Individuals Used To Matter

We old-fashioned types are pretty shocked when we hear crazy collectivist talk spewing out of what is at least in theory a mainstream media outlet.  We shake our heads and shake our fists and cry out in despair and confusion, “What the hell is going on here? What is wrong with you people?”

It’s hard.  It’s hard to understand what has happened to our country.  How have we managed to elect and reelect a man demonstrably uncomfortable with the constraints of our Constitution?  How have we devolved from the land of opportunity to the land of entitlement?

The scary results before us now are the fruition of many years of individual abdication.  We, as individuals, keep relinquishing our responsibilities.  Young adults wandering the streets today are the grandchildren of a culture that demands both rights and blamelessness.

Nobody wants to take responsibility anymore.  We could list examples all day long, but that doesn’t really help us to understand how we got here.

The devil’s in the details.

Even the smallest decision can resonate far beyond its initial design.

Older son learned to read early.  We naively expected schools to take this skill into account, but by the final year of his brick-and-mortar experience, we knew that would never happen.  In third grade, the slow and thorough application of “reading strategies” to standardized (and therefore lame) material was not only the norm but mandatory, regardless of a child’s reading level.

They have to go through this process, I was told.  Even if they can mechanically read the words, they won’t be able to comprehend the meaning unless we use these strategies to teach them, I was told by Educators Who Are Well Meaning But Shall Remain Nameless.

I might have bought this premise, too, were it not for my own experience.  I was a child once, and a good reader.  My 1st grade teacher noticed.  She told me one day, go to the 2nd grade classroom during reading time.

While my classmates recited aloud the latest 1st grade adventures of Dick and Jane, I went upstairs and into a strange 2nd grade classroom.  The teacher there informed me that her class was at P.E., and I was to read all the “readers” at my own pace.  The shelf of readers extended the length of one wall.

No one ever asked me to apply a reading strategy.  No one ascertained whether I was really reading, or just messing about and taking advantage of the situation.  By the end of the year, I had ingested every reader shelved on that wall.

Fast forward thirty years.  I proposed the same arrangement to a very kind and capable teacher, and she looked at me as if lobsters were coming out of my ears.  You can’t do that, she protested.  The schedule won’t allow it.

Right.  The schedule won’t allow it.

In other words, its not her responsibility.

Thirty years ago, an underpaid urban public school teacher didn’t think twice about taking responsibility for the needs of an early reading student.  The arrangement was probably concocted in the teacher’s lounge.  They probably didn’t even run the idea by the principal first.

Did this arrangement substantially improve my education?

I don’t know.

It sure feels significant, though.  It sure feels like proof that the individual used to matter.

But not anymore.

Miracles Used to be Common in America

That’s what Citizen Tom told me when he linked my Miracles post.

He brilliantly positioned my latest homeschooling post into a cultural and historical perspective.  You should go read the whole thing, but here is the gist:

“We have lost so many of our freedoms so gradually and so slowly, we don’t know, understand, or appreciate what the founders created. . . .

Nonetheless, occasionally a miracle still occurs, and some citizen takes it upon herself or himself to do what needs to be done without waiting for the government to do it. . . .

When Alexis De Tocqueville visited America in 1831-32, he found our people doing something so remarkable he had to study it. He found of nation of self-starters, people who took it upon themselves to fix what needed to be fixed.”

I told him what a great point that was, and then Tom answered with a comment that warrants a whole post of its own.  Here’s an abridged version:

Linda, when you expressed reluctance to blog on homeschool issues, I was disappointed. I think you should write about homeschooling, and I wrote this post to help you understand why.

. . . . As a homeschooling mom, you have an unusual perspective. Please share it with others.

. . . [L]etting politicians educate our children is destroying our republic. That’s why I believe we must make school choice this generation’s civil rights issue. The public school system will never teach children how they can get things done without the soft tyranny of government.

. . . . Did Jefferson accuse King George III of not providing the American colonists with happiness? Was Jefferson campaigning for a welfare state?  Of course not. . . . Ultimately, the Pursuit of Happiness is about freedom of religion, and that is the freedom power-hungry politicians most hate.

To protect our children’s God-given right to the Pursuit of Happiness, we need school choice.

You are right, Tom.  I serve as a potential window for others who may be trying to decide whether to homeschool.  I should pull the shades back further.  It’s just hard.  I worry about whether my words are actually helping matters or just putting people off with an appearance of being ‘better than thou.’

At this point I’m wondering what exactly ‘school choice’ even means.  (Or, as our political opponents probably see it, what form of The Destructor do we choose?)

