My parents were in a huge argument, and I was really upset about it. I didn't know who I should talk with about how I was feeling. So I asked Mom to allow me to stay the night at my best friend's house. Though I knew I wouldn't tell her about my parents' situation, I was looking forward to getting out of the house. I was in the middle of packing up my things when suddenly the power went out in the neighborhood. Mom came to tell me that I should stay with my grandpa until the power came back on.

    I was really disappointed because I felt that we did not have much to talk about. But I knew he would be frightened alone in the dark. I went to his room and told him that I'd stay with him until the power was restored. He was quite happy and said, “Great opportunity.”

    “What is it?” I asked.

    “To talk, you and I” he said. “To hold a private little meeting about what we're going to do with your mom and dad, and what we're going to do with ourselves now that we're in the situation we are in.”

    “But we can't do anything about it. Grandpa,” I said, surprised that here was someone with whom I could share my feelings and someone who was in the same “boat” as I was.

    And that's how the most unbelievable friendship between my grandfather and me started. Sitting in the dark, we talked about our feelings and fears of life — from how fast things change to how they sometimes don't change fast enough. That night, because the power went out, I found a new friend, with whom I could safely talk about all my fears and pains, whatever they may be. Suddenly, the lights all came back on. “Well,” he said, “I guess that means you'll want to go now. I really like our talk. I hope the power will go out every few nights!”

    The question of what children learn, and how they should learn it, is continually being debated and redebated. Nobody dares any longer to defend the old system, the parrot-fashion（way of learning by repeating what others say）of learning lessons, the grammar-with-a-whip（鞭子）system, which was good enough for our grandparents. The theories of modern psychology have stepped in to argue that we must understand the needs of our children. Children are not just small adults; they are children who must be respected as such.

    Well, you may say, this is as it should be, and a good idea. But think further. What happens? “Education” becomes the responsibility not of teachers, but of psychologists. What happens then? Teachers worry too much about the psychological implications（暗示） of their lessons, and forget about the subjects themselves. If a child dislikes a lesson, the teacher feels that it is his fault, not the child's. So teachers worry whether history is “relevant” to modern young children. And do they dare to recount stories about violent battles? Or will this make the children themselves violent? Can they tell their classes about children of different races, or will this encourage racial hatred? Why teach children to write grammatical sentences? Oral expression is better. Sums? Arithmetic? No; real-life mathematical situations are more understandable.

    You see, you can go too far. Influenced by educational theorists, who have nothing better to do than write books about their ideas, teachers leave their teaching-training colleges filled with grand, psychological ideas about children and their needs. They make complicated preparations and try out their “modern methods” on the long-suffering children. Since one “modern method” rapidly replaces another, the poor kids will have well been fed up by the time they leave school. Frequently the modern methods are so complicated that they fail to be understood by the teachers, let alone the children; even more often, the relaxed discipline so necessary for the “informal” feeling the class must have, prevents all but a handful of children from learning anything.

    Like many other of our lives today, education has become a global enterprise. In microcosm（微观世界）, my school is proof of how global. Monkseaton High School is an ordinary state-funded school of 850 students in the unfashionable part of northeastern England. Over the past seven years it has sent 12 students to American universities — two of them to Harvard. Monkseaton has, in turn, attracted students from other countries, including Germany and Latvia. Monkseaton now almost routinely receives inquiries from students in Eastern European countries. Obviously, learning English is a big draw, but his pattern ofstudent movement was unheard of five years ago.

    The brain drain is a universal phenomenon, and countries that don't face up to the new reality will be losing some of their most precious resources. The northeast of England is its poorest region, and has experienced a severe loss of highly qualified professionals-to-be. Some of the most able 18-year-olds are going to other parts of Britain, even to other countries. What is happening here is happening to Britain as a whole. Most noticeably, there is a growing trend of British students taking degrees in American universities. This year the number will break the psychological barrier of 1,000 students for the first time.

    And what is happening at the secondary-school level is happening to higher education. Wherever they come from, today's students have a very different perspective on education from their parents. Because of television, the Internet and their travels, these students see the world as a much smaller place than their parents once did. They are more confident in accepting the challenge of moving from one country to another, from one culture to another; in many cases they can even apply to schools over the Internet. Students are also more aware of the overall cost of education and are looking for value for money. Plus, for many, education linked to travel is a better option than education at home.

