Ancient & modern
Parents who find the state education system unsatisfactory but cannot afford private schooling are getting together to hire tutors to teach their children at home. The Roman public servant Pliny the Younger (AD 61-112) would have applauded. Pliny was visiting his native town of Comum (modern Como) when he found out that the young son of a fellow citizen was being taught not locally but in faraway Mediolanum (Milan) — and he was not the only one. Baffled, Pliny remonstrated with the fathers for not raising their children in their native town where they belonged, adding that at home they could also be guaranteed to be properly brought up. He then suggested that they could all club together to engage their own teachers in Como, spending on salaries what they now spent on travel, lodgings and expenses for the children. In a burst of generosity, Pliny went on to promise that he would contribute a third more to whatever sum they raised.
Pliny then adds a fascinating coda, saying that he would in fact be willing to promise the whole amount, only he was afraid that the authorities might then take over and abuse his generosity as I have seen in many places where teachers' salaries are paid from public funds'. The only solution, he goes on, is that the appointments of teachers should be made by the parents who pay for them. In that way, a wise and conscientious choice will be made about how their own money is spent: 'people who may be careless about another person's money are sure to be careful about their own, and they will see to it that only a suitable recipient shall be found for my money if he is also to have theirs.' He goes on to hope his proposal will be so successful that, far from sending their children elsewhere, the parents will find children from elsewhere coming to them.
The story is to be found in a letter Pliny wrote to his friend the historian Tacitus, asking him if there was anyone he could recommend for the particular post in question (though Pliny makes it clear that the final choice will rest with the parents). For Pliny, both his own and local pride were at stake here. He was not about to waste his money on second-raters; nor will the parents behind the current initiative. Nor, for that matter, should our schools, let alone our teacher-training establishments. To adapt Thucydides, it is men and women who are the schools, not the classrooms or playing fields. bonds strengthen, so may misunderstanding between groups. Members of a bank branch brought together through complaint about the meddling of head office may find it harder to understand their head-office colleagues, or even see them as colleagues. Complaint facilitates blaming others and avoiding responsibility. Complaint can he a substitute for action: talk enough about how much you hate something and it may take people longer to notice that you haven't done a thing about it. Complaint can be tranquillising: after venting your feelings freely you may find yourself with less energy and enthusiasm for actually doing anything. Complaint can be self-serving, political, naive. In other words, complaint serves many functions, all of them human but not all of them noble.
The most ironic side-effect, however, of these rituals of complaint may be that they can insulate the organisation from actual criticism. If everyone is complaining all the time, we may mistake the resulting chatter for a genuine culture of constructive dissent. When the purpose of complaining is primarily social, the amount of new information contained in each complaint typically approaches zero. Spending all day listening to people moaning in well-worn ways may make you think that your ideas have been tested in the fires of disputation when in fact they have only been lightly toasted over the warm glow of comforting complaint.
To be heard over the chattering din of social complaint, those wanting to complain in a bid to improve things must work hard and speak loudly. They must break the cultural norms of polite social complaint and raise their voice in a way that will seem rude, illegitimate and out of bounds. We have a name for people who are willing to take this risk: leaders. We have other names for them too, though: cranks, loudmouths, loose cannons and troublemakers.
Recognising that many complaints are information-free and that many others are plain wrong, there is no general rule for separating signal from noise in complaint, except this one: the complaints we need to hear most are going to be the ones we want to hear least. They are going to seem rude and illegitimate and maybe even dangerous. They are going be packaged for our easy and immediate ad hominem dismissal. Will we be wise enough to forbear?
These are the lessons I take away from my year in a high-street bank. These grand organisations are, I believe, in my earnest American way, genuine national treasures. How perfect that the British should celebrate them by complaining about them endlessly.
John Weeks is assistant professor at Insead, the Paris-based business school.
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