The Review of Education

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Imagination, Community and the School

Maxine Greene

To cite this article: Maxine Greene (1993) Imagination, Community and the School, The Review
of Education, 15:3-4, 223-231, DOI: 10.1080/0098559930150303

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 The Review of Education, Vol. 15, pp. 223-231
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1993 Gordon and Breach Science Publishers S. A.
Printed in the United States of America

Imagination, Community and the School

Maxine Greene
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Those of us concerned for the young and for public schools today are more aware
than ever before of the difficulty of reconciling the socio-economic demands being
made of those schools and the needs of children striving to survive and to make
sense in a not always hospitable world. We hear constantly that we do not meet
"world-class standards" when it comes to educationa commonly used fiction
vaguely understood. We are not, we are reminded, teaching in the manner required
of us if we are to insure this nation's technological and military primacy. What, it is
insistently implied, can be more important then being "number one" in the world?
(Surely not the happiness and health of children, released to find their own ways of
being children, oi existing in the world.) And who dares deny that revised modes of
assessment, increased rigor, and altered authority structures will guarantee success
for us all? It follows, given such a preoccupation, that certain children are conceived
of as human resources rather than persons. They are spoken of as if they were raw
materials, much of the time, to be shaped to market demand. They belong, as it were,
to a constructed category: beings who are to be shaped (benevolently and efficiently)
for uses others will define. But there are other categories as well, other constructs:
those containing children labelled "poor," or "at risk," or in some manner deficient.
They are to be blotted out if they cannot be used; they are to be thrust into invisibility.
It is as if the children worth investing in are the ones able to internalize a version of
Jay Gatsby's American Dream: "He was a son of Goda phrase which, if it means
anything, means just that, and he must be about His Father's business, the service of
a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty" (Fitzgerald, 1945, p. 91). Anyone worthy of
such a father would display the characteristic ambition of the patriarch; he would be
conceived to be "the right stuff," a proper human resource for the system. Relatively
few children, all in all, are thought to be valuable in this way or candidates for a guar-
anteed success. It is difficult to identify many young people with Gatsby's radiant
hope and piteous credulity; we know, as he did not, that upward mobility and accep-
tance at the upper levels can never be assured.
There is no question but that our schools must educate for a range of literacies to-
day. Everyone (including those classified as "at risk") has a claim to be enabled to
seek some sort of status, some sort of security in a society as unpredictable as ours.
Performance outcomes are stressed today, not objectives or mere competencies; and,
on the surface, this seems somehow "fair." Habits of mind are spoken of; emphasis is

MAXINE GREENE, a Contributing Editor, is Professor Emerita of Philosophy of Education at Teachers College,
Columbia University. (Correspondence: Division of Philosophy, The Social Sciences and Education, Teachers Col-
lege, Columbia University, New York, NY 10027.)

223
 224 Maxine Greene

laid on reflective practice in schoolroom and workplace. All this goes far beyond the
mere mastery of specialized skills. Unfortunately, those likely to develop, say, criti-
cal habits of mind are the willing and vivacious young people; and they are the "re-
sources" thought central to the restructuring of schools. The truly at risk, the sad
ones, the excluded ones are still benevolently presented as candidates for remedia-
tion. If they are satisfactorily remediated, they may be trained in the old sense; they
may be equipped with the supposedly outdated competencies. But few educators
think of communicating the sense of agency required to permit them to become self-
determining, comradely, expressive, and reflective, to take responsibility for them-
selves. In some sense, too many of us continue to construct the reality of young
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people today hierarchically. It is as if we track them in our own minds, as if there is a

