91制片厂视频

In 1969, when I was a 15-year-old public school student in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, my English teacher gave me a copy of Summerhill: A Radical Approach to Child Rearing by A.S. Neill. 鈥淭his one, you鈥檒l like,鈥� he said. Summerhill describes a boarding school in England that Neill founded in 1921, and his school was so radically different from mine that the book read like fantasy. Classes at Summerhill were optional; instead of being bored all day by mind-numbing lectures, you could do what you wanted. It was a place, Neill writes, where 鈥渃hildren are reared in happiness鈥� and given the freedom to be true to themselves.

Neill comes across in his book as a wise, wry, grandfatherly rebel who was 鈥渙n the side of the child.鈥� He believed traditional schools robbed 鈥測outh of its right to play and play and play鈥� and put 鈥渙ld heads on young shoulders.鈥� Summerhill was so vividly written, I could easily imagine myself onto its pages. When Neill describes throwing rocks through windows with an unhappy boy as therapy for the kid, I was that boy. When he tells a student鈥檚 parents they know nothing about raising children, those were my parents. I pictured it all鈥攖he old mansion where the students lived, the wood shop where they made swords, the theater where they staged plays, and the enormous, ancient beech tree from which they swung on ropes.

But, alas, I was too old to be a Summerhill student. By age 12, Neill writes, a child is pretty much ruined, already rendered passive by mainstream education, and can鈥檛 adjust to freedom.

Starting in 1971, though, I got a taste of Summerhill at Middlebury College in Vermont. By that point, progressive educational thought was seeping into the mainstream, and Middlebury had done away with required courses. I was thrilled to choose my classes, and for the next four years I wallowed in the humanities. But later, when I went to Oxford University for my master鈥檚, I was shocked to meet undergraduates鈥攌ids fresh out of high school!鈥攚ho were articulate in all subjects, including some I knew nothing about. This humiliating experience left me feeling ignorant and cheated. Needing a culprit, I found two: I blamed Middlebury for failing to give me a well-rounded education, and Summerhill for making me think it wouldn鈥檛 matter.

After Oxford, I moved to New York City, wanting to be a writer. For five years, I worked in the film business as a prop man, hoping this would lead to a glamorous screenwriting career; and when that didn鈥檛 pan out, I rented a garret near Times Square and started writing children鈥檚 books. To supplement my income, I led writing workshops in public schools. A typical residency put me in three classrooms a day for 10 days. It was frustrating. I didn鈥檛 have time to learn the kids鈥� names, and no sooner did I glimpse some amazing potential than the workshop was over.

I knew I could be more productive with kids, but I needed time and access. So I did something a little crazy: I 鈥渁dopted鈥� a 3rd grade class in a Queens public school. For the next three years, I was their volunteer writing teacher. We wrote in all genres, using everything and anything as inspiration鈥攑aintings, trees, music, gods, and monsters. We went on field trips, acted out stories, and made books, and in the process I became intimately involved in my students鈥� imaginations and their lives.

When the project was over, I sat down to write a memoir about the experience. As I tried to make sense of my successes and failures, I thought about the people and books that had inspired me. Inevitably, Summerhill came to mind, so I decided to reread it, curious to see what had appealed to my younger self. But I didn鈥檛 expect to like it. Time and experience had made me more conservative. My students were poor immigrants who didn鈥檛 have the luxury of free schooling. They needed survival skills.

To my surprise, Summerhill impressed me all over again. There was much more to the school than optional classes, and I realized that I鈥檇 absorbed the book in many ways. I saw Summerhill in my focus on play and fantasy, in my scheming to get students outdoors, and in my urging them to write whatever they wanted. And Neill鈥檚 faith in children informed my basic belief about teaching writing: Kids don鈥檛 need to be taught to write stories; they already have stories inside them, waiting to be told, and the teacher鈥檚 job is to help bring them out.

