Lurking in the shadows of education history are networks of human interaction, transcultural encounters, forms of global connection, and dispersed sites of cultural teaching and learning that are barely visible in the master narratives of education history. This is no surprise really. Who would have thought a half-century ago that we would become witnesses and participants in an increasingly interconnected world, bound together by global systems of commerce, transnational structures of communication, tsunami-proportion migratory flows, and ever more complex and puzzling transcultural encounters? Who could have imagined that a rising generation of globally conscious, mobile, and empowered young people—the progeny of Marshall McLuhan, Bill Gates, and Mark Zuckerberg—could refashion social and cultural networks, produce novel communicative and linguistic forms, mobilize worldwide social movements, inspire political action, unravel regimes of governance, and shape the contours of cultural life worldwide? Who could have imagined that historians of education would need to situate education history in relationship to newly evolving educational contexts of dazzling and unprecedented diversities: where encounters between total strangers from around the globe are the stuff of daily life in schools; the contours of community life and bonds of affiliation are trans-local, poly-focal, and subject to negotiation; where time-honored habits of heart, mind, and association are multitudinous and deeply challenged; where the languages of instruction, communication, and daily discourse are continually shifting and fusing; where designations of insiders and outsiders are manifold and fluid? Who could have imagined that sites of teaching and learning could become geographically unbound, disentangled from life in face-to-face communities, and the traditional boundaries of nation-state and imperial empire?

Attempting to establish an agenda for one's own research is often challenging; trying to do so for a broad swath of one's field is even more so. I accepted the invitation to propose one in the hope that graduate students and younger colleagues—especially those willing to put in the work to obtain at least reading fluency in foreign languages—might benefit from the suggestions of potentially fruitful research topics from someone who has been reading widely in modern European educational history for almost forty years. Such an agenda is partial in both meanings of the word: it does not come close to exhausting all possible topics, and it necessarily reflects my own areas of expertise and interest. That means a focus primarily on the nineteenth century, with more attention both to secondary than to either elementary or university education, and to girls’ schooling than to boys’. As a caveat, I may not be cognizant of all that has been published or is in the works even for the themes suggested.

Publishing deadlines can be a nuisance for an author. For example, in 1972 when the editor of Rolling Stone magazine pressed Truman Capote on why he had promptly cashed his advance payment check yet had failed to submit his manuscript more than a month after the publishing deadline, Capote replied, “Do you want an article that is timely or timeless?” Much to Capote's chagrin, the editor replied, “Both!” Capote's response was “Neither”—and the project fell apart. Little wonder, then, that I was pleasantly surprised to receive the invitation from the History of Education Quarterly to explain to colleagues what topic I would choose if I were to have the luxury of writing forever. After the exhilaration of being both timely and timeless wore off, I realized the invitation was problematic.

I want to divide this essay into two sections, one indicating things I might have added to a few earlier works, and a second indicating a project or two that I did not do but would like to have done.

As I read through the fascinating ruminations of Drs. Albisetti, Finkelstein, Thelin, and Urban, it seemed to me that two basic points emerge, one conceptual and one methodological. Conceptually, Albisetti, Finkelstein, and Urban are asking historians of education to move away from national frames of reference to either a global, transcontinental purview (Albisetti and Finkelstein) or a small, local one (Urban). The two alternatives become complementary as we read on, however, for many examples given of such globalism are actually case studies on a small scale—the lives of single individuals in Finkelstein's case, and of single institutions in Albisetti's. Similarly, Urban's localism becomes the starting point for comparative history between one location (Alabama) and another (Georgia), which in turn expands into regional comparisons (the American South and other parts of the country) and institutional ones (Catholic and public systems). The portmanteau “globalocal,” or the commonplace “think globally, act locally” seem to capture this conceptual recommendation nicely.

James Albisetti is certainly right when stressing that “attempting to establish an agenda for one's own research is often challenging; trying to do so for a broad swath of one's field is even more so.” One might add that discussing the research agenda of other historians is equally difficult in light of the peculiarities of the lines of investigations which reflect specific research interests, sometimes consolidated over years or even decades. Specialization legitimates a historian's competence and guarantees the completeness or relevance of the sources used, the methodological rigor, the reliability and consistency of the reconstruction carried out, and, finally, the effectiveness of critical evaluations and judgments formulated.

These essays by our thoughtful colleagues open a wide range of ideas to consider. I offer some comments on several categories that emerged from reading their essays, each of which leads us to a more complex and interconnected grand narrative for our field: access to evidence, transnational studies, local studies, biography, and autobiography.