    When school started on that warm August day, I threw myself into everything I did, including playing volleyball. I decided to become beautiful, or at the very least, skinny. I stopped eating completely. Soon I began losing weight, which thrilled me, and I even grew to love the tiredness and lightheadedness( 头晕)that came with my poor diet, for those feelings meant that I was winning.

    As the season progressed, things had become tense between my head volleyball coach, Coach Smith, and me. She felt that something was wrong with my health. She talked with me about my eating and was angry that I wouldn't listen to her when she tried to make me eat. She tried to persuade me in a determined way and so we fought constantly. Then my hunger started to affect my performance. I was so tired that practice and games were becoming a struggle. One afternoon, with hurt in her eyes, Coach Smith asked me what I had eaten and I told her nothing yet. She looked at me, disappointment in her eyes, knowing she couldn't make me stop, and walked away.

    A couple of weeks later I attended a formal dinner for our volleyball team. I stood there as my coach managed to say something nice about me. I realized then that I had ruined my senior year by being disrespectful, and I had probably ruined hers as well. So that evening I wrote her a letter apologizing and thanking her.

    Then one Saturday, as I was reading in the library, I felt someone gently take my arm and say softly, “Lynn Jones, how are you doing?” I looked up and saw the familiar face. “Thanks for the letter,” she said. “It meant a lot.” When I think of a coach, I think of someone above me, someone who gives instruction — not a friend. But Coach Smith is different, and, like any other good friend, she dealt with my problem in a determined way even when I hated her for it at that time. I didn't deserve her kindness, but she gave it anyway. I will forever be grateful for her help, and now for her friendship.

    Why don't quiet carriages work, and how might they be make to? Quiet carriages on trains are a nice idea: travelers voluntarily make their phones silent, turn stereos off and keep chatter to a minimum. However, in reality, there is usually at least one silly babbler (喋喋不休的人) to break the silence.

    A couple of problems prevent peaceful trips. First, there is a sorting problem: some passengers end up in the quiet carriage by accident and are not aware of the rules. Second, there is a commitment problem: noise is sometimes made by travelers who choose the quiet carriage but find an important call hard to ignore.

    The train operators are trying to find answers. Trains in Queensland Australia, are having permanent signs added to show exactly what is expected; a British operator has invested in some technology to prevent phone calls.

    Microeconomics suggests another approach. Fining people for making a noise would surely dissuade (劝阻) the polluter and is a neat solution in theory, but it requires costly monitoring and enforcement. Another way would be to use prices to separate quiet and noisy passengers—in effect, creating a market for silence. A simple idea would be to sell access to the quiet carriage as an optional extra when the ticket is bought. Making the quiet coach both an active choice and a costly one would dissuade many of those who don't value a peaceful ride.

    Charging may also solve the commitment problem. This is particularly tricky, as attitudes to noise can change during the journey. Some passengers would pay the quiet premium but still chatter away when some vital news arrives. Schemes that reward the silent—a rating system among fellow passengers, for example—could help. The idea is that losing your hard-won reputation offsets the short-term gain from using the phone. But such a system also fails the simplicity test.

    A 2010 book by George Akerlof and Rachel Kranton argues that "norms"—feelings about how everyone should behave—also play a role in decision-making. Charging a price, even if just a token amount, means the quiet carriage becomes a service that fellow passengers have bought, not just a preference they have expressed. Perhaps different norms would come into play, encouraging calm. If not, a personal bubble is always an option: noise-canceling headphones start at around $50.

    Let children learn to judge their own work. A child learning to talk does not learn by being corrected all the time; if corrected too much, he will stop talking. He notices a thousand times a day the difference between the language he uses and the language those around him use. Bit by bit, he makes the necessary changes to make his language like other people's. In the same way, children learn to do all the other things without being taught to walk, run, climb, whistle, ride a bicycle…They compare their own performances with those of more skilled people, and slowly make the needed changes. But in school we never give a child a chance to find out his mistakes and correct them for himself. We do it all for him. We act as if we thought that he would never notice a mistake. If it is a matter in mathematics or science, give him the answer book. Let him correct his own papers. Why should we teachers waste time in such routine(日常的) work? Our job should be to help the child when he tells us that he can't find the way to get the right answer. Let the children learn what all educated persons must some day learn, how to measure their own understanding, how to know what he does not know.