epithet. Dr. Spock has acknowledged that perhaps he ought to have advised more firmness toward children at certain points in their lives. Anna Freud, the founding and guiding spirit of child psychoanalysis, has acknowledged a definite faddish element in the name of her own discipline. Right now the nature of America's future is in question; we are no longer indisputably the world's strongest power, with an apparently limitless supply of resources. As a result, the nation must begin acting more circumspectly, with more self-control and a greater willingness to live with ambiguities rather than attempt to come up with clean-cut solutions to every problem everywhere. By the same token, an increasing number of our parents are finding it possible to set limits on their children, to ask of them as well as give to them, and to regard them more realistically—as messengers of hope but not by any means guarantors of a near-perfect world to come.