Because Neill couldn鈥檛 possibly be alive, I assumed his school had died with him, the way most free schools do when they lose their founders. But I was curious to know what today鈥檚 academics thought of Summerhill, so I asked a friend studying at Harvard鈥檚 Graduate School of 91制片厂视频 and another at Columbia鈥檚 Teachers College what they thought of the book. Both responded, 鈥淲hat鈥檚 Summerhill?鈥� Then I e-mailed James Traub, who writes about education for the New York Times Magazine, and he wrote back to say he hadn鈥檛 heard anyone mention Summerhill in years, adding, 鈥淭his type of Rousseauean, state-of-nature pedagogy is pass茅 with even the Howard Gardner and Debbie Meier types.鈥� Next I queried several education listservs and got a handful of passionate responses about Summerhill, pro and con, but all were from middle-age folk. No young people seemed to know about the book or the school. Hoping to find signs of life, I typed 鈥淪ummerhill鈥� into Google and was astonished when a link led me to the school鈥檚 Web site. It hadn鈥檛 closed, after all.

Summerhill鈥檚 principal, I learned, was Zo毛 Readhead, Neill鈥檚 daughter. I remembered a very young Zo毛 from the book. Neill had become a father late in life, at age 68. And I鈥檇 been envious of that kid, born into and raised in freedom. I called the school, expecting to reach a secretary, and was startled to find myself talking with Readhead (pronounced 鈥渞edhead鈥�) herself. In my mind, she was still a toddler, so hearing her middle-age voice was disconcerting. I stammered before blurting out my request: 鈥淚鈥檓 a writer and a teacher, and I was hoping to come to your school for a few days. I鈥檇 like to do a story on Summerhill.鈥�

There was a long silence. Then she asked, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e not going to write something horrible, are you?鈥�

鈥淚 hope not,鈥� I told her. 鈥淚 read your father鈥檚 book when I was 15, and it鈥檚 been a great inspiration to me.鈥�

There was another pause. 鈥淚 guess it鈥檒l be all right,鈥� she said. 鈥淐ome along.鈥� But I could tell she was wary, and later I鈥檇 learn why. In its 80-plus years, Summerhill has often been mocked by the media as the 鈥渄o as you please鈥� school. And four years ago, the British government tried to shut Summerhill down, after inspectors charged that it had 鈥渄rifted into confusing educational freedom with the negative right not to be taught.鈥�

Alexander Sutherland Neill was born in a village in Scotland in 1883. He did not look back on his childhood with fondness. School was a misery of rote learning, beatings, and exams, all suffered at the hands of the schoolmaster, his father. After getting a degree in English from the University of Edinburgh, Neill eventually found his way into teaching and was influenced by Homer Lane, who鈥檇 founded a self-governing democratic community for delinquent adolescents.

At age 37, Neill founded a school in Germany, but he soon moved it to England, where it was named after one of the manor houses in which it operated. Because Neill did not believe in compulsory learning, Summerhill鈥檚 primary aim was to let students develop at their own pace and discover their own interests. The other radical aspect to the school was its democratic structure. Every person had a say in how things were run, with a 5-year-old鈥檚 vote counting as much as Neill鈥檚. Not only did the children have power equal to adults; they also vastly outnumbered them. But this didn鈥檛 lead to Lord of the Flies-style anarchy. The kids learned quickly how necessary rules are, and Summerhill has many.

In 1960, after the school had been in operation for almost four decades, Summerhill was published. Neill鈥檚 free-thinking, anti-establishment, anti-materialistic ideas made it a book for its time. A huge bestseller with millions of readers worldwide, Summerhill was on the syllabi of countless college courses. During the 1960s and 鈥�70s, the book became the gestalt of educational thought, and Neill, then in his 70s, was the poster 鈥渃hild鈥� of the free-school movement.

After Neill died in 1973, at the age of 89, his wife, Ena, took over and ran the school until her retirement in 1985. Readhead has been in charge ever since.

