Why we homeschooled

Matt started Kindergarten in the fall of 1992. He already knew his letters, his numbers, name, address, shapes, colors... pretty much the whole K curriculum. This was before K age kids were tested to make sure they know calculus and can read War and Peace to be promoted to first grade.

Since he was bored with lessons, his teacher immediately played the attention deficit card.
"I’m a little concerned about Matthew. He seems to have trouble sitting still for lessons and sometimes behaves inappropriately. I think it's possible he is ADD."

Oh really? I think it's possible he is a child. When did it become acceptable to use a child's possible label as an indicator of who or what they are? Hmm, perhaps this should be the subject of still another rant?


She suggested I have him evaluated by the district for a possible learning problem. (A five year old is having trouble sitting still and sometimes acts, well, five??? My god, what should we DO?!?!)

Fortunately, I already knew how that game was played and how they stacked the deck. The school district gets more money for kids who have a label! In fact, sometimes labels are stuck together, and you can hang more than one around a child’s neck! In some cases, sadly not so rare, the weight of labels can drag a five year old down so much that he never gets back up... ever... not once in the course of his schooling.

In the same smarmy tone of voice she had used, fake concern apparent on my face, I said, "Let me set your mind at ease. I wouldn’t want you to worry over Matt. That’s not his problem. He’s bored. He already knows what you’re teaching."

Soon after school started, he came home talking about his new friend, Miss Brittleface, the school counselor.

Hey, that could be the subject of another rant! What the hell is up with the battalions of counselors now employed by school districts nationwide? But once again, I digress.

Miss Brittleface had invited the children, three at a time, to her office. She told the children that she was their friend, and that if they ever had problems, even at home, she would be there to talk to. She explained that she knew how hard it could be to talk to Mommy or Daddy sometimes because they don’t always understand. This was all reported to me by my five year old. He said he knew he could talk to HIS mom and dad, but that some kids didn’t have any other friends, so it was nice that she was there. Jesus! He’d already been pointed down the Nanny Path! I hated having him in school, and had already begun to think about homeschooling, but I knew it was something Eric would never agree to.

Lyssa was born the summer between K and 1st grade. Matt didn’t want to go to school and leave us. He couldn’t understand why, since he’d learned to read that summer he had to go to school to learn.

I said the things that parents say.
"You need to go to school so you can learn."
"Big boys your age go to school! That’s what they all do!"
"We’ll still be here when you come home from school. We’ll miss you, too!"

Open house was the first indication that school was not a lovely experience for Matt. I talked with his teacher (or rather, she talked at me) while Eric toured the classroom with his boy. When I asked her how things were going for him, she started into a recitation of what a pain in the ass he was, although she didn’t use that particular phrase.

With a tight-lipped, tense smile on her face, she said, "Well, I don’t know about Matthew. He has a real problem sitting still. AND! He’s been reversing a few letters! I wonder if we don’t have a little attention deficit on our hands, here. He thinks it’s funny to play with the light switches! He talks in the hall! He chases girls on the playground!"

Imagine how horrified I was to hear that he was behaving like a normal child! Wow, had I done a shitty job as a parent or what!? Chasing girls? OH MY GOD!!!

I hid my anguish. Said, "You know, I think he may be bored."

Now, I know I don’t have total recall. But these words are burned forever into what passes for my brain.

She answered, "No, he isn’t bored. Not if he’s as smart as I think he is. No truly intelligent person is EVER bored."

OOO-kay then! When you’re a captive six year old, boredom is probably pretty high on the list of things affecting you.

After talking with my son after school every day, seeing the very rudimentary work he brought home, and seeing the attitude of his teacher toward him, I became very sure he didn’t belong in her class. I went to visit the principal, Mr. Tician. (Paul I.)

I explained my dissatisfaction with the simplistic work Matt had been doing, mentioned his normal childhood behaviors of trying to make other kids laugh and chasing girls, and pointed out that in the 10 minutes I had talked with Ms.Pedagogue, she hadn’t said one single positive thing about my son. He did what he’s paid to do. Supported the teacher. Said that before he’d consider moving my child to another class, perhaps I’d agree to meet with the teacher?

