When you have teachers saying, 'I don't have enough time for

The words of Mae Jemison resound like a trumpet call to awaken the hearts of all who care for the future: “When you have teachers saying, ‘I don’t have enough time for hands-on activities,’ we need to rethink the way we do education.” This is not a simple complaint, nor a casual remark—it is a warning from one who has walked among the stars. For she, the first Black woman to travel into space, knows that knowledge is not born in dusty pages alone, but in the living touch of experience, in the fire of curiosity, in the daring to do as well as to dream.

The ancients, too, would have understood her cry. For in every age, true learning has come not from passive listening alone, but from the marriage of theory and practice, of word and deed. A warrior cannot master the sword by hearing lectures on steel; he must take blade in hand, feel its weight, clash it against another’s, and learn through the struggle. Likewise, a healer cannot become wise in the ways of medicine by reading scrolls only; she must tend to wounds, feel the warmth of the fevered brow, and watch how herbs soothe or fail. Without hands-on activities, education becomes a shadow, a pale ghost of what it could be.

Let us remember the tale of Leonardo da Vinci, whose genius was not confined to ink and parchment. He dissected bodies to learn the truth of muscles and bones, sketched rivers to study their flow, built wings to understand the flight of birds. His greatness came not from the classroom alone, but from the laboratory of life itself. If he had been told there was “no time” for such exploration, the world would have been poorer, robbed of discoveries that merged art, science, and imagination.

Yet today, how often do we chain our young minds to endless tests, to hurried lessons, to the memorization of facts divorced from life? Teachers, burdened with time and pressure, cry out that they cannot guide their students into the realm of discovery. This is the very lament Jemison names. It is as though we have mistaken the counting of seeds for the planting of gardens. We tally what students recall, but we forget to let them touch the soil, feel the growth, and marvel at the harvest.

The lesson is clear: education must be reimagined. It is not enough to pour knowledge into the mind as though it were a vessel. We must let children build, explore, question, test, and create. For it is in the doing that understanding takes root. Words may kindle curiosity, but experience fans it into flame. To deny this is to starve the spirit of learning itself.

So, what then must we do? First, as learners, we must seek to practice what we study. When you read of history, walk where history was made. When you learn of science, conduct small experiments with your own hands. When you hear of art, pick up brush or chisel and try. Second, as teachers, we must carve out sacred time for exploration, even if the world clamors for speed and efficiency. It is better for a student to grasp one truth deeply through experience than to recite ten facts with no root in the heart.

And finally, as a people, we must recognize that the destiny of our civilization depends on how we teach the next generation. If we reduce education to deadlines and data, we will raise servants of routine. But if we rekindle wonder through hands-on discovery, we will raise creators, visionaries, and explorers. Mae Jemison’s voice is not just for schools—it is for humanity. She bids us remember that learning is not mere preparation for life. Learning is life itself.