9 Were schools in 19th-century Canada orderly places? Certain scholars suggest that they were surely intended to be, with authorities consciously linking schooling to the governing of children (Prentice 1977; Houston and Prentice 1988; Curtis 1988, 1992). The role of school desks indeed supports such claims. School desks are not simply pieces of furniture. They are, in a word, the locus of learning in the classroom. They are also the locus of order and control. In the doubleseated desks of the mid- to late 19th century, we can see this emphasis on order. Physically, if we are to take these desks as our cue, schools were a constraining place (Fig. 1). The typical desk seated two pupils per seat. The shared seat was itself attached to the desktop of the two pupils seated behind. The shared desktop was attached to the seat of the two pupils seated in front. Thus, at any given time, four students shared a single piece of furniture, and the furniture one worked on was shared with at least five others. The desks made it easy to distribute space in the classroom and provided optimum room for the teacher to move around the classroom and monitor student work. They also maintained order by making it difficult for students to move around, lest they disturb the work of others.

Fig. 1Wooden School Desk, ca. 1860. (Canadian Museum of Civilization, IMG2011-0076-00-Dm.)

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10 By the end of the 19th century, however, central authorities began to rethink the school desk and the workspace in general. A photograph of the Model Kindergarten at the Toronto Normal School in 1898 insinuates that space, much space in fact, was valued and promoted by school reformers (Fig. 2). In the Model Kindergarten of the late 19th century, future teachers would look on as children comfortably worked on various tasks in a well–laid out and spacious learning environment.

Fig. 2Model Kindergarten, Toronto Normal School and Model Schools, ca.1898. (Archives of Ontario, RG 2-257, Acc. 13522.)

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11 Despite the plans and classroom designs of central authorities, as depicted in the Model Kindergarten of 1898, the surviving materials in the Ottawa Catholic School Board Collection imply that children continued to experience only a limited amount of space, especially desk space, until the 1960s. Prior to that decade, the confining double-seated desk with attached desktop continued to prevail. In their study of Belgian school desks, Herman et al. suggest that school reformers began to take the issue of school furniture seriously somewhere between 1900 and 1950. In that period, sixty-eight patents for school furniture were granted in Belgium alone. Although the study does not say why many of the applications were rejected, the criteria for successful school furniture patents, according to Herman’s reading of patent applications in that period, seem to have been based on school hygiene, safety, order, control and ease of use (Herman et al. 2011).

12 What can the popularity and longevity of the classic double-seated desk tell us about the history of education in Canada? Did certain perceptions of order continue to dominate inside of the schools despite the ideas being promoted by central authorities? Did local school administrators ignore the new ideas about classroom space promoted by educational thinkers in the early 20th century? Or, were decisions simply made along economical lines? That is, was it simply cheaper to furnish a classroom with the doubleseated desks, or not to replace the furniture at all? Of course, the answers are not clear cut and vary according to social, demographic and geographic factors. The economic concerns of rural schools, for example, were quite different from those of urban schools. Given the financial struggle that rural Ottawa schools faced prior to the 1969 amalgamation of the various schools into a single school board (OCCSB 2007: 27), it is unlikely that they could have afforded to overhaul their school furniture in order to keep up with changing ideas about classroom space that were being promoted in universities and by provincial school administrators. It should therefore come as little surprise to learn, through this collection, that schools in Ottawa and its surrounding areas were frugal in their spending on new furniture. Whatever the reasoning, the surviving desks we find in the material history record provide us with a connection to the physical experience of school children while seated at their desks. These desks may very well have meant that children experienced this space as a lack of freedom of mobility. Whatever the content of the lessons taught in the classroom, and whatever the intentions of curriculum designers, school desks had a message of their own.