The book鈥檚 impact on education was out of proportion to the number of students who actually attended the school. Summerhill鈥檚 student population has fluctuated over the years, from several dozen to the 90 students it has today, and not all stay till graduation. Although no one has kept an official tally, Readhead estimates the number of ex-Summerhill students at a few thousand.

So I wondered: Does the fact that Summerhill is unread today mean the book is a relic, with nothing to offer? As an experiment, I gave a copy to my 15-year-old nephew, who, like me 35 years earlier, couldn鈥檛 put it down. Was he responding, as I had, to the fantasy of Summerhill? Was the school Neill described possible? Or did it merely inspire dreams no real-life school could match? There was only one way to find out.

In February, I flew to London, then took a bus, two trains, and a taxi, which carried me through the flat farmlands of Suffolk to the village of Leiston, 100 miles northeast of London. It was a cold and rainy afternoon, and night was falling fast. I asked my driver what the locals thought of Summerhill. He didn鈥檛 know much about it, but he recalled taking a Norwegian there once and said his fare had raved about what the school had done for his daughter. (Since the publication of Summerhill, the school has hosted many foreigners, including Europeans and Americans. Today, a third of the student body is from Japan, Korea, or Taiwan.)

Then the driver mentioned he had a child in the local public school who was bored to tears, but he couldn鈥檛 afford to send her to Summerhill. Even though it鈥檚 cheaper than many boarding schools, the tuition, room, and board comes to more than $16,000 annually.

I checked into the White Horse Hotel, Leiston鈥檚 small 18th century hostelry. It has a pub, where Neill must have raised a glass or two, and after a dinner of shepherd鈥檚 pie and ale, I walked along the village鈥檚 deserted main street. Neill writes about Leiston in his book. He mentions the churches, which are still there, and the movie theater, where he鈥檇 take the kids on outings; it鈥檚 there, too. From the look of things, the village hadn鈥檛 changed much. I went to bed that night feeling I鈥檇 gone back in time.

The next morning, I headed for the school. The day was overcast, and a drizzly mist hung heavy in the air. But I hadn鈥檛 far to go鈥攁 few blocks to the railroad crossing, then left down a residential street, to an entrance bordered by an ivy-covered wall bearing a student-crafted mosaic sign that read 鈥淪UMMERHILL.鈥�

I hesitated, worried that the school would be, at best, a depressing shadow of its former self. Steeling myself, I walked down the tree-lined lane and onto the 12-acre campus. Even on this gray day, though, Summerhill was appealing. Its trees, well-worn lawns, cabinlike dorms, and small classroom buildings reminded me of a summer camp, albeit one with a rambling, gabled brick mansion at its heart. What I hadn鈥檛 expected was that Summerhill would be so quiet. Where were all the playing kids?

In the distance, a boy of about 4 or 5 was riding a bike. He spotted me, stopped for a moment to size me up, then pedaled off. I would later learn that this was Joshua, Neill鈥檚 great-grandson. During my three days at Summerhill, every time I turned around, there Josh was, on his bike or in a tree, a kind of presiding spirit. It was easy to imagine him as Neill come back to life.

After knocking on the office door, I was met by Michael Newman. In his 30s, he was rosy-cheeked and round, with a gentle voice and a memorable laugh that sounded as if he鈥檇 just been tickled. Wherever he went, kids raced up, eager to throw their arms around his comfy midsection. Newman had taught science full time a while back but now was only at Summerhill a few days a week, helping out. The rest of the time, he lived in London, where he worked with an organization devoted to children鈥檚 rights.

As he took me on a tour, I was surprised to see how much Summerhill was actually a school, with classrooms, a bell, and lessons being given in math, biology, English, and German. Kids were learning, and they were going to classes voluntarily.

