Proverbe/citation
du jour
«Le
savoir que l'on ne complète pas chaque jour diminue tous les jours.»
-Proverbe Chinois
L'éducation et le
contrôle de la société
C'est
par ce que je considère un bon coup de chance que je suis tombé
mardi soir sur un extrait de la série Twilight Zone diffusé dans le
courant des années 1980, ledit extrait, intitulé «Examination
Day», est basé sur une courte nouvelle de Henry Slesar publiée
dans Playboy en 1958.
 |
| Hendy Slesar |
Le récit, qui se passe dans un futur non précisé, relate l'histoire de Dickie Jordan, un jeune garçon de 12 ans célébrant son anniversaire et qui doit passer un examen obligatoire de QI qui a un impact significatif sur la suite des choses pour tous les citoyens le subissant.
Les parents de Dickie semblent inquiets mais nous ne pouvons savoir exactement pourquoi. Est-ce parce qu'ils croient que leur enfant ne sera pas capable de réussir le test en question ou serait-ce pour une autre raison qui nous échappera jusqu'à la toute fin de l'histoire?
Afin de garder suspence intact pour ceux et celles qui, parmi vous, voudraient le découvrir par eux-mêmes, je donne immédiatement un lien vers la vidéo de ce segment de l'émission et le texte original de Henry Slesar figure à la fin de ce billet. Les gens trop curieux, quant à eux, peuvent poursuivre la lecture sans plus tarder suite au lien vers le vidéo qui suit :
 |
| Dickie prend le sérum de vérité |
Dickie,
quand à lui, est trop intelligent selon les standards, ce qui signe
son arrêt de mort, ses parents se retrouvant suite à l'examen face
à un dilemme : laisser le gouvernement s'occuper des
funérailles du jeune garçon ou bien s'en occuper eux-mêmes.
Nous
pouvons retenir deux thèmes de l'histoire :
- Le gouvernement a un ferme contrôle sur les citoyens via les médias et l'éducation ;
- En empêchant les enfants plus intelligents que la moyenne «acceptable» de devenir des adultes, l'État garantit son contrôle sur la société.
Sans
aller jusqu'à croire que nos dirigeants actuels sont prêts à aller
aussi loin pour s'assurer de notre obéissance, nous pouvons
sérieusement nous questionner jusqu'à quel point la médiocrité de
notre système éducatif et le manque de motivation pour apprendre de
la part des citoyens facilite le travail des gens qui veulent
profiter de la situation pour en arriver à leurs fins, que ce soit
par exemple pour vendre des produits médiocres au peuple ou se faire
élire comme députés..
Le
texte original de la nouvelle de Henry Slesar, paru dans Playboy en
1958 :
Examination Day
The Jordans never spoke of the exam, not until their son, Dickie, was twelve years old. It was on his birthday that Mrs Jordan first mentioned the subject in his presence, and the anxious manner of her speech caused her husband to answer sharply.
‘Forget about it,’
he said. ‘He’ll do all right.’
They were at breakfast
table, and the boy looked up from his plate curiously. He was an
alert-eyed youngster with flat blond hair and a quick, nervous
manner. He didn’t understand what the sudden tension was about, but
he did know that today was his birthday, and he wanted harmony above
all. Somewhere in the little apartment there were wrapped, beribboned
packages waiting to be opened, and in the tiny wall-kitchen something
warm and sweet was being prepared in the automatic stove. He wanted
the day to be happy, and the moistness of his mother’s eyes, the
scowl on his father’s face, spoiled the mood of fluttering
expectation with which he had greeted the morning.
‘What exam?’ he
asked.
His mother looked at
the tablecloth. ‘It’s just a sort of Government Intelligence test
they give children at the age of twelve. You’ll be taking it next
week. It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘You mean a test like
in school?’
‘Something like
that,’ his father said, getting up from the table. ‘Go and read
your comics, Dickie.’ The boy rose and wandered towards that part
of the living room which had been ‘his’ corner since infancy. He
fingered the topmost comic of the stack, but seemed uninterested in
the colourful squares of fast-paced action. He wandered towards
the window, and peered gloomily at the veil of mist that shrouded the
glass.
‘Why did it have to
rain today?’ he said. ‘Why couldn’t it rain tomorrow?’
His father, now slumped
into an armchair with the Government newspaper rattled the
sheets in vexation. ‘Because it just did, that’s all. Rain makes
the grass grow.’
‘Why, Dad?’
‘Because it does,
that’s all.’
Dickie puckered his
brow. ‘What makes it green, though? The grass?’
‘Nobody knows,’ his
father snapped, then immediately regretted his abruptness.
Later in the day, it
was birthday time again. His mother beamed as she handed over the
gaily-coloured packages, and even his father managed a grin and a
rumple-of-the-hair. He kissed his mother and shook hands gravely
with his father. Then the birthday cake was brought forth, and the
ceremonies concluded.
An hour later, seated
by the window, he watched the sun force its way between the clouds.
‘Dad,’ he said,
‘how far away is the sun?’
