Zoran Rakovic - No Laughing Matter: The Missing Joy in English Class

A thoughtful critique of NZ's proposed English text list for Years 7–13, drawing on Steiner, Dawkins, and timeless educational insights. Submissions close 13 June.

Are we teaching students to think—or just what to think? As the Ministry of Education seeks feedback on its new English curriculum text list, one question looms: where’s the humour, the wonder, the wit, and the wisdom beyond ideology? Before submissions close on 13 June, take a closer look between the lines.

The New Zealand Ministry of Education has released its draft Suggested Text List for Years 7–13 English as part of its broader curriculum refresh. This document, available for public review until 13 June 2025 on the Ministry’s Tāhūrangi platform (https://newzealandcurriculum.tahurangi.education.govt.nz/5637257827.p), outlines example texts meant to guide secondary English teaching through Phases 3 to 5 of the new draft curriculum. Though the list is labelled as illustrative rather than prescriptive, it offers a clear signal of the direction the Ministry envisions for English education. It aims to scaffold students’ literacy development, deepen their textual comprehension, and cultivate literary appreciation across a broad selection of written, visual, and multimodal works.

But beneath its well-structured exterior lies a deeper set of questions—about what we teach, why we teach it, and what kind of society we are gently shaping in the process. Any national curriculum is, after all, more than a pedagogical framework. It is a cultural mirror, a moral compass, and, ideally, a spark for intellectual wonder. And it is precisely through this lens—drawing on the insights of thinkers like Rudolf Steiner, Richard Dawkins, and other notable educators—that we must now examine the proposed list not just for what it includes, but also for what it omits, avoids, or overemphasises.

The draft list presents a commendable variety of texts across genre and form. Students are exposed to poetry, novels, drama, film, speeches, and multimodal formats. A typical Year 8 student might encounter Louis Sachar’s Holes, while Year 10s may grapple with Macbeth or Whale Rider. By Year 13, students are expected to wrestle with 1984, The Handmaid’s Tale, The Waste Land, and Othello. There is a clear progression of literary complexity and thematic depth. The structure is, in many respects, sound.

From a Steinerian perspective, one might commend the list’s attentiveness to imaginative worlds in the early years, and its gradual shift toward abstraction and philosophical inquiry in the senior phases. Steiner believed that the developmental stages of children’s cognition required alignment with the soul life—the artistic, the moral, and the intellectual unfolding over time. Certainly, the draft list does not ignore this. It attempts to draw younger readers in with rich imagery and clear narratives, and leads them toward works of psychological complexity and symbolic weight.

And yet, something feels missing. A closer reading of the list reveals an overwhelming thematic preoccupation with trauma, oppression, identity politics, and resistance. There is a heavy reliance on narratives of marginalisation, power imbalance, and dystopian futures. One cannot help but notice the pattern of selection of titles like The Hate U Give, Still I Rise—all significant works in their own right, but all concerned with a very specific genre of struggle. When The Crucible, The Handmaid’s Tale, and 1984 are all clustered at the senior level, one might be forgiven for wondering whether students are being trained to read literature or to brace themselves for ideological battle.

Dawkins, whose advocacy for clarity, science, and rational inquiry has shaped generations of secular educators, might raise an eyebrow at the conspicuous absence of texts that challenge the mystical or embrace empirical reasoning. Where is The Selfish Gene or The Demon-Haunted World? More broadly, where are works of scientific imagination—Jules Verne, Arthur C. Clarke, Mary Shelley? Even Carl Sagan’s lyrical writings, so perfectly attuned to the awe of the universe and the wonder of reason, are nowhere to be found. If the curriculum seeks to build “knowledge-rich” foundations, why does it omit texts that nourish the scientific imagination?

It is worth noting too the absence of literature that explores joy, humour, wit, and love unburdened by trauma. Laughter is curiously absent from the classroom envisioned here. So is romance without ideological overtones. What of Jane Austen’s keen social satire, or Mark Twain’s impish irreverence? What of the universal delight found in Don Quixote or The Wind in the Willows, which students might return to in adulthood with fresh insight? A curriculum too narrowly focused on injustice risks producing readers who know how to diagnose society’s wounds, but not how to sing its songs.

The list is also strangely light on non-Western classics. The intent to be inclusive is evident in the inclusion of Māori and Pasifika authors and contemporary global voices. But where are The Tale of Genji, The Epic of Gilgamesh, or The Rubaiyat? Where are the Chinese poets, the Indian epics, the stories that have animated billions? A curriculum that claims to prepare students for a global society must do more than nod to postcolonial modernity—it must embrace the full grandeur of human civilisation.

To be fair, the draft acknowledges that teachers may supplement the list. But in practice, many educators will lean heavily on what is officially recommended. This is especially true in under-resourced schools or communities where professional development and library funding are limited. The list is therefore not merely suggestive; it is directive in all but name. It is a cultural gatekeeper.

Steiner once suggested that the greatest tragedy of modern education was that it aimed only to “train the mind,” but not to educate the human being. The proposed list trains minds, certainly—it teaches students to decode symbols, to identify themes, to spot injustice. But does it foster reverence for beauty? Does it cultivate a love of the strange and sublime? Does it invite students to lose themselves in awe, or to delight in ambiguity without the need to resolve it into slogans?

Literature is not just a mirror; it is a window, a lamp, and sometimes a door. It should not merely reflect the current moral preoccupations of society—it should expand the imagination beyond them. Reading should stretch the soul in many directions: upward toward the stars, inward toward conscience, and outward toward the unfathomable variety of human experience. A curriculum built too tightly around the present moment is at risk of becoming a cage rather than a key.

It is not too late to adjust course. The Ministry has wisely invited feedback, and there is still time to shape the final list. Submissions are open until 13 June 2025. Any teacher, parent, or citizen concerned with the intellectual and cultural development of the next generation should take this opportunity seriously. This is not about banning or replacing particular books—it is about expanding the range, balancing the tone, and ensuring that English education remains a gateway to the best that has been thought and said, not just the loudest or most recent.

A revised list might retain the current focus on voices of justice and resistance while also adding texts that celebrate innovation, curiosity, humour, and spiritual depth. Introduce Carl Sagan alongside Orwell. Pair The Handmaid’s Tale with Brave New World. Add Italo Calvino, Willa Cather, G.K. Chesterton, Jorge Luis Borges. Let students laugh with Oscar Wilde and wrestle with Dostoyevsky. Let them read Shakespeare, but also Tagore. Balance dystopia with utopia. Add texts that enchant as well as enrage.

Above all, remember that literature’s deepest magic is not in affirming what students already know or feel, but in unsettling them—softly, playfully, sometimes mysteriously. Let them be surprised. Let them grow into their questions.

The English classroom should be a place where students not only learn to critique society, but also to marvel at it. Where they are not only taught to resist the world, but to reimagine it. If we can strike that balance—between seriousness and play, between justice and joy—then we may yet leave behind not just a curriculum, but a legacy.

Zoran Rakovic is a structural engineer with nearly 30 years of experience, who has helped design and strengthen buildings across New Zealand—particularly in Christchurch’s earthquake recovery - while balancing life as a dad, granddad, and outdoor enthusiast. This article was sourced from his BLOG.