Iman mentioned that she was bored. Mama, sounding quite sagacious, replied, "Well, boredom is the mother of invention."
Iman, hesitant: "I thought necessity was the mother of invention."
Shit. It's hard to lie to a reader.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Rule #2: Raise your hand to answer the question.
Waaaay back when my oldest child was just a wee little pre-preschooler, I'd tell folks that I wanted to homeschool. The response -- generally something along the lines of "Uh, why?" -- would be accompanied by a wary look, as if the afro-sporting, Goodwill chic, brown-and-crunchy Mama was transforming into an ultra-conservative isolationist before the respondent's very eyes.
But that was waaaay back then.
Now that the Creator has allowed us the opportunity to homeschool seven years later, an inquisitive public seems much cooler about the idea of families' bowing out from schools. In fact, now that summer vacation is coming to an end, folks really only seem interested in how I'm going to make money; the idea of homeschooling itself has consistently been met with only a slightly interested, "Oh?" And once I assure the interlocutor that me and the fam will probably not starve and die, the really hard question comes: "So, what kind of stuff are they going to learn?" The question is never a challenge; it's an invitation, a request for an expert's opinion about what kids should "really" learn.
(I'm the expert, btw: a former public school teacher, a mother that had kids in school, a woman getting her doctorate in Educational Policy. Hi.)
My expert answer: "Hell if I know." My years of schooling, of having kids in schools, and of learning about schooling has pretty much convinced me that schooling hurts learning more than it helps, and that an education doesn't necessitate schooling. Because of this, the plan is to unschool: to allow my children to learn about, investigate, dig into whatever they want to, whenever they need to. As long as it's safe... and legal.
And even the legality stipulation is up to debate.
Imagine my chagrin, then, when we had a family meeting today about what we want out of our school.. or our unschool. We told ourselves that our first day of "school" would be tomorrow, and I thought it would be good to discuss what we expected out of it. My second oldest started writing a list of all the fun things we could do. I noted that it may be good to pick certain days to do certain things. It was just an idea, though, you know? Nothing set it stone. But those kids took that idea and ran with it like they were a track team or something.
The list of "things to do" grew to epic proportions, with each item representing a reward for "being good" for the day, week, or month. My oldest, meanwhile, started a list of rules. While most of the rules could pass as general guidelines for life (i.e., "Treat others the way you want to be treated," or "No bullying, shouting, yelling, or cheating allowed"), that "Raise your hand to answer the questions" one threw me off. "There are only five of us, kid," I thought. "Why would we need to raise our hands?"
When they started discussing a dress code, I wanted to give up. Sure, the dress code consisted of jeans and sandals, skirts and flip-flops, but that's not the point. Why did they even want to make a dress code? I mean, what the hell? If my Mama had told young Kelly that she didn't have to go back to school, I would have thrown out my school books, thrown off my pants, and settled in for a long week of novel-reading and cocoa-drinking. Why were these kids so excited about schedules, rules, and codes?
I took a look at the schedule, tried to swallow a very righteous indignation. Then I tried to swallow a smile. It seemed straightforward enough:
Then I realized how important this moment was. I was getting all worked up about the fact that my children weren't reacting the way that I would at the idea of eschewing the rules and limitations of our institutions. But I'm three decades into being alive. I never had a chance to change institutions when I was younger, or to create them in my own image. I just moved through them, and now, maybe out of some latent, unresolved anger, am trying to lean my whole life toward dismantling them.
My children, though, are getting to do something better than I ever got to do: they're getting to make up their lives as they go. They are deciding how to conduct their days. They are deciding on their bedtime. They even got their clothes ready for their big day tomorrow, something I'd have to constantly badger them to do while they were in school. My second-born ripped pages out of a workbook for her younger sister's lesson tomorrow, and wrote "Good morning students" on our whiteboard, complete with a little happy face.
They are getting to re-make their world. So, sure, it'll resemble what they've learned from schooling. Maybe that will change soon, maybe it won't. After all, schooling is what they have known best in their short lives.
But they are so excited to be able to do school their own way. They all ran into the bathroom to brush their teeth for the night, the oldest ones sagaciously instructing the younger ones about the wonders of mouthwash. When in bed, an older sister yelled "Go to sleep!" at a frolicking brother, refusing to play along with him like she would normally do. I can hear the oldest one turning pages of a novel she just borrowed, and don't have to freak out that she'll be too tired tomorrow to efficiently negotiate someone else's schedule. Because she's making her own now. And how many kids can say that they make their own schedules?
