Where Did My Education Go?
My son asks about photosynthesis. Simple question. Fourth-grade science.
I pause. Search my brain. Twelve years of education somewhere in there. The answer should be automatic.
Something about chlorophyll. And sunlight. Carbon dioxide becomes… oxygen? Or is it the other way? Plants make food from… something. Light? Water?
Fragments. Pieces. Like debris from a shipwreck. The precise mechanisms that once filled my exam papers have evaporated. Left only vague impressions of scientific processes I memorized but never understood.
“Let me Google it,” I tell him.
He looks disappointed. His father, who went to good schools, who got good grades, who studied this exact topic—doesn’t know. Has to Google fourth-grade science.
Where did it go? All that education. All that learning. All those hours in classrooms.
The trigonometry that consumed my junior year. Completely gone. Can’t solve a single equation. Can’t remember what sine and cosine mean. Three years of mathematics classes—vanished.
The periodic table I memorized for chemistry. Could recite it once. All the elements in order. Their atomic weights. Their properties. Now? Can barely remember ten elements.
The historical dates that determined my GPA. 1857, 1947, 1971—these I remember because they’re Bengali history, repeated constantly. But the rest? The dates from world history, from ancient civilizations, from European wars? Gone.
Thousands of hours of classroom instruction. Reduced to educational amnesia. As if those years never happened. As if I never studied. Never learned. Never passed those exams.
Perhaps the brain operates like a computer hard drive. Limited storage. Deleting unused files to make room for relevant information.
The quadratic formula gets archived when bill-paying skills take priority. No longer need to solve for x when I need to solve for monthly expenses.
Shakespeare’s sonnets fade as parenting wisdom emerges. Don’t need to remember “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day” when I need to remember how to calm a crying toddler.
Calculus disappears as cooking recipes appear. Integration and differentiation replaced by measurements and timing.
But this explanation feels incomplete. Too simple. Because I remember useless things too.
I remember dialogue from movies I watched twenty years ago. Can quote entire scenes. Remember jokes from TV shows. Remember song lyrics from my teenage years. Remember the plot of novels I read once in college.
But forget essential concepts from subjects I studied intensively for years. Subjects that determined my grades. My university admission. My academic standing.
The mind seems to retain what engages it, regardless of educational importance. Entertainment sticks. Education doesn’t. Why?
The revelation arrives with uncomfortable clarity: Most formal education wasn’t learning. It was performance.
Memorization for tests. Not understanding. Just memorizing. Enough to pass. Enough to get grades. But not enough to remember.
Regurgitation for marks. Write what the teacher wants. What the textbook says. Don’t think. Don’t question. Just repeat.
Temporary storage for academic achievement. Keep it in your brain for the exam. Three hours. That’s all. After that? Doesn’t matter. Delete. Move on to the next subject.
Information entered and exited without touching understanding. Passing through my brain without making any real connection. Without meaning anything. Without mattering.
Real learning happens differently. Through application, repetition, emotional connection.
The chemistry I use cooking dinner persists. Baking soda reacts with acid—I know this because I see it every time I make cake. The science is visible. Useful. Applied daily.
The chemistry I crammed for exams? Completely gone. Never used it. Never saw it. Never needed it. Just memorized formulas and forgot them the next semester.
The mathematics of mortgage calculations survives. Have to use it. Calculate interest. Compare rates. Understand loans. Real math. Applied math. Math that matters to my life.
But abstract algebraic concepts? Vanished. When will I ever need to factor polynomials in real life? Never have. Never will. So my brain deleted it. Made space for things that matter.
The sadness isn’t forgetting specific facts. Facts can be googled. Information is everywhere.
The sadness is realizing how much time was spent acquiring knowledge designed to be temporary. Designed to be forgotten. Designed to serve exams, not life.
Twelve years of educational theater. Performing learning without achieving understanding. Acting like students without becoming educated. Memorizing without knowing.
I think about my own schooling. The hours spent. The effort invested. The stress endured.
Staying up late studying for chemistry exams. Memorizing the entire periodic table. Every element. Every detail. Got excellent marks. Felt proud.
Can’t remember any of it now. That entire year of chemistry—wasted? Those hours of studying—for what? Those excellent marks—proved what, exactly?
That I could memorize temporarily? That I could perform when needed? That I could forget efficiently afterward?
My friend Rahim teaches mathematics at a college. He tells me most students forget calculus within a year of passing. They cram before exams. Pass with good grades. Then delete everything.
“Do they learn anything?” I ask.
“They learn to pass exams,” he says. “That’s what the system teaches. Not mathematics. Exam-passing.”
Tonight I wonder about my son. What will he remember from his current studies? Twenty years from now, will he remember photosynthesis? Or will he Google it like I did?
What will prove useful versus ornamental? What education serves life rather than just graduation?
He’s learning so much now. Science, mathematics, history, languages. Hours daily. Years of education ahead of him.
How much will stick? How much will matter? How much will be temporary performance versus permanent understanding?
I want to tell him: Focus on understanding, not memorizing. Focus on application, not marks. Focus on learning, not grades.
But the system doesn’t reward understanding. Rewards memorization. Rewards performance. Rewards temporary storage that leads to good results that lead to good colleges that lead to good jobs.
The system works. Sort of. Gets people educated. Sort of. Teaches them things. Sort of.
But leaves them unable to answer their children’s fourth-grade science questions. Leaves them googling basic concepts they once aced exams about. Leaves them with educational amnesia about twelve years of their life.
Is this failure? Or is this design?
Maybe the point isn’t remembering everything. Maybe it’s learning how to learn. How to find information. How to think. How to solve problems.
Maybe forgetting the specifics doesn’t matter as long as you remember how to figure things out when needed.
But that feels like rationalization. Like excusing a system that wastes time by pretending the waste was intentional.
My father studied in a different era. Different system. He remembers more from his education than I remember from mine. Not because his brain is better. Because his education was different.
Fewer subjects. More depth. More application. More understanding. Less cramming. Less performing. Less temporary.
He can still recite poetry he learned fifty years ago. Still solve mathematical problems from his youth. Still explain scientific concepts from his schooling.
Not because he has better memory. Because he actually learned. Not performed. Learned.
Tonight I look at my son’s textbooks. So much information. So many subjects. So much to memorize. So much pressure.
And I wonder: Will any of this matter twenty years from now? Will he remember? Will he use it? Will it shape how he thinks or just fill exam papers that get thrown away after marking?
I don’t have answers. Just questions. And the uncomfortable awareness that I spent twelve years in school and can’t explain photosynthesis to my son.
Where did my education go? Maybe it was never there. Maybe what I had was the appearance of education. The performance of learning. The temporary storage of information for academic purposes.
But not education in the real sense. Not knowledge that persists. Not understanding that deepens. Not wisdom that grows.
Just marks. Just grades. Just certificates proving I successfully performed when required.
My son is waiting for an answer about photosynthesis. I Google it. Read it together. Explain it to him.
He understands. For now. Will he remember twenty years from now? Or will his son ask him the same question and get the same “let me Google it” response?
The cycle continues. Generation after generation. Performing education. Forgetting education. Raising children who will do the same.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s how it works. Maybe education isn’t about remembering everything but about getting through the system that requires temporary performance for permanent credentials.
But it still feels sad. All those hours. All that effort. All that potential learning. Reduced to educational amnesia and Google searches for fourth-grade science.
Where did my education go? Nowhere, probably. Because it was never really there.