I used to think that education could be fixed through two complementary avenues: a) vouchers and b) parent-initiated change from within, starting at the school board level.  Frequent relocation sidelined me from pursuing those avenues, though.

It was for mostly personal reasons that I ended up abandoning the whole system for the short-term.  Older Son had such a tough time in 3rd grade.  I’ve never posted much detail, in an effort to maintain privacy–another aspect that makes blogging difficult.

Now, we’ve been settled in Tampa for a year.  As I read Tom’s wise words and ponder my old ”a and b” solution to education, I feel a little lost.  I’m not so sure the public school situation can be improved, given the current state of our culture.

In the short-term, vouchers would help a ton of children who are otherwise imprisoned in failing schools.  I am still pro-voucher.

But in the long run, I’m not so sure vouchers are a solution either.  Couldn’t they end up providing another way for government to dictate how kids are educated?  To make sure we are using that voucher money in an authorized manner, of course.  Or, if folks get dependent on voucher money, will that lead to the same situation states are now in, i.e., agreeing to certain curricula in order to keep the funds flowing?

The only sure way to give taxpayers “school choice” is to not tax them for schools in the first place, or at least drastically reduce the amount of government spending on schools.

What are my chances of successfully selling that one to the public at large?

Alright everybody.  Guess I’m done.  Please do share your thoughts.

Miracles

I haven’t posted much about my personal experience with homeschooling this year, for pretty simple reasons.  First is the busy-ness.  Next, when things are going well I feel as though I am bragging.  When things are going poorly, well I just feel like a whiner.  Either way, bringing up the issue often feels like I’m putting traditional Brick-and-Mortar peoples on the defensive.

Anyhow, as I often say in my really real life, no news is good news.  Which means that the school year has gone well.  Which means that sometimes I want to pull my hair out, often it’s a day-in day-out drill, and sometimes I feel the blessings of great miracles.  Those great miracles are mostly everyday things to most people, but to me–miracles.

Three-year-apart brothers who act like best friends (most of the time). . . a second grader reading at third grade level . . . a fifth grader who takes charge of his own Latin studies (because I am no help) . . . children who are excited on group-class days . . . camaraderie with like-minded parents . . . and freedom.

The freedom is easy to describe.  Anyone who has worked for a large “Dilbert” type corporation can be likened to the typical parent with school-aged children–a cog in the machine.  Homeschooling is like running your own business.  You don’t get to clock out, but the decisions are all your own.  No zero-tolerance policies.  No TPS reports.

Speaking of miracles, there is the Tampa Bay HEAT.  All year I’ve been grateful for the various homeschool a la carte schools, fellowship groups, and co-ops.  The HEAT, though, has stood out.  The obvious reason is the opportunity for team athletics, but I didn’t truly understand the group’s impact until last night’s Sports Dinner.

After all, homeschooled kids get a chance for team athletics in Florida–the state from which the phrase “Tebow law” originated.  All homeschoolers have to do is try out for their local public school’s team.

Let’s face facts, though.  An impassioned superstar will benefit from a Tebow law.  He gets to compete on a first-rate team, and his talent will likely guarantee the team’s acceptance of an outsider.

What about the average, or even the below-average athlete?  As the mom of a decidedly untalented, albeit enthusiastic, athlete, I’m not too interested in a Tebow law.  Older Son probably wouldn’t have made the team, whether homeschooled or not.

But Teresa Manganello had a vision.  Her vision was of homeschooled children playing sports with other homeschooled children, thus incorporating a key component of healthy family life:

Community.

HEAT is three years old now, and recently acquired full membership of the Florida High School Athletic Association (FHSAA) for their high school level program.  I’m betting their accreditation will soon include middle and elementary school levels.  The HEAT keeps growing.  I’m proud to say that my son was a member of their inaugural elementary boys basketball team.

The team boasted seven players–a team formed simply because there were enough warm bodies.  Barely enough to give players a rest during games, of which of course they won exactly none, but what do we homeschool moms call that?  Character building we chorused, smiling.

And my son, who the public schools are more likely to put on “the spectrum” than on an athletic team, was awarded Most Improved Player.

Guess who is ready to go for Most Valuable Player next year?

Miracles.

Waxing Unpolitically

I’m still here, really really!

I’m just doing uncomputer-y things lately.  We had a wonderful trip to Tennessee, visiting people and places without internet connection, and I am too cheap to carry a smart phone or figure out the “air card” thing I’ve heard about.

