James comes into kindergarten with a very different skill set than most of his peers at our neighborhood school, a skill set that seems to hold a mirror up to our family, reflecting our generation, our economic class, our culture, even our personal quirks.
He knows his letters, alphabet sounds, numbers, sight words. He knows every train part ever made, from the couplings to the traction rods, and can describe to you how steam and diesel engines differ in their production of energy. He knows every dinosaur ever discovered (or so it seems) and pronounces their names better than I do. He easily types "dinosaur" into the iPad, using it with better skill than most adults. But he can't write his name or put on his shoes and he will NOT draw.
He's always had parents culturally willing and financially able to give him maximum attention, to read to him, to facilitate with books and videos and flashcards and toys and trips to far-flung museums his intellectual obsessions, but also to do things for him, like put on his shoes and draw trains and dinosaurs for him. (As the son of an anxiety-riddled perfectionist, he HATES to draw trains that look nothing like trains and dinosaurs that look nothing like dinosaurs; as the son of two stubborn mules, he simply won't do it.) And he's never had much structure, because we're not structure people, and neither of us has ever been able to abide by rules-for-the-sake-of-rules.
In contrast, most of his peers have few of the academic skills that come with having two college graduates participate in hands-on parenting. But what they do have is a much higher degree of self-sufficiency and a much better grasp of rule-following with an innate sense of what strange authority figures will expect of them.
(Looking into this mirror that is my son's entrée into public school, I know we didn't always help him when we helped him. I knew it intellectually, of course, I've read the literature, but knowing it and living it are different things. Even now, the neurotic part of me that likes things done right -- shoes on the right feet, shirts right side out -- doesn't know how much she can change course.)
My chief worry with James' first two days of school was that he'd get branded as a "bad kid" and "dumb kid" by his teacher and by the TA, an African American woman who was visibly angry with him for not understanding her when she said, "Take this paper home to your papi."
"He doesn't know that word," I said to her. "Well most of the kids here are Spanish* and that's the word they use," she replied. "Okaaay," I replied, palms up, "but he doesn't......." nodding toward the only blonde head in the classroom.
His teacher's irritation that he couldn't write his name and wouldn't draw was similarly evident; she mentioned it to me several times with thinly-veiled disgust. I felt strongly that James risked being branded as a bad kid and a dumb kid (even though -- or especially because? -- he was using more proper English than either the teacher or TA). I'm too aware of how kids rise or fall to the expectations we set for them, and how branding a smart kid as a dumb one can make him hate school.
No wonder James and I were tossing and turning at nights.
In contrast, the new class seems to be a success -- I say with bated breath. Today James kept turning around to Dad and giving him the thumbs-up sign. He even raised his hand, waited to be called on, and then asked to help the teacher point to the letters. (Such a simple thing, but a big deal for us.)
I give credit to the new teacher, to his friend Richard (a younger boy but a smart kid too, and a school-going pro), and to the fact that the new teacher let Dad stay till James had eased in (the old one kicked us out promptly at 15 minutes).
I'm grateful. I'm grateful to Jesse for being a dedicated and effective advocate for him when I felt powerless and despairing. I'm grateful to the school administration for working with us to fix the problem. I was devastated at being called into the principal's office on only the second day of school, worried that the school was already giving up on my son, and pleased to find instead four administrators who willing to work with us.
So, we'll see. We'll see.
==============
*I've noticed an odd quirk wherein black Easterners use "Spanish" as a semi-pejorative term to encompass all Latinos, regardless of country of origin, in the same way that white Westerners use "Mexican." I've also noticed thematic similarities in the resentments felt by the black community toward both white gentrifiers and Latino immigrants -- but that's a topic for another day.
He knows his letters, alphabet sounds, numbers, sight words. He knows every train part ever made, from the couplings to the traction rods, and can describe to you how steam and diesel engines differ in their production of energy. He knows every dinosaur ever discovered (or so it seems) and pronounces their names better than I do. He easily types "dinosaur" into the iPad, using it with better skill than most adults. But he can't write his name or put on his shoes and he will NOT draw.
He's always had parents culturally willing and financially able to give him maximum attention, to read to him, to facilitate with books and videos and flashcards and toys and trips to far-flung museums his intellectual obsessions, but also to do things for him, like put on his shoes and draw trains and dinosaurs for him. (As the son of an anxiety-riddled perfectionist, he HATES to draw trains that look nothing like trains and dinosaurs that look nothing like dinosaurs; as the son of two stubborn mules, he simply won't do it.) And he's never had much structure, because we're not structure people, and neither of us has ever been able to abide by rules-for-the-sake-of-rules.
In contrast, most of his peers have few of the academic skills that come with having two college graduates participate in hands-on parenting. But what they do have is a much higher degree of self-sufficiency and a much better grasp of rule-following with an innate sense of what strange authority figures will expect of them.
(Looking into this mirror that is my son's entrée into public school, I know we didn't always help him when we helped him. I knew it intellectually, of course, I've read the literature, but knowing it and living it are different things. Even now, the neurotic part of me that likes things done right -- shoes on the right feet, shirts right side out -- doesn't know how much she can change course.)
My chief worry with James' first two days of school was that he'd get branded as a "bad kid" and "dumb kid" by his teacher and by the TA, an African American woman who was visibly angry with him for not understanding her when she said, "Take this paper home to your papi."
"He doesn't know that word," I said to her. "Well most of the kids here are Spanish* and that's the word they use," she replied. "Okaaay," I replied, palms up, "but he doesn't......." nodding toward the only blonde head in the classroom.
His teacher's irritation that he couldn't write his name and wouldn't draw was similarly evident; she mentioned it to me several times with thinly-veiled disgust. I felt strongly that James risked being branded as a bad kid and a dumb kid (even though -- or especially because? -- he was using more proper English than either the teacher or TA). I'm too aware of how kids rise or fall to the expectations we set for them, and how branding a smart kid as a dumb one can make him hate school.
No wonder James and I were tossing and turning at nights.
In contrast, the new class seems to be a success -- I say with bated breath. Today James kept turning around to Dad and giving him the thumbs-up sign. He even raised his hand, waited to be called on, and then asked to help the teacher point to the letters. (Such a simple thing, but a big deal for us.)
I give credit to the new teacher, to his friend Richard (a younger boy but a smart kid too, and a school-going pro), and to the fact that the new teacher let Dad stay till James had eased in (the old one kicked us out promptly at 15 minutes).
I'm grateful. I'm grateful to Jesse for being a dedicated and effective advocate for him when I felt powerless and despairing. I'm grateful to the school administration for working with us to fix the problem. I was devastated at being called into the principal's office on only the second day of school, worried that the school was already giving up on my son, and pleased to find instead four administrators who willing to work with us.
So, we'll see. We'll see.
==============
*I've noticed an odd quirk wherein black Easterners use "Spanish" as a semi-pejorative term to encompass all Latinos, regardless of country of origin, in the same way that white Westerners use "Mexican." I've also noticed thematic similarities in the resentments felt by the black community toward both white gentrifiers and Latino immigrants -- but that's a topic for another day.
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