Summerhill students range in age from 5 to 17, and we visited the younger children鈥檚 class first. There were 12 students on the roster, and eight showed up that day. The teacher, Jude Horne, had a raspy smoker鈥檚 voice and braids that made her look like a middle-age Pippi Longstocking, and she played a mean ukulele. When Horne offered a science or math lesson, several kids would join her while others, supervised by her assistant, played with blocks and puzzles or crowded around the computer.

Students came and went at will, and some hung out in the wood shop, one of the most appealing spots on campus, full of light and activity. Kids of all ages were working on various projects, the older ones often helping the younger ones, and all were overseen by Readhead鈥檚 son, Will, who had grown up on school grounds and was now in his 20s.

Outside the wood shop, I chatted with two boys sitting on a bench. They must have been 9 or 10. 鈥淎re you guys going to class today?鈥� I asked.

鈥淥h, no,鈥� they answered. 鈥淐ouldn鈥檛 be bothered.鈥�

鈥淲hat are you going to do instead?鈥�

鈥淒unno, really,鈥� they said, laughing. 鈥淏e bored as usual.鈥�

Throughout my visit, though, I鈥檇 see them skateboarding, swinging from the beech tree, or playing chess on the outdoor board with the giant pieces made in wood shop. I had read about such children in Summerhill. They were acting out a rite of passage that hadn鈥檛 changed since the school opened, one every child I spoke to had gone through. When they first arrive, the kids are so thrilled about not having to go to class that they don鈥檛. They play and play. Eventually, most wind up attending classes. But even though play is sacred at Summerhill, a child鈥檚 freedom isn鈥檛 total. According to the rules (which students can vote to change), during class time no one is allowed to stay in bed, watch television, play video games, or go on the Internet.

With attendance so unpredictable, Summerhill teachers have to adapt. I asked Newman how he鈥檇 taught science, which is usually sequential, one lesson building on the last. He told me he鈥檇 offered modular units, with each day鈥檚 lesson outlined on the syllabus. If the module was anatomy, and a kid missed a lesson on the eye, a makeup session could be arranged.

鈥淵ou really indulged your students,鈥� I suggested.

鈥淚 wouldn鈥檛 call it indulging,鈥� he responded. 鈥淚 think it鈥檚 just facilitating their learning.鈥� Of course, with only 90 students and eight full-time teachers (in addition to a few part-timers), Summerhill classes are small, making individualized instruction manageable.

I said, 鈥淚t must hurt when you plan a lesson and then nobody shows up.鈥�

鈥淵es, that鈥檚 a bit tricky,鈥� Newman admitted. 鈥淵ou sit and you wait, and no one comes. At first I鈥檇 go up to kids and say, 鈥榃hy didn鈥檛 you come?鈥� And they鈥檇 lie and make some excuse because they didn鈥檛 want to hurt my feelings. Eventually, though, I came to realize that was the magic of the place. Of course they鈥檇 rather ride a bike than come to class. But when the children decide they want to come, they do come, and they come continuously.鈥�

This was a point many Summerhill teachers made: If a kid attends voluntarily, he or she is focused, making teaching efficient and enjoyable. This made sense to me. I鈥檇 noticed back in New York how inefficient it was teaching grammar to a class of 30 students; on any given day, some were ready to learn about periods or commas, but others weren鈥檛, which meant I had to repeat lessons again and again.

Ironically, one of the biggest academic motivators at Summerhill is the standardized test. In Britain, colleges require applicants to attain General Certificates of Secondary 91制片厂视频 in various subject areas, and GCSEs are awarded on the basis of government exams. Most Summerhill students take at least a few exams, and for that reason, the faculty does some teachingto the test. Summerhill students who take GCSEs perform, on average, slightly better than their counterparts in public schools. Some, however, do much better. If Summerhill has a well-earned reputation for doing well by kids ill-suited to traditional schooling, it also does well by academically driven kids. One 13-year-old I met had already taken her math GCSE, a test usually taken at age 16, and was studying to take others.

