They didn’t teach my daughter about irregular verbs in school. Neither did she gain significant instruction regarding irregular nouns. When we noticed her speaking of childs, tooths, and mouses we began to gently correct her, which always led to the entirely understandable question of “Why is it like that?”, to which we had no better reply than, “I don’t know.”
When we mentioned this educational deficit at the next parent-teacher conference, we were told directly that yes, irregular parts of speech had been removed from the curriculum. This confused us.
“Why?” we asked.
“I don’t know.” the teachers replied, “Those are things kids should just pick up around the house.”
“Maybe she can watch more TV.” the other teacher added, enthusiastically.
This confused us further.
My daughter did not attend a “bad school” by any means, but the administration had been sold teaching Programs and Modules from several vendors out to prove that math had never been good enough before their fresh approach, and reading may have been fundamental but lacked the panache of their new method. The deal was that these programs must be followed to the letter, with no additions or alterations, to prove their effectiveness and generate robust sales materials for the publisher.
Therefore, the teachers found themselves in the bizarre situation of sneaking lessons which they felt were absolutely necessary into their curriculum…phonics and long division, for instance. No xeroxes could exist as evidence, all of this had to happen at the blackboard or during circle time sitting on the floor…well, the rug. Clandestine whispers of vowel sounds while nervous educators kept an unwavering eye on the glass panel in the classroom door lest the principal happen by to witness this revolution, this “meeting by the docks" on the third floor of a public school, brazenly held beneath the scattershot spotlight of industrial florescent lighting.
We admired their courage, but brought up the situation at the annual mid-year parent gathering, igniting a small revolution of our own as parents complained that their youngest children were receiving an entirely different education than their older ones had gotten at this same school. Thus, 5 year olds could read better than their 8 year old siblings. Words were exchanged with senior staff, a few of which were, indeed, irregular.
Now, we aren’t rebels. Hippies? Perhaps, but we all were gifted new pajamas at Christmas and now look a little more sophisticated than when we all were wearing vintage concert t-shirts. Punks? Definitely, but we’re the ones who don’t “tear it all down” as much as steampunk assemble new stuff: solutions, pathways, bridges… metaphors abound.
We really didn’t mean to “bring up something at a PTA meeting.” Yikes. That is not who we are. We baked them a great deal of cupcakes to sell, but ours were the gluten, soy, and dairy free ones, so… still punk, I guess. (They did include sugar.)
Zoe didn’t wait for the school, and began a campaign of “extra credit” at our home, the beginning of her private tutoring career with our daughter, a three-month stretch which conveniently dovetailed into a year and change of Lockdown (and continues to this very day).
I contributed by illustrating various points through demonstration and film references; Lucille Ball clips on YouTube, balloons and magnets, little songs to help memorize things. We hoped to supplement the lessons, find any gaps and fill them in with the necessary base skills that had proven repeatedly useful in our own lives.
We both assumed that school was a road whose most basic path did not significantly change: to your left is addition, and coming up on your right is subtraction. But like all modern landscapes, this one had shifted; we couldn’t find cross-multiplication anywhere… it had been replaced by a beige strip mall of the Impossibly Complicated, so we snuck that knowledge in and told our daughter never to speak of it at school, but use it wisely, and in secret.
Weirdos? Yes. We’re probably weirdos, too.
The reason for all this was to make sure the kid wasn’t missing anything she needed to deal with whatever was going to come her way as she got older. School is just a long moment where we have the luxury of “getting prepared” for later life, to sharpen our minds and gird our loins.
I’ve always loved that phrase, and only recently learned actually where our “loins” are (on each side of the spinal column between the hip bone and the bottom ribs) and what “girding” means. It should have been obvious since it looks like the word “girdle”: in ancient times when folks wore long tunics, it was impossible to fight in them unless one pulled up the slack and tied it tightly around the waist in order to free the legs. That, according to over three dubious online sources, was girding the loins.
When I was in it, school seemed like a period of time before something happened, like the middle step of preparing for a race, the “Get set!” between the “Ready!” and “Go!” To be honest, I never understood why we needed “get set” at all… we were standing on the line looking down the playground because someone had just told us to get “ready”, what was the “get set” for?
I realize now it was supposed to give us time to focus, to “prepare for something difficult or challenging”: the very definition of gird. I guess that’s what school is, a chance to steady oneself before launch, run a few pre-flight checks, ensure that all survival tools are packed away in the rucksack. A chance to practice before “the real thing” happens.
I miss that opportunity to rehearse before performance; adult life seems as improvisational as it is blatantly confrontational. But winter is the perfect time to pull together resources and make certain we have what we need before whatever’s happening next happens, metaphorically tightening our tunics so that we can be ready to dash valiantly forward with both foots.
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