After some fuss, the US Library of Congress has decided against reclassifying Scottish literature as a branch line of the great English tradition. At a guess, the person or persons who made the suggestion never intended to apply their logic - but why not? - to American writing. The literatures of Ireland, you can meanwhile bet, were never in the frame.

Such skirmishes are nothing new. They are a reminder, though, that you should never make too many assumptions about our "internationally-recognised cultural heritage" and our "world-beating literature". There are still plenty of anthologies in which Robert Burns is granted an honoured place, but it is an honoured place as a pre-Romantic dialect type within the family of England's culture. And Burns, "Robbie", our "world poet", is the one they have heard of.

These days, what with modern sensitivities, "literature in English" is preferred to "English literature". The Library of Congress probably knew as much, yet still couldn't locate Scotland on its mental map. Presumably, the library also began with a view on the argument over the linguistic status of Scots, but that's another matter. The point is that assertiveness alone, cultural or political, does not always do the job.

So we "promote", we "brand", we "educate": sometimes we do it well, sometimes badly, but always tirelessly. We want visitors, far less the biggest library on the planet, to know more and understand better. It is a matter of pride, a matter of creating the kind of tourism you need and want, but also - though let's not be too melodramatic - an old fear of cultural assimilation and extinction. One minute it's "world-beaters"; the next, "look at us, we're still here".

Retaining your reserved spot on the stacks of the Library of Congress is not quite the same thing as claiming a seat at the UN. It is entirely possible to care deeply about the former and think nothing, even less than nothing, about the latter, just as you can easily find two people with wholly opposed views on the life, politics and works of Burns. Homogeneity is not a Scottish trait.

It remains disappointing, nevertheless, that the new Burns museum at Alloway will not be ready for January 25, 2009. The 250th anniversary of a national poet's birth is not a repeatable opportunity. A good deal of public money has gone into the venture. Foreign visitors may look askance at another Scottish failure to get a construction job done. Besides, there is always the chance that a distinguished trustee from a great national library will be in the vicinity, eager to learn more about Scottish literature.

Disappointment aside, I don't actually hold any of these views. If the choice is between on-time and right, I would prefer, as with the Holyrood parliament, the latter. I don't doubt that the National Trust for Scotland is as disappointed as anyone over the museum. There are worse things, meanwhile, on which to spend public cash. And if a poet is truly for the ages, a few months and a slightly spurious anniversary shouldn't matter too much.

There's something else. The museum, I'm sure, will do a fine educational job as and when it opens. Already there are glowing reports - I can't speak from experience - of the Culloden visitor centre's ability to deal with some tricky historical arguments in an entertaining way. Interested foreign visitors, expatriates, the diaspora and generations of Scottish children will no doubt learn a great deal from both facilities. I have a sense, though, of incompleteness when I hear about these things. There are gaps no museum can fill.

These issues start, like most things cultural, at home. What's preferable? Another, possibly world-beating, museum, or those young generations being taught their own history and literature in their own classrooms? One does not obviate the need for the other. You can, probably should, have both. And those visitors who hear of it are astonished, always, by the fact that we do not.

Scotland's museums and visitor centres put a great deal of effort, generally, into education. The politicians tend to demand it. The demand that we teach our children adequately, or even accurately, in schools is less likely to find acceptance. Yet in all the flyting over constitutional arrangements and political futures, the cultural argument is the enduring bedrock. Who are we?

Millions among us are none too sure. Nobody told us, not in any coherent way. Even now, Scottish history and literature are not (that intimidating word) compulsory. In both cases there have been eloquent requests lately for, shall we say, curriculum correction. The thoughtful of all parties and none realise we cannot, at this stage in Scotland's affairs, continue as before. Professor Tom Devine has famously described the failure to teach Scottish history as a disgrace. In literature, the senti- ment is echoed. In our modern story, there are gaps between the gaps.

Most of us with uneasy memories are aware of the reasons. We know bits of battle stories, bits of verse, a few fragments that might have been imparted by an enthusiastic teacher. It is almost an oral tradition. Beyond that, Scottish narratives (in the broadest sense) are university specialisms, the preserve of dedicated museums and authors, or held in trust by autodidacts.

History is political, if it happens to be your history. Culture is political, if it happens to be your culture. The failure to tell Scots about the forces that made Scotland has complicated origins, and arguments are liable to ensue. Certain of the forces at issue are still around, after all, and liable to fret if we raise our eyes beyond "heritage" and interactive experiences. But the things taught in schools, or not taught, are pure politics. Our children are not taught properly: discuss.

Burns the radical, the republican, the liberator? Or Burns the hypo-crite, the striker of attitudes, the quisling? Culloden as ethnic cleansing, or Culloden as mere internecine strife? Then ask: who prepares the teaching materials? Then ask: who is to be allowed to influence young Scots at this fundamental level?

I might be content just to ask why, yet again, Scotland fails mysteriously to live as all other small countries live. I doubt that the history of Norway is taught without mention of past relationships with Sweden, but I don't doubt that the history of Norway is taught. More pertinently, the history and literature of England are taught, with the usual low-grade arguments over choices and interpretation, in English schools. Were things otherwise, there would be outrage. Quite right, too.

The National Trust for Scotland will do Burns proud, I'm sure. Meanwhile, I'll make another trip to Culloden, one of these days, to admire the new technology, ponder and mourn. But I will stop to remember that Burns was the only Scottish poet I was ever obliged to read, and that the tale of the Bonnie Prince I was once allowed turned out to be just a little on the far Hollywood side of history.

I will not acquire a new belief in accidents, however, historical or otherwise. If you are kept deaf and blind, are you not also rendered dumb? No accident there.