Jason Praeter, a calm, thoughtful English teacher, assured me that 鈥渋nterest learning鈥� is also a Summerhill tradition. Instructors offer some courses they want to teach and design others based on student interests. Groups of friends, for example, might ask for courses in poetry and creative writing. But no Summerhill teacher I talked to claimed that academics are鈥攐r should be鈥攖he main event. (In fact, they worry when kids spend too much time in class.) Like me, they find it hard to argue with Neill鈥檚 contention that 鈥渓earning itself is not as important as personality and character.鈥� These are, of course, notoriously difficult qualities to teach, but the school鈥檚 exercise in democratic decisionmaking, the General Meeting, makes a good stab at it.

Attendance isn鈥檛 mandatory, but better than half the school showed up for the meeting I observed. It was held in the mansion鈥檚 living room, and students, faculty, and staff sat on the floor and on the steps of the big wooden staircase. A girl of 12 chaired the meeting, and after announcements, it was time to 鈥渂ring up鈥� people on various charges. The first to raise his hand was a teenage boy, who accused a few students of swearing, smoking, and spitting in the village. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a rule against that,鈥� he said, 鈥渁nd I think it鈥檚 really important people respect it because we want Summerhill to have a good reputation.鈥� Fines were proposed, but the community voted instead to deliver a 鈥渟trong warning.鈥�

Then a 7-year-old boy claimed that his best friend had said something mean to him, hurting his feelings. The friend defended himself, but his argument wasn鈥檛 convincing, so he was fined 10 pence, to be deducted from the weekly pocket money each student receives.

Later, a houseparent was brought up by a teenage girl. I didn鈥檛 catch all the intricacies of the complaint鈥攕omething about laundry routines鈥攂ut the girl also said the houseparent was 鈥渁lways in your face.鈥� When another student chimed in, saying he sometimes found the woman intimidating, several others shouted, 鈥淗ear! Hear!鈥�

It was shocking, and thrilling, to see students charge an adult, and it made me wince to imagine what my students might have said about me. A teacher learns humility at Summerhill. You鈥檙e stripped of authority. Yet every faculty member felt that this was a good thing. 鈥淚t makes you a better teacher,鈥� Newman told me. 鈥淵ou can be yourself. You don鈥檛 have to play a game.鈥�

After the meeting, I asked the 7-year-old who鈥檇 complained about his friend if he thought the friend would be mad at him. 鈥淣o,鈥� he answered. 鈥淏ringing someone up doesn鈥檛 mean you鈥檙e not best friends. It鈥檚 just the way we sort out problems here.鈥�

As both a former student and the principal, Zo毛 Readhead has been taking part in Summerhill鈥檚 rituals all her life. I asked if the school had changed since her father鈥檚 time. 鈥淭he only differences are superficial,鈥� she said. 鈥淪ummerhill鈥檚 a bit like the sea. The tides come and go, yet it鈥檚 always the same. But the school鈥檚 philosophy doesn鈥檛 have to change because children don鈥檛 change. The needs of kids will be the same 500 years from now as they were when my dad started this school.鈥�

Readhead has basset hound eyes and her dad鈥檚 prominent nose and long face. People described Summerhill as a big family, and she was considered the mother. But Mom could be prickly. I asked, 鈥淲hat do you say when people ask how a child can know if they鈥檙e interested in chemistry, for example, unless they鈥檙e exposed to it?鈥�

鈥淏ut that鈥檚 just stupid!鈥� she snapped. 鈥淗ow can a kid know if he鈥檚 a champion sky diver if you never put him in a plane? Where do you stop? You can鈥檛 expose a child to everything! And people do know where their areas of interest lie. They do!鈥�

She had a point. I was always interested in the arts, always a bookworm. I鈥檝e never needed trigonometry, which bored me to tears in high school. Then again, I might have liked trig if I鈥檇 had a better teacher. That was certainly the case with chemistry, which I didn鈥檛 need, either. But my chemistry teacher was brilliant, and I still remember what he taught me. Chemistry has made my life richer.