13 Along with the double-seated desk, other objects also transmitted values of order and control, as well as discipline and moral regulation. Some of the signs we find in the 19th- and 20th-century classrooms virtually speak for themselves in this regard. A classroom sign (Fig. 3) speaks volumes about moral regulation and teachers’ attempts to create self-regulating and self-governing children. Little is known about the origins of the sign, or how widespread its use might have been, other than a handwritten note, presumably from the school board museum’s curator, affixed to the back of it identifying it as being from the Ottawa valley and from ca. 1930. The impact of such a sign on what a child thought about while in the classroom can really only be appreciated when we consider that it might have been read hundreds of times, presumably daily, over the course of a school year. Of course, we can also suppose that the child might have become immune to its message after such ongoing exposure. In any event, its presence, and the presence of the many other signs in the collection that surrounded children daily, such as the “How to Honour the Flag” and the “Do good and keep on doing it” signs, raise a world of questions about classroom discipline and attempts at moral regulation.

Fig. 3 (Top)Classroom Sign, ca. 1930. (Canadian Museum of Civilization, IMG2011-0076-00-03-Dm.)

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14 The ultimate form of discipline for much of the 19th and 20th centuries in the Canadian classroom was, of course, the strap (Fig. 4). The strap was either made to be seen on a daily basis, whether resting on the teacher’s desk or hanging somewhere in the classroom, or it was closed away but still omnipresent because of the sheer knowledge of its existence and its occasional use. As an object of discipline, it speaks for itself. Numerous studies in Canada and elsewhere (Axelrod 2010; Finkelstein 2000; Coldrey 1992; Raichle 1978), furthermore, have made clear the disciplinary, regulatory and punitive lessons communicated through its use and visual presence.

Fig. 4 (Bottom) Disciplinary Strap, ca. 1950. (Canadian Museum of Civilization, IMG2011-0076-00-04-Dm.)

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15 As a basis of research for the study of educational history, however, much more remains to be understood about the strap and its impact on the psychological development of Canadian children in the classroom. The material object itself, in this regard, can tell us more about its use. The shape, size, wear and type of the strap offers a much more vivid, if horrifying, explanation of how and how often the strap was used on children. Consider, for example, the extant material evidence of leather straps in the Ottawa valley in the 20th century. At least two leather straps from the mid-20th century were part of the Ottawa Catholic School Board Collection. Such material evidence should not exist, because in the 20th century leather straps were banned from use in schools. Their existence, however, reminds us that they were indeed still used, even though they were unauthorized. Historian Paul Axelrod makes a similar point that despite the banning of corporal punishment from Toronto schools in 1971, it continued to be employed throughout Ontario well into the 1980s. Surprisingly, the use of physical discipline was prohibited in all Canadian schools only in 2004 (Axelrod 2010). The material evidence that the leather strap remained in use well into the 20th century serves as a tangible reminder of what was going on inside of the classroom, even if debates outside of the classroom seemed settled.

16 If one considers the Ottawa Catholic School Board Collection a micro-history of the material culture of Canadian classrooms, then we can assume that very few teaching aids were used in the 19th century. In fact, aside from books and writing equipment, we do not find many pedagogical aids in the material evidence until after the First World War. The Ontario Educational Exhibit at the 1876 Centennial International Exposition in Philadelphia boasted an impressive array of educational apparatuses and instruments in its glass cases (Fig. 5). The records of the Department of Education, and certain historians, suggest that this exhibit demonstrated to the world the developments in education made under Egerton Ryerson from the mid- to late 19th century (Stamp 1982; Mah 2007). Deputy Minister of Education and designer of the Ontario educational display in Philadelphia John George Hodgins stressed the importance of these objects to the educational plans of Egerton Ryerson and the Departments of Education in western Canada and Ontario (Hodgins 1852, 1877). Juxtaposing pictures such as those of the Philadelphia exposition with the extant material evidence, however, shows that the Ontario exhibit was more of an ideal than a reality.

Fig. 5Educational Department, Ontario, Main Building, Centennial Exposition, 1876. (Free Library of Philadelphia, Digital Collections, c021407.)