givenness with respect to each one's location"high" or "low." Or, thinking opposi-
tionally, we cannot help defining "gif tedness" or even "competence" in relationship
to (say) "low I.Q." or "learning disabled." Along with this tracking or grading goes
(whether we are conscious of it or not) a kind of moral valuation; we construct scales
ranging from "motivated," "good," "civilized" all the way to "apathetic,"
"naughty," "animal."
This is no longer warranted by some vision of meritocracy nor of an economic
system stratified as it was a century ago. Given what has been happening economi-
cally and industrially in what is described as a "multi-national system," we cannot
prepare the young for traditional factory or assembly line employment. We cannot
even assume the division of labor taken for granted under early capitalism. We
know enough to realize that neither those we expect to prepare for dealing with ad-
vanced technology nor those looking forward to jobs in service industries can sur-
vive as mere automata. Remembering metaphors like those found in Elmer Rice's The
Adding Machine or Charles Chaplin's Modern Times, we grope for images appropriate
for this particular moment. Robo-cop? The Terminator? Hal in Space Odyssey 2001?
There will be enormous differences from what we remember. There will be instabil-
ity, what some call ephemerality. There will be emphases on process, on shifts and
tangents in individual lives. We will be less and less likely to focus on fixities, stasis,
even equilibrium. Despite all this and paradoxically, increasing numbers will be as-
signed to work stations where automatic responses are called for, where the con-
sciousness of agency is denied. We realize full well that there will be more
supermarket scanners, fast-food workers, airport clerks than people in computer-
ized, digitalized, or electronic domains. Those we now call "at risk" may be, for a
long time, marginalized or displaced. And then there are the relatively few antici-
pating work in one or another of the professions, all of which are changing in un-
precedented ways. The sole generalization that can be safely made is that no one of
the women and men emerging from the schools in the next decade or so can be left to
a purely mechanical, robotic life, no matter how challenging or how numbing the
work they find to do. They cannot be left to thoughtlessness, passivity, lassitude if
they are going to find pathways through the nettles, the swamps, the jungles of our
time. There may be all sorts of differences among them; but there is an intersubjec-
tive reality they will share, whoever they are. It has to do with their existence as situ-
ated living creatures thrown into the world, a contingent existence marked by a
desire (sometimes an inarticulate desire) to choose, to be, to become.
The recollection arises of Joseph Conrad's Marlow talking to the Lawyer, the Ac-
countant, and the Director of Companies at the start of Heart of Darkness. He is re-
 Imagination, Community, and the School 225

minding them of the days when England was a wilderness and the Romans came to
conquer, to confront what Marlow calls the incomprehensible. They felt regrets, he
said, disgust, a longing to escape. And then: "Mind, none of us would feel exactly
like this. What saves us is efficiency, the devotion to efficiency" (n.d., p. 221). And,
indeed, that isfor us as wellthe cover, the excuse for encouraging people to pre-
pare for jobs and do their jobs and avoid the disturbing search for something "that
throws a kind of light on everything," as Marlow puts it. It makes persons think
about their own thinking when they feel that light; but it does not settle everything,
nor solve the mystery. Nonetheless, Marlow offers a kind of paradigm to me because
of the way in which he speaks about what he has found: a way of searching, of voy-
aging; a task, an obligation that "shed a kind of light."
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It is with some of this in mind that I want to talk about imagination and commu-
nity, and what an interest in them might signify for teaching and for the ways we
address the young. It is imagination, Emily Dickinson wrote, that lights the "pos-
sible's slow fuse" (Kearney, 1988, p. 370). Imagination is the capacity to break with
the sense of social paralysis and to realize that things can be changed. It is, many
have pointed out, the ability to look at things as if they could be otherwise. For Mary
Warnock, imagination is what enables us to see "into the life of things." She associ-
ates it with the belief that there is more in our experience of the world "than can pos-
sibly meet the unreflecting eye, that our experience is significant for us and worth
the effort to understand it." Then, summing up:". . . there is always more to experi-
ence and more in our experience than we can predict. Without some such sense, even
on the quite human level of there being something which deeply absorbs our inter-
est, human life becomes perhaps not actually futile or pointless but experienced as if
it were. It becomes, that is to say, boring. In my opinion, it is the main purpose of edu-
cation to give people the opportunity of never being in this sense bored; of not ever
succumbing to a feeling of futility, or to the belief that they have come to the end of
what is worth having" (1978, pp. 202-3).
This seems to me to be of real significance, especially for schools today. Warnock
turns our attention to the values of awarenessawareness, if you like, of what it is to
be in the world. For me, that refers back to the existential experience shared by every-
one and the longing linked to it: to be awake, to choose, to reach beyond. Warnock
reminds us, when she speaks of there being more in experience than we can predict,
of the importance of noticing: the fabrics, the intertwined networks of the natural
and human world aroundits colors, its ecology. I want, after a while, to take heed
of the promise of art experiences when it comes to the opening of perspectives, the
overcoming of the routine, the habitual, the taken-f or-granted. Thinking of this even
for a moment, I am reminded of what poetry and dance can do, the magic done by
painting and poetry writing. I think, for example, of John Cage enabling us to hear
sounds somehow silenced by the habitual, excluded by what we ordinarily name as
music, offering us a metaphor for what it can mean to open up a world. And then I
think again of how infrequently poor children and "at risk" children are exposed to
actual dance performances or museum exhibitions. I think of how often, even in this
day of "whole language" and "writing across the curriculum," such children are
condemned to basal readers and "phonics" instead of being offered actual works of
literature.
We must not allow the enthusiasm for and the publicity about the changes in
reading instruction to obscure the facts of exclusion and neglect. Far too rarely do we
 226 Maxine Greene