As always, it comes down to the teacher. I spoke to several Summerhill alumni who told me they only went to classes if they liked the teacher. Even if they adored a subject, they stayed away from incompetent instructors. And Summerhill, they added, tends to attract 鈥渨annabes,鈥� teachers more interested in experiencing freedom than in helping kids.

I asked Readhead what she looks for in a teacher. 鈥淪omeone good at their job and who fits into the community,鈥� she said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not easy to find a person who does both.鈥�

That task is harder because Summerhill salaries are pathetically low鈥攍ess than half those at public schools. Moreover, it鈥檚 an all- consuming job. You live in a dorm or trailer on campus and work up to 14 hours a day, seven days a week, and get only three weekends off each term. Not that any of the teachers I met were complaining. They said they love their jobs. But most burn out after two or three years.

Leonard Turton may prove the exception. In a sense, he鈥檚 been at Summerhill all his life, even though he didn鈥檛 set foot on the campus until a few years ago. A lively man in his late 50s with a thick head of gray hair and gentle, intelligent eyes, Turton has been devoted to Neill鈥檚 philosophy since reading Summerhill as a youth. Fresh out of college, he founded a free school based on its principles but then gave up after eight years. With a family to support (he has since divorced), he took a job at an inner city public school in St. Catherine鈥檚, Ontario, and was there for 20 years, integrating as much of Summerhill into his 6th grade classroom as possible.

Turton began each year by telling students, 鈥淟ook, if you don鈥檛 get in trouble in the hallways, then I look good, which means no one鈥檚 going to look in the door, which means we can do what we want here.鈥� He explained to me how he鈥檇 arrange his classrooms. 鈥淭here was a workshop, an art space, a library, a stage鈥攖hat kind of thing. There were lots of options, lots of stuff to do. But that meant we needed rules because otherwise it would go wrong. So we formed a little government. I called it Club House Democracy. Just like we do at Summerhill, the kids made the rules. They pretty much ran the place, which they loved.鈥�

And because the children appreciated having some measure of control over their lives, they policed themselves. Turton said that Club House Democracy worked so well in his school, other teachers adopted it, and the principal was impressed enough to let Turton鈥檚 class recommend sending kids home when they got too disruptive.

Because of his experiences in Canada, Turton had an easier time adjusting to Summerhill than most new teachers. 鈥淚t sounds a little hippy-dippy,鈥� he told me, 鈥渂ut I felt I knew the kids here, that I recognized them.... And what I realized was, I recognized the energy coming out of them because it was the same energy I鈥檇 seen in the students at my free school 25 years earlier. And it was a qualitatively different spirit from the kids I was teaching in public school.鈥�

That spirit manifests itself in several ways鈥攁 certain confidence, self-esteem, and ability to lose oneself in learning. Turton said: 鈥淭hey have a kind of meditative focus, like a kid skateboarding. Everything else is put out of their mind except what they鈥檙e doing, and there鈥檚 no friction involved. Whereas in most learning that you don鈥檛 want to do, there鈥檚 friction involved, which gets in the way.鈥�

鈥淗ow long do you think you鈥檒l stay here?鈥� I asked him.

鈥淭ill they tell me to go,鈥� he said.

During my visit, I came to realize that the core of Neill鈥檚 philosophy, the center from which all else springs, is his utter faith in children. 鈥淎 child is innately wise and realistic,鈥� he writes. 鈥淚f left to himself without adult suggestion of any kind, he will develop as far as he is capable of developing.鈥� This leads to the obvious thought: Are Summerhill kids successful after they leave?

That鈥檚 a loaded question, of course. Success by whose definition? Neill famously said he鈥檇 rather see the school produce a happy street cleaner than a neurotic prime minister. And Readhead echoed that. 鈥淲e don鈥檛 really do success here,鈥� she told me. 鈥淲e just do: How do you feel about yourself? Is life good for you? Is it what you wanted?鈥� This kind of success is impossible to measure, but Summerhill points to a wide range of careers its students have followed, everything from farmers to academics to scientists. They even trot out some minor celebrities, like actress Rebecca De Mornay and children鈥檚 author John Burningham.

