There are things that as a parent, I have to wonder about even now. My little guy won’t see kindergarten for a long time, but when he gets there, what will he encounter?
One of the programs at my office exists to help children
with learning issues. Some of these issues are related to vision; some are
related to processing, and some are related to motivation. Although it’s
foreign to me, some kids just don’t like to read.
That is one of my worst fears for my son.
Books opened up my universe. They expanded my imagination,
they blew the doors off of my house. Books were my escape. To this day, I hate
getting rid of books (even if it’s just to download the electronic version of
the same story); I tell my husband, “But they’re my friends!!” He laughs at
me. He didn’t have the same experiences
I had growing up. He didn’t have a teacher that read to him every single day,
or a parent that made sure the homework got done. I had teachers who hugged me
and challenged me to do more, be more, read more, see more—I set records for
books that I’d read, and when it came time to take those pesky ACTs, my reading
comprehension score more than made up for my paltry math score.
Too bad I don’t get to read for a living!!!
Anyway, one of my current job responsibilities involves processing the outside medical records before the attending
doctor reviews the chart. In doing so, I frequently come across schoolwork, and
it almost always makes me emotional.
Today, page after page with a huge, red-lined, circled “F” marked the
pages on this little person’s work.
My heart breaks for this one.
Actually, my heart breaks for a lot of them, but this one
stands out. I understand the need for a
grading system. I understand why that big, red “A” on my papers made me smile;
I remember the pride of the gold star. And maybe it’s different for some kids—maybe
they don’t mind the big, red “F.” Maybe they don’t feel the sting, the
humiliation, the sense of worthlessness. Maybe they’re used to it.
I’m not.
Being branded with an “F” is the earliest kind of bullying,
to me. It’s the earliest form of the destruction of self-esteem…it’s the
earliest form of belittling, of knowing that you don’t measure up.
I had a year in school, during which I did my homework , but
I didn’t turn it in. I can’t remember if it’s the same year my parents were
married, or if it was the year before; I know my teacher was Mrs. Gately, and
that she was kind. I also can’t remember if that was the year we first realized
that I couldn’t see the blackboard? All I know, is that I got my first “D” on
my report card, and I literally wanted to kill myself. Seriously. My little world ended.
I was out on the playground, and I was so distraught that I
stupidly dropped myself through the monkey bars. In doing so, my head went
backwards, and I smacked it on one of the bright, yellow bars. Right between my
pigtails.
I’ll never forget how much that hurt; I didn’t black out,
and I didn’t cry; I was so shocked that all I said was “Ow!” I don’t believe the latchkey worker noticed
how badly I was hurt. I remember my mother’s face, when she saw the back of my
head later that evening, and that she immediately got on the phone with someone
who got a verbal beat-down. I remember the enormous knot on the back of my head,
and I remember my mother not caring about my “D.”
I didn’t get into trouble. All she cared about was my head.
That’s one moment in my childhood that shines brightly, in
feeling that my mom understood me—that she thought I was important because of
who I was, not because of my grades. I
didn’t get another bad grade until high school, and it was legitimate. I was
doing all of my work; I was simply lost in pre-calculus. Intensive tutoring
brought that grade from a “D” to an “A” in one quarter, and my grades remained
good until my Freshman year of college, when a social life became my Waterloo…but
I digress.
I’ll never forget that first “D.” I was crushed and scared
of being punished. I knew I could do the work—I just didn’t feel like turning
it in. I have, to this day, no idea why I didn’t turn my work in. Not a clue.
But I remember that grade, and the dread that went with it.
Do these children feel that? My heart breaks for the child
that gets beaten down with the big, red, circled “D” or “F.” Do they understand
the importance of the grades? More than that, do they understand that they are
worth so much more than a letter on a page? Do they have parents that love them
enough to challenge them, and understand them enough to know when to back down
or when to get help?
This is making me re-think the education of my child. How
will we approach it? How will we approach the bad grade, or the good grade?
Will we succeed in teaching him that his grades do not define him; however, the
work ethic he learns while pursuing academic excellence, will follow him
throughout his life?
I hope he loves to read…
I hope he loves to learn…
If the big, scary, red letter “F” ever dares to appear on
his schoolwork, I hope that he feels it…but not too much. I hope that it does
bother him, because I want him to want better…but I want it to be for him, and
not for me. I don’t want him to seek the “A” for “Mom’s Approval.” I want him
to chase the “A” and find joy in not only the achievement, but in the quest. It’s
a treasure hunt, of sorts, and I want him to see the fun of it.
I don’t believe in Outcome-Based Education. I don’t believe
that everybody wins, and that everybody should get a medal for participating.
Sometimes, my son will win; sometimes, he will lose. I hope that every time, he
tries—to me, that’s the most important thing. I want him to understand
competition, success, failure; but I don’t want him to be defined by it. If he
tries, if he puts his heart into it and does his best, then I don’t care about
the letter on the paper. If that little heart that tried so hard is crushed by
the big, scary letter “F,” though, I may have to confront a teacher. I don’t
believe any child that tries their hardest deserves an “F.” “D,” perhaps. But
if they’ve tried, they haven’t failed; it’s only when they roll over and give
up that the letter “F” is appropriate. That’s a failure.
I have so much to learn as a parent, and even more to learn
as my son’s primary educator. May my biggest goal always be to teach him to
love to be taught; to always reach for the next level; to keep trying until he
gets it; and that the journey to education is a prize, in and of itself…May his
heart never be frightened into apathy by the big, scary, red letter “F”…May his
failures only serve to motivate success…and may we as parents be an
encouraging, sometimes driving, force…
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