‘Five thousand
miles,’ his father said.
Dickie sat at the breakfast table and again saw moisture in his mother’s eyes. He didn’t connect her tears with the exam until his father suddenly brought the subject to light again.
Dickie sat at the breakfast table and again saw moisture in his mother’s eyes. He didn’t connect her tears with the exam until his father suddenly brought the subject to light again.
‘Well, Dickie,’ he
said, with a manly frown, ‘you’ve got an appointment today.’
‘I know Dad. 1 hope
–’
‘Now, it’s nothing
to worry about. Thousands of children take this test every day. The
Government wants to know how smart you are, Dickie. That’s all
there is to it.’
‘I get good marks in
school,’ he said hesitantly.
‘This is different.
This is a – special kind of test. They give you this stuff to
drink, you see, and then you go into a room where there’s a sort of
machine –‘
‘What stuff to
drink?’ Dickie said.
‘It’s nothing. It
tastes like peppermint. It’s just to make sure you answer the
questions truthfully. Not that the Government thinks you won’t
tell the truth, but it makes sure.’
Dickie’s face showed
puzzlement, and a touch of fright. He looked at his mother, and she
composed her face into a misty smile.
‘Everything will be
all right,’ she said.
‘Of course it will,’
his father agreed. ‘You’re a good boy, Dickie; you’ll make out
fine. Then we’ll come home and celebrate. All right?’
‘Yes sir,’ Dickie
said.
They entered the Government Educational Building fifteen minutes before the appointed hour. They crossed the marble floors of the great pillared lobby, passed beneath an archway and entered an automatic lift that brought them to the fourth floor.
They entered the Government Educational Building fifteen minutes before the appointed hour. They crossed the marble floors of the great pillared lobby, passed beneath an archway and entered an automatic lift that brought them to the fourth floor.
There was a young man
wearing an insignia-less tunic, seated at a polished desk in front of
Room 404. He held a clipboard in his hand, and he checked the list
down to the Js and permitted the Jordans to enter.
The room was as cold
and official as a courtroom, with long benches flanking metal tables.
There were several fathers and sons already there, and a thin-lipped
woman with cropped black hair was passing out sheets of paper.
Mr Jordan filled out
the form, and returned it to the clerk. Then he told Dickie: ‘It
won’t be long now. When they call your name, you just go through
the doorway at the end of the room.’ He indicated the portal with
his finger.
A concealed loudspeaker
crackled and called off the first name. Dickie saw a boy leave his
father’s side reluctantly and walk slowly towards the door.
At five minutes to
eleven, they called the name of Jordan.
‘Good luck, son,’
his father said, without looking at him. ‘I’ll call for you when
the test is over.’
Dickie walked to the
door and turned the knob. The room inside was dim, and he could
barely make out the features of the grey-tunicked attendant who
greeted him.
‘Sit down,’ the man
said softly. He indicated a high stool beside his desk. ‘Your
name’s Richard Jordan?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your classification
number is 600-115. Drink this, Richard.’
He lifted a plastic cup
from the desk and handed it to the boy. The liquid inside had the
consistency of buttermilk, tasted only vaguely of the promised
peppermint. Dickie downed it, and handed the man the empty cup.
He sat in silence,
feeling drowsy, while the man wrote busily on a sheet of paper. Then
the attendant looked at his watch, and rose to stand only inches from
Dickie’s face. He unclipped a penlike object from the pocket of his
tunic, and flashed a tiny light into the boy’s eyes.
‘All right,’ he
said. ‘Come with me, Richard.’
He led Dickie to the
end of the room, where a single wooden armchair faced a multi-dialled
computing machine. There was a microphone on the left arm of the
chair, and when the boy sat down, he found its pinpoint head
conveniently at his mouth.
‘Now just relax,
Richard. You’ll be asked some questions, and you think them
over carefully. Then give your answers into the microphone. The
machine will take care of the rest.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll leave you
alone now. Whenever you want to start, just say “ready” into the
microphone.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The man squeezed his
shoulder, and left.
Dickie said, ‘Ready.’
Lights appeared on the
machine, and a mechanism whirred. A voice said: ‘Complete this
sequence. One, four, seven, ten . .
Mr and Mrs Jordan were in the living room, not speaking, not even speculating.
Mr and Mrs Jordan were in the living room, not speaking, not even speculating.
It was almost four
o’clock when the telephone rang. The woman tried to reach it first,
but her husband was quicker.
‘Mr Jordan?’
The voice was clipped:
a brisk, official voice.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘This is the
Government Educational Service. Your son, Richard M Jordan,
Classification 600-115 has completed the Government examination. We
regret to inform you that his intelligence quotient is above the
Government regulation, according to Rule 84 Section 5 of the New
Code.’
Across the room, the
woman cried out, knowing nothing except the emotion she read on her
husband’s face.
‘You may specify by
telephone,’ the voice droned on, ‘whether you wish his body
interred by the Government, or would you prefer a private burial
place? The fee for Government burial is ten dollars.’
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