My family grew up with a community brewery, though everyone who ever lived in Evansville was tethered by history, community pride and latent alcoholism to the 150-year-old Sterling Brewery.

At the brewery, where workers drank all day as a condition of employment and even packed their own personalized tin drinking cups, they brewed Sterling Beer. It was hideous. We all knew this but defended the medicinal, curative power of this vile liquid to outsiders everywhere as if it were elixir transported from Lourdes.

Apparently, dopey customers will buy hype.

This beer ­— which has since died corporately, was reborn, died and was Lazarused again — has a lot in common with Common Core, the reviled national matrix of academic standards that Indiana so ceremoniously jettisoned last month in favor of the totally good and very cool Hoosier Core.

We loved Sterling Beer because it was our beer. Hoosier beer for Hoosiers.

We love Hoosier Core because it’s education for Hoosiers by Hoosiers.

Hoosier Core is like Sterling Beer in other ways, too.

On days when orders for Sterling were under control, the brewery also cooked up Champagne Velvet, Falls City, Cook’s, Wiedemann, Drewry and Golblum.

Then there was Tropical Extra fine Ale, 9-0-5, Lederbrau, Pfeiffer, Rheingold, Katz, Bavarian, Drummond Brothers and Prager Bohemian.

And then on the second shift they’d get to Birell, Coldsburg Gray, Eagle, Evansville, Gerst, John Gilberts, Gringo Light, Hey Mon, Hoosier Red, Jackaroo, Joe’s Freakin’, Lemp, Lemp Light, Mo’s Maxin, New Frontier, River City, Riverfront, Sainsburys and Zebra.

On different third shifts, they’d churn Jacob Rosnberger Munich Ale, Ian Kinross Highland Stout, Gustav Werner Alt Amber, Otto Bruckman Bavarian Bock, Bison Brau Original Wit and Allegheny Cream Ale.

And don’t forget Indiana Gold, River City, and John Gilbert’s Riverboat.

We suspected Blatz and Carling Black Label snuck in, too, but couldn’t prove it.

Some got fish bladder extract, fructose and propylene glycol juice, which also spices up anti-freeze. Others were distilled straight from gawd’s fermented grains.

But unless I am totally mistaken, the obvious secret of Sterling Brewery also applies to the politically inspired sanctimonious death of Common Core.

Aside from a modest sprinkle of extra hops here and a smidgen of barley there, every beer that Sterling brewed for 160 years essentially was the same beer.

In fact, they were not MOSTLY the same bubbly aperitif. They were precisely the same.

How could this be? Because there are unlimited variations on labels. Printing different labels is much cheaper than actually brewing different beers.

Different label, different beer. Trickery was the underlying marketing theory. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Seems pretty simple, when you think about it, and is almost scientifically plausible.

Ninety-eight percent of every bottle of beer is water. Every beer brewed in Evansville originated from the Ohio River, a rancid pool of greasy, crunchy, mucky drool. Fish were known to leap feebly from the Ohio River and woozily bleat “Help!” before realizing their escape attempt had failed.

It was water that sewage treatment plants in Pittsburgh, Cincinnati and Louisville could not repair. So we got it with their blessing.

And, of course, Hoosier customers could never tell the difference in the beers even had there been a difference. The power of suggestion is awesomely effective. After two beers, only your liver knew the difference. There also was that gummy residue on your gums.

Sterling kept distribution of the different brands widely dispersed. No use letting drinkers compare nonexistence variations.

So when Gov. Mike Pence solemnly ditched the created-by-foreigners Common Core, we presumed the new Core was very much different than the old despised Core. New label; new core. That’s the marketing paradigm.

Nobody in their right mind is going to read the entire mess. But several observers who claim direct knowledge say it’s mostly the same mishmash with a few different words. Hoosier Words, we’d guess. A pinch of barley here, a smidge of hops there.

Still uses massive regimentation and perpetual testing, perpetual preparation for testing and then more testing.

Hoosier ingenuity has produced the 47th least educated populace in the nation. How much worse can this be?

However derivative, this states rights house brand will cost an estimated $100 million to implement new tests and train teachers — again.

As for kids, they’ll swig the same old Ohio River ditch water, but a different label will make it taste lots better.

David Rutter was an editor at six community newspapers more than 40 years. His column appears Sundays in the Post-Tribune. Contact him at david.rutter@live.com