Curriculum Night

The Good: I was worried that I'd feel like the New Mom in Town, skulking around with no one to talk to. But I walked in the door and there were the fourth grade moms I know: G from down the street and C and K from religious school. As we headed toward the classroom, I ran into my friend from work and finally met his wife whom I've only talked to on the phone. After the teacher's presentation, I introduced myself to the mother of the boy who sits across from M, and it turns out he talks about her as much as she talks about him. I felt like a veritable East Town Mom.

The Bad: If I never hear the word BSPT (Blue State Proficiency Test) again, it will be way too soon. My god, you'd think all that kids need is to be drilled until they can pass a fucking standardized test. Oh yeah, that IS all they need in this No Child Left Untested era. Math problems to practice for the BSPT. Reading comprehension exercises to practice for the BSPT. Learning to write long essays to practice for the BSPT. And I tell you, I started getting tense just looking at those math problems--and I don't have to do them. When I asked the teacher if they have time for anything else, she looked sad and said that she'd like to spend an afternoon doing a project, but she feels guilty that she's not working on the curriculum and it might hurt them in the BSPT. This is where I start to wonder how much is the BSPT and how much is the teacher.

And this is where I once again revisit the question of whether we've made the right decision, a question I revisit at least a dozen times on a bad day, maybe once in a good week. M and E were accepted into a fancy progressive private school this year, the kind of place where they have themes and all-school art projects and affinity groups for biracial adopted children of queer refugee parents (I mock, but I respect, really I do). Where there are 14 kids and two teachers in each class. Where children write endless journals and spell creatively and read stories about little mineworker children learning to organize in the golden sun. Where there is nary a xeroxed work sheet to be seen, and the word BSPT is not allowed to cross the precious lips of children or adults. Where you pay $17,000 a year for pre-kindergarten, and it only goes up from there.

Um, not an option.

But would my kids be better off? Would they be happier? Would their intelligences be flowering under the gentle nurture, rather than withering under the pressure?

Um, I don't think so.

Why is M at East Town School, and why is E joining her there next year? Because we can afford it. Because the kids at the school speak 40 different languages and live in projects and fancy condos and have parents who drive buses and teach at fancy universities. Because in M's class there's a kid from Somalia and a kid from China and a kid from Nepal and a kid from Ecuador and a kid from Greece and a kid from New Mexico and a kid from Red State and a bunch of kids who've always lived in Town. Because they can walk to school. Because when we go into the bakery we always run into families from the neighborhood and kids from school. Because they are learning to get along with kids who are different from them, rather than reading books about kids learning to get along with kids who are different from them. Because M is learning about minerals and long essays and King Tut, and while that might not be what she'd learn in Fancy Progressive Private School, it's still worth learning. And because we teach them all the time at home and help them follow their passions and remind them that standardized tests are stupid but sometimes you've got to do stupid things.

If M hated school, if she was miserable, if she was keenly suffering every moment she was in the building, I'd pull her out. I'd scrape up the money for Fancy Progressive Private School, or I'd cross-enroll her in City or Other City or some other nearby community, or if I had to, I'd homeschool her. But she's not. Sometimes she's a little bored, but she loves to kick the boy who sits across from her, and gossip and play with her friends. She loves her gifted program and her clarinet lesson and gym and music and art. She loves the scary story she wrote this week and her first long essay, "All About Me." She's fine.

OK, you thought that was long-winded and self-justifying? You've heard me say all this before? (Sorry, mom). Imagine having to go through that entire thought process a dozen times on a bad day, and at the very least once a week. Obviously I'm still conflicted. And what I would do to that BSPT if I met it in a dark alley...well, let's not go there. But hey, M had a great time at childcare during curriculum night, running around with L from the other class and pointedly ignoring the boy who sits across from her. I got to read her scary story and her "All About Me" essay and they were fabulous. We came home and she wrote spelling word sentences and did a xeroxed reading comprehension paper. Then she went to bed. Tomorrow she'll get up and go to school, and then she'll come home and tell me about the day's egregious behavior from the boy who sits across from her, and then she'll read for two hours, and life will go on. It can't be that bad.