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17 In fact, the material evidence of teaching aids suggests a very basic pedagogy that continued into the 20th century. Slates, a staple of early 19th-century pedagogical tools intended to facilitate large bodies of students at minimal expense, were still extremely common in the late 19th century, and continued to be used in Canadian schools well into the 20th century (Fig. 6). Again, there seems to be a disconnection between the documentary and material evidence: whereas state records, teachers’ journals and the writing of prominent educators suggest advancements in pedagogy, the masses, according to the material evidence, were in fact receiving instruction in the early 20th century in much the same way that their ancestors were in the early 19th century.

Fig. 6 (Left) Classroom Slate, ca. 1900. (Photo by author, 2010.)

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18 What can the material culture evidence from this collection tell us, then, about the history and development of schooling? On one hand, as stated above, we should be careful not to make too many broad generalizations. The teaching material and resources contained in this collection, or lack thereof, in many ways represent the limits and constraints that many of the schools faced when it came to purchasing decisions. Nevertheless, like the school furniture, the collection does suggest a historical divide between ideas about pedagogical resources as imagined by central authorities and educational thinkers at the top and what was actually used at the local level in the schools. Indeed, one does not have to look far to see that divide continuing in contemporary educational discourse today. Despite decades of technological and digital advancements in pedagogical material, the vast majority of schools throughout Canada still contain chalkboards and textbooks as central teaching material. What does this tell us about the nature and pace of educational change? Are our schools continually playing catch-up to material advances? Or, does what goes on inside of classrooms in fact have less to do with the teaching material used inside of them than we might suppose?

19 Surviving classroom artifacts, such as mud and slush shoe cleaners, show that efforts were made to keep schools clean places (Fig. 7). However, other surviving artifacts suggest that cleanliness, health and hygiene were challenging issues. Surviving lunch boxes, for example, highlight that exposure to germs and bacteria were a common part of the daily experience of schooling. The typical metal colonial lunchbox usually contained a compartment on the top to store a child’s drink (usually milk) throughout the day. With new routines of life in the 19th century, such as spending the day away from home and at school, came the increased exposure to bacteria and germs. This exposure to germs multiplied when coupled with limited access to running water at school and outhouses without sinks in which to wash hands. Indeed, surviving ladles and bowls in the collection offer further evidence of increased exposure to health risks as they show that many children shared lunch room dishes; germs would have easily spread this way.

Fig. 7 (Right)Mud and slush shoe cleaner, ca. 1870. A tangible reminder that the proverbial walking miles through snow, slush, and mud to get to school stories were not myths, but real lived experiences. (Canadian Museum of Civilization, IMG2011-0076-00-02-Dm.)

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20 By the late 19th century, however, schools were taking health more seriously (Sutherland 2000; Gleason 2006). This is clearly seen in the profusion of medical supplies and apparatuses in the classrooms (Fig. 8). These artifacts also remind us that going to school, much like going to a hospital, often put children at risk of acquiring some sort of illness. Health and sanitation continued to grow in importance throughout the 20th century, and surviving artifacts demonstrate that 20th-century classrooms were littered with eye examination charts, first aid kits, toothbrushes, soaps and fountains and even pharmaceuticals such as cod liver extract, distributed widely after the Second World War period to boost levels of vitamin D to prevent rickets, a softening of the bones in children.

Fig. 8Classroom Medical Supplies, ca. 1900. (Photo by author, 2010.)

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21 Symbols of national identity have been profuse in Canadian classrooms since the 19th century. These symbols have transmitted to students certain ideas and cultural values that have shaped their identities. To be sure, the idea that values and identity have been promoted through schooling is not new. What is striking in the material evidence offered by the Ottawa Catholic School Board Collection, however, is how much more predominant in the classroom national symbols have been than local symbols. Considering that the constitutional jurisdiction and legal administration of education in Canada belong to provincial governments, this domination of national symbols is rather significant. Have they provided for a shared national experience and material reality inside of Canadian classrooms? Have they created an unofficial national curriculum within a provincial jurisdiction?

