Two years ago, I wrote a piece for Mere Orthodoxy, “Homeschooling, Luddite Style.” At the time, screens in schools were only beginning to make alarmed headlines, and many parents seemed either to be in denial about the seriousness of it all, or perhaps just resigned to it. Indeed, one classical educator who criticized my piece at the time said that I was overly naïve and idealistic in condemning the use of technology in education.
Since then, however, the use of screens in education—even among homeschoolers—has only increased, as journalist Carrie McKean has documented in a downright apocalyptic recent series of articles for Christianity Today. In public schools, screen use has become axiomatic, and private schools are not exempt either. “My students don’t know what a notebook is; they think I mean a screen,” a friend who is a long-time teacher in a public elementary school remarked recently. All this screen learning has set the stage perfectly for replacement of teachers by AI. Indeed, the new and growing network of Alpha Schools offers education provided solely by AI—although there are humans on hand to keep the kids alive. Not to worry. Those humans too can soon be presumably replaced by robots—as soon as school insurance allows.
And so, in light of these developments, I want to revisit my argument from two years ago and double down: Yes, screen-free education is possible. Indeed, screen-free childhood is possible—and very much desirable. Freya India’s new book Girls: Generation Z and the Commodification of Everything is a must-read for those who remain unconvinced, as she offers a dystopian vision of what a screen-saturated childhood does, especially for girls. Meanwhile Clare Morell’s recent book The Tech Exit offers essential guidance for those who have found themselves and their kids sucked in by the endless onslaught of technology.
But in what follows, I want to offer something much simpler: just a glimpse into the life of a screen-free child. What might it even look like?
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As she wakes up, she reaches for the comic book that she set on the floor by her bed last night as she was falling asleep. Drowsily, she finds her spot in the book and reads for a few minutes before she hears other sounds in the house and realizes that her brother is awake. Excitedly, she then jumps out of bed and sprints downstairs to join him. Little feet they may be, but they still sound like elephants on a stampede in this old house.
Together they find a quick game to play together—maybe a few rounds of “Taco, Cat, Goat, Cheese, Pizza” or “Bingo” or even checkers. Other days they just sit on the couch downstairs side by side, still waking up slowly, each one absorbed in a different book, but longing for this quiet time together. A couple of hours later, mom serves breakfast. Then seeing them bouncing around so much, their energetic bodies seemingly humming in the chairs around the breakfast table, mom sends them outside for playtime before beginning the day’s schoolwork. Their brains just seem to work better when their active bodies are just a little bit tired. Who wants to sit when they could run? So out they go to walk around the block or maybe do some laps on the scooter or on their bikes. They get out the sidewalk chalk and make a fresh masterpiece on the driveway to replace the one the most recent rain had washed away to their chagrin (sic transit gloria mundi).
On snow days, abundant during some of these Midwestern winters, outside time might begin earlier—upon waking, essentially. So on they pile their layers of snow gear, then go to play for hours until the cold, inexorably seeping in through all the layers of clothing, and the smell of baking hashbrowns and breakfast sausages drives them inside. In the hottest days of summer, outside time comes early as well—for the opposite reason. Quickly they rush outside to play before it gets too hot.
At last, after breakfast and play time, the day’s lessons can begin. So each one works through a math lesson (with a book, a paper notebook, and pencil), then Latin and Greek for the older one (yet more books and paper notebooks), and the continued slow journey through the trusty McGuffey’s Reader for the younger one. Mom helps as needed, especially working one-on-one with the younger reader, who still needs significant assistance, but is eager to do more and more on her own as well. And then we read aloud—or maybe we did it before everything else, depending on the day and the mood.
We read aloud some more after, always with paper books, whether our own or those borrowed from the public library. Then after the structured lesson time, more reading yet, alone or together, and time for piano practice, and time for making art. Crayons, markers, stamp-makers, and many other paraphernalia are scattered all over the house, following the youngest artist as a cloud of detritus as she moves through her day. Sometimes new art is taped on the walls by the end of the day. Old art is never removed, and undecorated wall space is growing sparse, but such too is life without screens.
On nice days, they set out the hammock on a stand in the shade of some trees in the back yard, then read there for hours more or peacefully color. But we live in an already-but-not-yet, so some time for fighting must be set apart as well, for sure. For while the hammock packaging promised that two can comfortable sit inside, the reality for two siblings is more complicated. Still, peace is always achieved at the end, somehow, even if some vociferous fighting must precede it. And even if mom must offer bribery to encourage a peace treaty (“if you stop fighting, everyone gets a cookie”).
Some days, activities outside the home intersperse these other simple and joyful routines. Debate club for the older brother, ballet for his sister, play dates for both (some scheduled and others impromptu), library forays, and near-daily walks to the park and around town. Endless hours at the splash pad during the summer, and day trips to the botanical garden or the zoo year-round. Chores too, of course—sweeping the floors, vacuuming, dusting, resisting laundry’s unrelenting onslaught, and picking up toys and all those art paraphernalia around the nooks and crannies of the house. So it all goes, on and on.
It is remarkable how quickly the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years get filled up. All of it a gift, a joy, even the daily fighting too—and as these moments rush by, the children grow, ever taller, more pensive, less prone to climb every tree they see just because it is there. Isn’t this the stuff of childhood—what children were meant to do and be? Why rush their growing up, when there is such simple joy yet to savor for a child. Behold, if you sit quietly on the back stoop in the evening, you may see fireflies in the summer, or see the neighborhood bunnies come out of hiding and hop around unafraid.
As evening grows late, dinner together, then bath and bedtime routine with dad—who used to read books to all the kids together, but now the oldest is a grown-up, and the other two no longer fit on dad’s lap both at once for reading time. Besides, the next brother can read much faster for himself now. And so, many nights now, it is the seven-year-old sister who gets a bedtime story on her own from dad. For months now, they have been on a J.R.R. Tolkien kick. After completing The Hobbit, on they went to “A Leaf by Niggle,” and now more Tolkien short stories. Unable to read such books on her own yet, she understands and absorbs what she hears with wide-eyed delight—much as residents of oral cultures of times past could retain vast swaths of poetry in their minds, and many stories too.
Prayers and bedtime conclude the day, and it grows quiet in the house. They sleep well, worn out from their full days of being kids—playing, learning, reading, reflecting, running to the park and back home again, and reading some more. Their time is remarkably full—and it is filled with other people. Fully present, they live their days together—with each other, with mom and dad, with friends, and others all around.
Is such a life still possible? Of course, it is—and not for homeschoolers alone, if one can find a school that is screen-free. But the above story is no mere hypothetical scenario, no fiction this. Such is my family’s life, chaotic and filled with activities, work and play, books and books and yet more books. And people, God’s image-bearers, dwelling with each other in community and conversation, and sometimes even in harmony.