Hey, my kids are pretty badass.
But that was waaaay back then.
Now that the Creator has allowed us the opportunity to homeschool seven years later, an inquisitive public seems much cooler about the idea of families' bowing out from schools. In fact, now that summer vacation is coming to an end, folks really only seem interested in how I'm going to make money; the idea of homeschooling itself has consistently been met with only a slightly interested, "Oh?" And once I assure the interlocutor that me and the fam will probably not starve and die, the really hard question comes: "So, what kind of stuff are they going to learn?" The question is never a challenge; it's an invitation, a request for an expert's opinion about what kids should "really" learn.
(I'm the expert, btw: a former public school teacher, a mother that had kids in school, a woman getting her doctorate in Educational Policy. Hi.)
My expert answer: "Hell if I know." My years of schooling, of having kids in schools, and of learning about schooling has pretty much convinced me that schooling hurts learning more than it helps, and that an education doesn't necessitate schooling. Because of this, the plan is to unschool: to allow my children to learn about, investigate, dig into whatever they want to, whenever they need to. As long as it's safe... and legal.
And even the legality stipulation is up to debate.
Imagine my chagrin, then, when we had a family meeting today about what we want out of our school.. or our unschool. We told ourselves that our first day of "school" would be tomorrow, and I thought it would be good to discuss what we expected out of it. My second oldest started writing a list of all the fun things we could do. I noted that it may be good to pick certain days to do certain things. It was just an idea, though, you know? Nothing set it stone. But those kids took that idea and ran with it like they were a track team or something.
The list of "things to do" grew to epic proportions, with each item representing a reward for "being good" for the day, week, or month. My oldest, meanwhile, started a list of rules. While most of the rules could pass as general guidelines for life (i.e., "Treat others the way you want to be treated," or "No bullying, shouting, yelling, or cheating allowed"), that "Raise your hand to answer the questions" one threw me off. "There are only five of us, kid," I thought. "Why would we need to raise our hands?"When they started discussing a dress code, I wanted to give up. Sure, the dress code consisted of jeans and sandals, skirts and flip-flops, but that's not the point. Why did they even want to make a dress code? I mean, what the hell? If my Mama had told young Kelly that she didn't have to go back to school, I would have thrown out my school books, thrown off my pants, and settled in for a long week of novel-reading and cocoa-drinking. Why were these kids so excited about schedules, rules, and codes?
I took a look at the schedule, tried to swallow a very righteous indignation. Then I tried to swallow a smile. It seemed straightforward enough:
- 7:35: Wake up call by the youngest two [Well, that does happen at about that time, anyway.]
- 7:45: Breakfist
- 8:00: School begins
- 8:15: Spelling [for the youngest]
- 8:30: Math
- 9:00: Reading
- 9:30: Sceince
- 10:00: LA [Language Arts]
- 10:30: Writing
- 11:00-12:00: Ciesta [Siesta for the youngest two]
- 12:00: Lunch
- 12:15: Free time
- 12:30: School day over
My children, though, are getting to do something better than I ever got to do: they're getting to make up their lives as they go. They are deciding how to conduct their days. They are deciding on their bedtime. They even got their clothes ready for their big day tomorrow, something I'd have to constantly badger them to do while they were in school. My second-born ripped pages out of a workbook for her younger sister's lesson tomorrow, and wrote "Good morning students" on our whiteboard, complete with a little happy face.
They are getting to re-make their world. So, sure, it'll resemble what they've learned from schooling. Maybe that will change soon, maybe it won't. After all, schooling is what they have known best in their short lives.
But they are so excited to be able to do school their own way. They all ran into the bathroom to brush their teeth for the night, the oldest ones sagaciously instructing the younger ones about the wonders of mouthwash. When in bed, an older sister yelled "Go to sleep!" at a frolicking brother, refusing to play along with him like she would normally do. I can hear the oldest one turning pages of a novel she just borrowed, and don't have to freak out that she'll be too tired tomorrow to efficiently negotiate someone else's schedule. Because she's making her own now. And how many kids can say that they make their own schedules?
Hey, my kids are pretty badass.
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