22 What can we learn about the symbolic representations of Canada from a material analysis of the sources, ranging from overt symbols such as flags to discreet ones hidden within the everyday curriculum of classroom teaching (see Fig. 9)? 1 Consider maps, for example, which provide striking evidence of Canadian nationalism. Few maps in the Ottawa Catholic School Board collection are of provinces or cities, while maps of Canada overwhelmingly dominate. The famous Neilson maps of the 20th century (Fig. 10), distributed to teachers throughout Canada free of charge by the Neilson company, provide us with an interesting example of corporate Canada’s ability to enter into the classroom and shape the experience of schooling for Canadian children (Gidney and Gidney 2008). While different teachers in different parts of Canada might have used those maps in different ways, their material reality inside of classrooms, from sea to sea, was certainly a shared experience. This material reality raises some questions in the history of education worth further exploration. In what ways were school children throughout Canada connected by their material surroundings? In what ways could they begin to imagine a shared Canadian national community?

Fig. 9 (Top)The Union Jack Make it Yourself Kit, 1941. (Canadian Museum of Civilization, IMG2011-0076-00-06-Dm.)

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Fig. 10 (Bottom) Neilson Map. (Canadian Museum of Civilization, photo Marie-Louise Deruaz, IMG2011-0076-0001-Dm.)

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23 Rural Saskatchewan poet Glen Sorestad, who went through the school system in the 1940s and 1950s, has captured the idea of a shared national experience extremely well in his poem, titled “Neilson’s Map of Canada.” “I know that I am not alone,” he says in remembering those maps,

Sorestad’s memory of those maps is not limited to his experience alone. In his poem, he speaks with certainty that this was a shared pan-Canadian experience. A more recent example of efforts to create a pan-Canadian experience comes from the distribution of civics learning material from outsiders such as Elections Canada, which, among dozens of other resources, distributes Canada At the Polls!, a simulation election kit that can be ordered and sent directly to the classroom without provincial consent being necessary.

24 In a study on the teaching of Canadian history, historian J. L. Granatstein warned of the regionalized nature of Canadian education and its potential to destroy nationalism at the federal level (Granatstein 1998). History as taught in the schools was, he claimed, regionalized, resulting in a fragmented sense of Canadian identity at best. The material culture of education as seen through the Ottawa Catholic School Board Collection, however, suggests that much of the material inside of schools has in fact reinforced the integration of local communities into a national society and culture. Norris Brock Johnson finds the same in his study of the material culture of schooling in the midwestern United States, suggesting that classroom material culture is an index of the relative degree of symbolic integration between local school communities and national society and culture (Johnson 1980). Andrew Saint points out how an inner suburb of London, U.K., has grappled with the social and cultural consciousness of the nation and the locality through an examination of the urban planning of its schools and an analysis of the architecture and the physical design and layout of the interior of the schools themselves (Saint 2010). The material culture of education can open our eyes, and our research, to the variety of influences inside of schools and classrooms that shape how children come to identify themselves and their place in the broader world.

25 The Ottawa Catholic School Board Collection offers many directions in which a material culture examination of schooling can be taken, sometimes from the same view as school children long gone. Indeed, the beauty of a material culture analysis is that while the vast majority of school children have not left behind written accounts of their school memories, we do have before us a plethora of objects they used. In the surviving artifacts, we possess a manifestation of one of the central aims of social history in the last fifty years; namely, these artifacts offer a history of the anonymous masses. A synthesis of this three-dimensional cultural data and the documentary history of mass schooling will offer a new way to understand what the experiences of schooling, and, by extension, of growing up, were for school children.

26 In “The Truth of Material Culture,” Jules David Prown suggests that the great promise of material culture is that it allows us to approach the past “mindlessly” and without the bias of our intellect (Prown 1993: 17). While that suggestion may be couched more in hope than in reality, material culture does allow us to engage with the past with both our minds and our senses. We can literally see, feel, smell, hear and even taste schooling in some of the same ways as children of the 19th and 20th centuries. By allowing us to see schooling through their eyes, and to touch it as they did, these materials allow us to identify with school children from the past empathetically and to understand their experiences very differently from how we would through the written record alone.