think of the way imagination enlarges experience with poor children in mind. Fo-
cusing on remediation, we overlook the ways in which imagination opens windows
in the actual, discloses new perspectives, sheds (as Marlow put it) a kind of light.
Virginia Woolf used to speak of the shocks of awareness that released her from the
"cotton wool of daily life" (1976, p. 70); and it seems evident that such "shocks," mo-
ments of enhanced awareness, may well awaken troubled or unhappy children to
glimpses of possibility. Virginia Woolf wrote, also, of the powerlessness she associ-
ated with an inability to understand (her brother striking out at her without reason; a
family friend committing suicide) and of how the consciousness "if only at a dis-
tancethat I should in time explain it" helped her overcome the powerlessness. She
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went on to say that "a shock is at once in my case followed by the desire to explain it"
(p. 72). What can be more important than helping those called "at risk" escape the
category, overcome the powerlessness?
Imagination is as important in the lives of teachers, in part because teachers inca-
pable of thinking imaginatively or releasing students to encounter works of litera-
ture (or other works of art) are probably unable to communicate to the young what
the use of imagination signifies. They may also be lacking in empathy, if it is the case
that imagination feeds the capacity of empathy, or the ability to feel one's way into
another's vantage point. Cynthia Ozick writes of metaphorical concentration by
means of which, she says, doctors can imagine what it is to be their patients. "Those
who have no pain can imagine those who suffer. Those at the center can imagine
what it is to be outside. The strong can imagine the weak. Illuminated lives can imag-
ine the dark. Poets in their twilight can imagine the borders of stellar fire. We strang-
ers can imagine the familiar heart of strangers" (1989, p. 283). Is it not imagination
that allows us to encounter the other as disclosed through the image of that other's
face? I am thinking not only of the face of the hurricane survivor or the Somalian
child or the homeless woman sitting on the corner. I am thinking of the silent or the
fidgety or the hopeless child in the classroom, be that child girl or boy.
We might recall the uses of imagination when it comes to crossing gender lines.
There were the Clarence Thomas hearings and the cry that greeted the handling of
Anita Hill's testimony: "They just don't get it!" In part, the Senators' inability to
grasp what was happening was due to their amused indifference; but it was also due
to a failure of imagination that is instructive for teachers. Without the ability to imag-
ine how it was for Anita Hill or for anyone they conceived as "other," they showed
an incapacity to create or even participate in what might be called community.
What of the other of a different culture, the kind of person we were so long en-
couraged to submerge in a category labeled most often "minority"? Ralph Ellison's
narrator is entirely right when he says at the start of Invisible Man that his invisibility
"occurs because of a peculiar disposition of the eyes of those with whom I come in
contact. A matter of the construction of their inner eyes, those eyes with which they
look through their physical eyes upon reality" (1952, p. 7). It must be granted that
this construction is due to a number of factors, some of them economic and social,
some of them simply racist, with all that that implies. But part of what is involved is
an absence of imagination, again the absence of an ability to see the narrator as a liv-
ing human being, a man like all other men, a "paragon of animals," as Hamlet said,
and at once "a quintessence of dust." The seriousness of the existing condition in the
eyes of those who look is shown when Ellison's narrator says it makes him doubt if
he exists. "You wonder whether you aren't simply a phantom in other people's
 Imagination, Community, and the School 227