It even snowed.  Snowed!  In the three days we inhabited the mountains of Tennessee, we “Floridians” got to enjoy a winter wonderland.  Serious you guys:

We were so enamoured by this east-Tennessee town’s beauty, quiet, and supermajority-ness that a survey of real estate within our price range became necessary.  (Note to property buyers:  “rustic and unique” is not as good as it sounds.)  Next, we traveled west, taking the same old I-40 of our youth and visiting loved ones along the way.

At one particularly delicious catfish restaurant in rural Dickson County, the boys began an immediate friendship in the way that only children can.  The only source of entertainment was a claw crane, and those kids wheedled enough coins from us grown-ups to garner a blue monkey, an orange monkey, an orca, and some kind of creepy pig-dog critter.

The arrival of deep-fried goodness interrupted their creature collecting.  Then, handwritten notes started passing from table to table.  When our out-of-town status was revealed, phone numbers were exchanged.  I didn’t put much thought into that exchange.  My boys are mostly monosyllabic on the rare occasion that they are forced into telephone conversation.

Well, they were mostly monosyllabic.  Now, our older son has become most decidedly polysyllabic, chattering on the phone every other night, often until we tell him to hang up.

Have you figured it out yet?  That new friend is a girl.

Yep.

Child-raising is a humbling hobby.  The minute you’ve got ‘em pegged, they enter a new phase.  A new and scary phase.

Now we are home, but still I stray from the computer.  Mostly because I had to get it fixed because it was overheating and the fan sounded like a commercial airliner preparing for take off.  Also because of the homeschooling.  Also because of my garden.

I am not a gardener; I am a mad scientist.  Or a mad gardener.  Anyway, the mealy bugs and tobacco worms (or things that resemble the worm my mother-in-law once authoritatively labelled a tobacco worm) did a fair bit of damage, and also my impatience has caused problems.

If I had been patient enough to read up before planting, then I would have known that drainage concerns dictate the plot should be on the highest point, or at least raised several inches from the ground around it.

Makes sense when you think about it.  Florida is dang swampy.

So, impulsive me has been forced to continually add dirt, after each thunderstorm washes wide gullies through my plot.  The pepper plants have languished as a result.  They sit, dwarfed and sad, feeding a single pepper and threatening to just give up and die.

The strawberry plants weather it all with good cheer, but every time the cheer results in a reddening berry, bam.  Something swoops in and consumes it.

Sigh.  The biggest successes are the unplanned additions:  yams and red potatoes that sprouted whilst being neglected in my pantry.  The farming book says don’t use grocery-bought potatoes for seeding.

Uh-huh.  My new potatoes beg to differ.

I hope everyone had a wonderful Easter.  I’ll be waxing politically again eventually.

My Turn To Have Angst!

So . . . my turn to try a little angst!  I’ll start small.  How about just lamenting over a day?  Here we go . . .

I am so done with today.  Meh.

It’s the first stay-home day of homeschool since Christmas break.  Breaks from school are the worst, because they end.  The kids are all like, this is so haaaarrrrrd.  The older one says, what is this question about, forces on the books and the table?  What do they wannnnnt?  As though he didn’t just read the material.  As though he’s never even heard of gravity.

The younger one hops around like a squirrel on amphetamines.  For six hours.  Then math devolves into tears.  Seriously.  I’ve got Tom Hanks inside my head, protesting:  there’s no crying in math!  There’s no crying in math!

I make the mistake of reading the full lesson plan in older son’s curriculum.  A research paper with a thesis?  Hello, lead balloon.  I don’t even try with the younger son’s.  Why oh why aren’t they close enough in age to share the same lesson plan?

The dog does not get walked.  The laundry does not get folded.  The Christmas tree is still sulking in the corner of the front room, a few ornaments hanging on limp branches, the storage bins and pine needles littered all around.

Dinner will consist of baked potatoes served with whatever leftovers the family can stomach putting next to them.  The fudge in the fridge will not firm up properly, because I used too much evaporated milk because the stupid recipe called for less than one can, and what am I supposed to do with the rest, anyway?

Here’s a list of more things I haven’t done today:  exercise, shower, leave the house.  No, taking the recycling out to the garage doesn’t count.

I got that Instalanche, so that was pretty sweet, but do you know what that means?  Me, compulsively checking for more comments, and getting distracted with who-knows-what online, and spending way too much time with my face in this here screen and my butt in this here recliner.

It’s dark now.  I guess the day is done.  So, that’s all I have to complain about.  How’d I do?