While standing in the lunch line one day, I got to chatting with a boy of 15 or 16. He had shoulder-length hair, slouching posture, and the same friendly, open manner of all the students I鈥檇 met. He鈥檇 been at the school for many years, and I asked if he鈥檇 spent much time in classes.

鈥淐an鈥檛 say I have.鈥�

鈥淣别惫别谤?鈥�

鈥淣o, not much.鈥�

鈥淏ut at some point you learned to read and write, right?鈥�

鈥淥nly a bit.鈥�

鈥淗ave you ever read a book?鈥�

鈥淣辞.鈥�

I tried to hide my shock, but he must have sensed it because as soon as he had his lunch, he hurried off.

I told Readhead about this encounter, but she expressed no concern, saying that he鈥檇 learned many other things at Summerhill鈥攈ow to run a democracy and be part of a community, for instance. He鈥檇 also taken classes that don鈥檛require literacy, like wood shop and art. And if he didn鈥檛 learn how to read at Summerhill, he could always do so later. 鈥淭here are adult literacy centers all over the country,鈥� she told me. 鈥淎ll you have to do is walk in.鈥�

Jason Praeter, the English teacher, was less absolute. 鈥淭his sort of thing shouldn鈥檛 happen here, but it does,鈥� he admitted. 鈥淚n this year鈥檚 graduating class, there are three or four students for whom the lower levels of achievement in the GCSE are out of reach.鈥� In his opinion, all children want to read and write, and those who don鈥檛 learn have been let down by their teachers. No one has a solution to the problem, but Praeter and Turton are working on it; Readhead has made them the school鈥檚 curriculum advisers.

It wouldn鈥檛 be fair to judge Summerhill by a few illiterate students. There鈥檚 no guarantee those kids would be better served by public schools. Back in 2000, when the British government tried to close Summerhill after inspectors claimed that the school鈥檚 philosophy encouraged idleness and ignorance, the decision was appealed and the matter went to court. An independent panel of experts conducted a study of Summerhill and issued a sympathetic report, citing acceptable academic achievement, unusually high student and parent satisfaction, and many graduates who鈥檇 found satisfying careers. The government report was roundly rejected, and the school stayed open.

On my final Summerhill afternoon, the sun was shining. I paid a last visit to the big beech tree. There鈥檚 a rule that visitors aren鈥檛 allowed to swing from it, so I watched in envy as the kids had fun, wondering how different my life would have been if I鈥檇 gone to this school. But I wasn鈥檛 envious of the teachers. I wasn鈥檛 willing to surrender my life so completely to students.

Earlier, I鈥檇 had a chat with Will Readhead in his wood shop and asked if he planned to fill the role of principal after his mother retires. 鈥淚s she ever going to retire?鈥� he joked. Then he added, 鈥淚 fought the idea for a while, but now I鈥檝e made my peace with it. I鈥檓 here to stay.鈥�

Chances are good, then, that the Neill dynasty will continue, as will Summerhill. For this, we can all be grateful. Whether you love the school or hate it, Summerhill has a unique place in history that shouldn鈥檛 be ignored. For more than 80 years, it has remained true to Neill鈥檚 principles, which is remarkable when you consider how education in the United States is jerked to and fro every few years by the latest trends.

At 5 p.m., the hour when Summerhill rules say visitors must leave the campus, I tracked down Zo毛 to say goodbye. I found her tucking her grandson, Josh, into the back seat of a car. His bike was lying on the ground, abandoned. Josh was worn out and could barely keep his eyes open. That didn鈥檛 surprise me. A.S. Neill鈥檚 great-grandson had had a hard day preparing for his future.