minds. Say a figure in a nightmare which a sleeper tries with all his strength to de-
stroy. It's when you feel like this, out of resentment, you begin to bump people back.
And, let me confess, you feel that way most of the time. You ache with the need to
convince yourself that you do exist in the real world, that you're a part of all the
sound and anguish, and you strike out with your fists, you curse and you swear to
make them recognize you. Alas, it's seldom successful" (pp. 7-8). Think of what it
would mean, in our increasingly multicultural classrooms, for teachers to be en-
abled by Ellison's art to imagine what it signifies to be "invisible" and to realize that
that person, too, is kin to them. And suddenly to remember Toni Morrison's charac-
ter in Beloved, remembered for his effort to describe how he felt about a particular
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woman. "She is a friend of my mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather
them and give them back to me all in the right order. It's good, you know, when you
got a woman who is a friend of your mind" (1987, pp. 272-3). This may be another
way of imagining: becoming a friend of someone else's mind, with the wonderful
power to return to that person a sense of wholeness. That may be because the imagi-
nation can bring the severed parts together very often, can integrate into "the right
order," can create wholes.
Linking imagination to the sense of possibility and the ability to respond to other
human beings, I want to explore its meanings for the making of community as
welland for the ability of young persons to interpret their experiences in a world
they come together to name. G. B. Madison, writing about the centrality of the
imagination, says that "it is through imagination, the realm of pure possibility that
we freely make ourselves to be who or what we are, that we creatively and imagina-
tively become who we are, while in the process preserving the freedom and possibil-
ity to be yet otherwise than what we have become and merely are" (1988, p. 191). The
becoming Madison describes is in a large degree dependent on membership in a
community of regard. Those who are labeled, fixed like butterflies in amber as
deficient have little chance to feel they can "be yet otherwise" than what they have
become. Marginalized, they are left to the experience of powerlessness Virginia
Woolf described unless (with support) they are enabled to "explain" and reach
beyond.
How are we to comprehend the kind of community that offers the opportunity
"to be otherwise"? Democracy, we realize, means a community that is always in the
making. Marked by an emerging solidarity, a sharing of certain beliefs, a dialogue
about others, it must remain open to newcomers, those too long thrust aside. This
can happen even in the local spaces of classrooms, particularly when students are
encouraged to find their voices and their images. Hannah Arendt once wrote about
the importance of diverse persons speaking to one another as "who" and not "what"
they are and, in so doing, creating an "in-between" among themselves (1958, p. 182).
Many of us have seen this happen when children inscribe ideas and feelings in jour-
nals that can be read by those around. We have seen it when children draw or paint
delight or pain on sheets of paper, hung up for others to see.
We need to emphasize the process words: "making," "creating," "weaving,"
"saying." Community cannot simply be produced through rational formulation nor
by edict. Like freedom, it has to be achieved by persons offered the space in which to
discover what they recognize together, appreciate in common, make intersubjective
sense. Again, it ought to be a space infused by the kind of imaginative awareness
that enables those involved to imagine alternative possibilities for their own becom-
 228 Maxine Greene