I grew up in a home with a teacher father and a school bus driver mom. Only a fool would show no willingness to work with the staff! (oh god, it makes me want to gag when I think of how accommodating I was willing to be.)

If you go in with a complaint and make no visible effort to appear to be
a logical, reasonable person, you get branded as that parent.
As in, "Oh God, here comes that parent again." or, "Hey! I thought we were done dealing with that parent already! What the hell does she want now?"
And while there are not words in the English language to describe how little I cared for their opinion of me, there are many to describe my concern over treatment of my little boy!

So we scheduled a meeting. I carefully assembled the work and projects he had done at home. I stayed up late the night before, worrying over what I would say and making notes so I wouldn’t forget the points I wanted to make. I went in with my best friendly look on my face, and acted like the best parent I could. I was so nice to them that, after a little persuasion, I agreed to leave my child in that class! Please don’t think less of me. I loved my little boy and wanted the best for him. I just didn’t know how to play the game as well as I thought I did.

From that point on, Ms. Pedagogue had her eye on him. I had questioned her teaching skills and she wasn’t about to let me forget. Worse, she was taking it out on him in subtle little ways. Every day, she walked out with him after school and listed all the things he had done wrong.
"Matt made inappropriate noises in the hallway."
"Matt spoke out of turn in class!"
"Matt was play fighting on the playground!" All of those things were normal kid behaviors, and I was embarrassed about them!
We disciplined him for those things.
"Matt, you can’t act up at school. Didn’t we teach you better manners?"
"No video games for YOU today".
"No Legos for a week."
I’m cringing as I type this. Makes me feel like shit.
Of course, his behavior ‘worsened.’
We were making ourselves sick over the situation.

We would lie awake at night and discuss ways to make him behave at school. It was ugly. We got up in the morning and served him a dose of ‘Straighten up your act." along with his breakfast. He went to school and was squelched all day long. I was waiting to pounce the moment he walked out the door of the school, and the moment his dad came home from work, we rehashed the entire day.

Then, during one of our night conversations in about February of that school year, we realized he didn’t have anywhere he felt safe! Nowhere for him to be himself. (Let’s pause a moment here while I beat myself up over this again. It hurts, but I deserve it. What an IDIOT I was!)

We began discussing homeschooling. At first it was my idea. I figured since I was home with the baby anyway, it would be simple.

Eric was totally and completely against the idea. "He’ll be socially retarded!!"

Our agonizing had one positive result, though. We relaxed our attitude about his behavior. He began to feel better and it showed.

In April, we decided that maybe homeschooling would be a good thing. We didn’t feel like they were helping him reach his potential. The only advanced work we’d seen all year was a report on the planets he’d done at home with his dad. Since the good stuff was being done at home, it seemed reasonable that we could offer him more than they could.

He was still not meeting their goal behavior. At his school, they had the "Self-manager" program. This was a feel-good award based on attitude and compliance. If certain criteria were met, a child was given a big yellow button in front of the entire school at a special assembly. This button had privileges! The bearer of such a prize was able to be first in line for lunch, first in line for the library and first in line for recess.
Matt asked his teacher (and told me about the conversation later) "Isn’t that like first class on an airplane? You get to sit in a bigger seat, you get better food, and they talk nicer to you, but you still go to the same place as all the other people."
There are lots of things a person could say about that little boy... but I think sharp would have to be at the top of the list.

The final factor in our decision was this.

Ms. Pedagogue asked me to help my son's class with a papier mache project. As I stood in the back of the room, up to my elbows in glue, tissue paper and kids, I got to witness the excitement as Miss Brittleface skipped into the room holding a big clear bag of Tootsie Rolls. Wow. That was some bag. She almost needed a wagon.

"Where are all my good boys and girls?" she called out joyously. "I have something special for you!"