ing and their group's becoming. It is not a question of asking what contracts are the
most reasonable for individuals to enter. It is a question of what might contribute to
the pursuit of shared goods: what ways of being together, of attaining mutuality, of
reaching towards some common world.
People need a continuing consciousness of new beginnings so they can avoid the
sense of being fixed by categorization or definition or someone else's "inner eye."
For Hannah Arendt, every new beginning seems to break into the world as an "im-
probability" (1961, p. 161). This is because we are so used to looking at things from
the vantage point of systems or institutions. Viewed that way, human beings and
events seem caught up in trends and tendencies; there appear to be automatic, some-
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times inexorable movements backwards or forwards. People, young and old, be-
have; they do not act, since acting means the taking of initiatives. Only when we
change our vantage point and try to look from the perspective of the agent do we
perceive the possibility of new beginnings. To have a sense of agency, after all, is to
future, to choose, to look towards the unpredictable. And that means interrupting,
breaking into the chain of causes and effects, thinking of things as if they could be
otherwise.
We might think back to the Reverend Martin Luther King addressing himself to
individual persons in a church, moving them in their diversity to envisage possibil-
ityrenewed possibility for them as persons and as members, members of a gather-
ing concerned for civil rights. As they came awake to a dimension of lived life they
could scarcely have predicted for themselves, they came to feel a transcendence that
came from their being together in a particular way. The transcendence was often
deeply personal; but, experiencing it, they came together in a revitalized commu-
nity. It was a community of beginners, composed of those moved to imagine what
might be if they took action together. Numbers of them were children, we remember,
despised by many in the surrounding white world. Regard, responsibility, imagina-
tion, yes, and a love for them as worthy human beings: these are what moved them
beyond themselves and changed their very lives.
Moments like that in the civil rights movement, in movements supporting
homosexuals today, in work on behalf of the homeless seem to mark a kind of active
reciprocity among different people. There are instances of high school students
deciding to rehabilitate old buildings for their homeless classmates, instances of
assistance to AIDS victims, instances of garden-planting and tutoring: all of these
are what Arendt called "interruptions" of the apparently banal, uneventful, or
sensation-seeking ordinariness of young lives. It is hard not to recall Vaclav Havel,
interrupting the desperate boredom and hopelessness of prison life to express hope
in human communality in his Letters to Olga. A better outlook for such communality,
he wrote to his wife, does not lie in new programs or projects necessarily, but in "a
renaissance of elementary human relationships. . . Love, charity, sympathy,
tolerance, self-control, solidarity, friendship, feelings of belonging, the acceptance of
concrete responsibility for those close to one, these are, I think, expressions of the
new 'interexistentiality' that alone can breathe new meaning into the social
formations. . . that shape the fate of the world" (1983, p. 372). Havel recognized the
need for reflectiveness and dialogue if inauthenticity or utilitarianism was to be
avoided and if choices were to be made on behalf of what was life-giving. He
remained (improbably) open to hope, kept alive "in movements of youth in revolt, in
genuine peace movements, in varied activities in defense of human rights . . . in
 Imagination, Community, and the School 229

short, in all the constantly recurring attempts to create authentic and meaningful
communities that rebel against a world in crisis, not merely to escape from it, but to
devote their full effortswith the clear-sighted deliberation and humility that
always go with genuine faithto assume responsibility for the state of the world"
(p. 372).
And for the state of the children, we would add, children whose identities are con-
tingent on the existence of humane communities. Individual identity takes form in
the contexts of relationship and dialogue; our concern must be to create the kinds of
contexts that nurturefor all childrenthe sense of worthiness and agency. The
stigma of "disabled" or "low I.Q." or "lower socio-economic class" too frequently
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forces young persons into being the recipients of "treatment" or "training," some-
times from the most benevolent motives on the part of those hoping to "help." Far
too seldom are such young people looked upon as beings capable of imagining, of
choosing, of acting from their own vantage pointson perceived possibility. The re-
sult is that they are left subject to outside pressures, manipulations, and predictions.
The supports, the structures that exist are not used to sustain a sense of agency; they
shelter, instead, they legitimate treatment, remediation, control, anything but differ-
ence and release.
This is one of the reasons for arguing so strenuously for the arts and the presence
of art forms in classrooms. We are finding out how story-telling helps, how drawing
helps; but we need to go further to create situations in which something new can be
added each day to a learner's life. In our post-modern thinking, we have ceased to
conceive the human "subject" as either pre-determined or finally defined. We have
learned to think of persons in process, in pursuit of themselves and, we would hope,
of what they see as possibilities for themselves. Also, as we have begun speaking of
limited resistance to the workings of power in local spaces rather than in huge are-
nas, we can consider (as we could not before) what it may signify to deal specifically
with fixities and constructed categories, to let (as it were) specific children go. At-
tending concretely to them in their difference and their connectedness, feeling called
on truly to attendto read the word, to look at the sketchteachers may find them-
selves responding imaginatively and, at length, ethically. To respond to those once
called "at risk," once carelessly marginalized, as living beings capable of choosing
for themselves is, I believe, to be principled. Attending that way, we may be more
likely to initiate normative communities, illuminated by principle, informed by re-
sponsibility and care.
It is time to discover a new coherence and a new communality so that more young
people can transcend, can reach out to new pages on which to write. No one can
claim that encounters with the arts will solve all the problems where communality is
concerned; but it seems important to suggest the value of encouraging the participa-
tion of young readers and perceivers in the production of meanings through engage-
ments with art forms. More and more interest is being expressed throughout the
fields of the humanities in interpretation, in active attending and disclosing rather
than passive acceptance of what others have defined. Some of this derives from the
restiveness of women and excluded groups under the oppressive pressures of
authoritative voices. Some derives from the insistent sound of voices breaking
through the long-imposed silences: African-American voices, Latino voices, chil-
dren's voices, women's voices. Prompted to seek connection with diverse others,
students can come to realize the sense in which they achieve various texts as mean-
 230 Maxine Greene

ingful as they lend their lives to Pecola Breedlove, say, in Toni Morrison's The Bluest
Eye or to the Chinese railroad worker in Maxine Hong Kingston's China Men or to the
melancholy mambo singer in Oscar Hijuelos's The Mambo Kings Sing Songs of Love.
Lending their lives, young readers expand and deepen experience, ordered on these
occasions in unfamiliar ways.
When that happens, readers discover dimensions of their own experiences ordi-
narily unseen and unknown. Not only may there be a pull towards new relation-
ships, towards communitas. Such readers may be moved to new modes of
self-definition, new beginnings because of an emerging awareness of both differ-
ence and possibility. Links may be discovered between familiar reader selves and
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the self of Pecola or the railroad worker or the mambo player; and, as imagination is
set free, windows open in the actual, and all sorts of new alternatives for living be-
come clear.
Of course it is difficult to affirm the values of plurality and difference while work-
ing to build a community of persons who have a feeling of agency, who are ready to
speak for themselves. Once the distinctiveness and passion of many voices are at-
tended to, the importance of identifying shared beliefs is heightened. Again, they
can only emerge out of dialogue and regard for others in their freedom, in their pos-
sibility. Teachers can keep seeking connection pointsthrough art experiences and
story-telling, between their own personal histories and the histories of those they
teach. And students can be offered more and more time for telling their stories or
dancing them or singing them. They can be provoked to transmute some of those
stories imaginatively into formed content that can be shared in such a fashion that
friends can begin looking together and moving together in a forever expanding
space in their little world. Given an expanding sense of diversity, their telling and
their joining together may be informed now and then by outrage toooutrage at in-
justices and reifications and violations. Not only do teachers and learners together
need to tell and choose; they have to look towards untapped possibilityto light the
fuse, to explore what it might mean to transform.
We cannot predict the common world that may be in the making; nor can we fi-
nally justify one kind of community more than another. We can bring warmth into
places where young persons come together, however; we can bring in the laughter
that threatens monologism and rigidity. And surely we can affirm and reaffirm the
principles that center around belief in justice and freedom and respect for human
rights; since, without these, we cannot even call for the decency of welcoming and
inclusion for everyone, no matter how "at risk." Only if more and more persons, in
their coming together, learn to incarnate such principles and choose to live and
speak in accord with them, are we likely to bring a community into being. All we can
do is to speak with others as passionately and eloquently as we can; all we can do is
to look into each other's eyes and urge that other on to new beginnings. We want our
classrooms to be nurturing and thoughtful and just, all at once; we want them to pul-
sate with multiple conceptions of what it is to be human and alive. We want them to
resound with the voices of articulate young people, with their dialogues always in-
complete, with more to be discovered and more to be said. We want them to achieve
friendship as each one stirs to wide-awakeness, to imaginative action, to renewed
consciousness of possibility.
 Imagination, Community, and the School 231

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Ellison, R.
1952 Invisible Man. New York: Signet Books.
Fitzgerald, F.S.
1948 The Great Gatsby. New York: The Viking Press.
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Havel, V.
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