She then handed out candy to eight or nine children, told them how wonderful they were, and waltzed out of the room after ignoring the rest of the children. The special children opened the candy, stuffed it into their mouths, and ate it in front of the rest of the class. It's not even possible to describe the disappointment on the faces of the other kids.
Stunned, but still in good parent mode, I said nothing until we arrived home from school that afternoon and I was able to question my son. He explained that in the morning, Ms. Pedagogue had been out of the classroom for a while. Miss Brittleface was sitting in for her, and told the class that if they sat quietly and colored their pictures, she would give them "something wonderful!"

"I was really good, too!" he said. "And she didn't even notice me!"

Well, I was so angry I didn't trust myself to call the school. I waited a whole night, called my friends and ranted, ranted to my hubby, and stewed over it instead of sleeping for a good portion of the night.
Food as a reward? Group rewards? Group punishments for the others?? What crap! And HEY!! I was one of the GOOD parents! How DARE they treat MY child that way?!?!?!

I was ready to tackle the issue the next morning, and called Miss Brittleface. She agreed to see me right away.

(An aside here about Miss Brittleface. She was about 5 feet tall, 80 lbs., little cap of platinum hair and radiated waves of tension and insecurity. She compensated for this by being a toucher and a big eye contact sort of woman. Also, it was obvious from her demeanor that she believed an overweight person is obviously less intelligent. This caused her to be the most condescending little twit I dealt with the entire two years of my son's formal education.)

She was pleased to see me. I know this because she offered me the big, professional smile, touched me on the arm and invited me into her little office. She even gave me the nice chair!
"What can I do for you today?" she asked.
"Well, you could explain for me the Tootsie Roll theory of discipline," I replied.
She offered a puzzled little smile. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"Well, I saw the little one act play in my son's class yesterday, and I was just a little curious about it."

"Oh!!" she exclaimed. Enunciating most carefully, and leaning closer so she could help me understand, she continued. "That's called positive reinforcement." She gave me a conspiratorial pat on the arm. I was quite comforted... a patronizing gesture can mean so much.

"No. It's not called positive reinforcement." I said. "It's called operant conditioning, and is an excellent tool for training a dog. I fail to see how you can regard anything as positive when it causes so many negative feelings. Do you even have any children?"

"Why yes I do!" she exclaimed, quickly donning what I assume was supposed to be a proud, maternal smile. Since this was the same smile she had used while tossing Tootsie Rolls, when welcoming me to her office and to denote puzzlement, I was not convinced it was genuine.
"I have a daughter in the second grade!"

"Oh." I commented. "How nice. Does she go to school here?"

"Why no!" she exclaimed. (she was prone to loud exclamations... scary, scary little woman..) "
My daughter is in a private school!"

"How nice." I said again. "How would you feel if she came home from school feeling as bad as my son did yesterday?"

"Well," she confided. Another pat on my arm.

"My daughter is quite talkative. I can easily see how we could have a situation like that. I might then ask her what she could do to get a Tootsie Roll the next time."

"Well, all my son has to do is tell me," I smiled. "And I'll go buy him a whole damn bag!"

"OH!" she exclaimed. (AGAIN with the exclamations!) "Don't you think that undermines what we're trying to do here? We must have some checks and balances, we have a lot of children here, and they must conform!"

"Okay," I said. "What if I go buy a bag of Hershey's kisses and tell my son to bring them to school and hand them out only to the kids he likes. Is that okay?"

"Oh no!" (she exclaimed.. of course.) "That would be unfair!"

"Well, that falls into the no shit category," I told her. "Don't you think what you're doing is unfair? I haven't taught my son to behave that way. The way I see it, you're undermining ME."

We took Matt out of school after 1st grade. He never went back. He’s in college now and doing well. He no longer plays with light switches in the classroom, speaks out of turn, or chases girls on the playground. He has a job dealing with the public, so it seems that he is able to communicate. He has a girlfriend. He has many friends to hang out with. Socially retarded my ass.

I’m so glad we never sent Lyssa to school. It would have been so hard on her. I still feel bad that we sent Matt. He didn’t belong there either.