The Real Reason I Homeschool

IMG_00011Look, there are a lot of reasons people have for teaching their own kids.  Many of them are good and compelling.  But, for me, most have faded over time.  I see my kids growing up and I think, They were always going to be OK. 

And, anyway, homeschooling is hard and can suck the life out of a person, especially a person who used to carry a planner.  Our warm educational fuzzies have grown a little threadbare during these middle years, and the tender platitudes that used to spur me on now find me with my fingers in my ears and, you know, maybe rocking in my bathroom.

But, so help me, there is one thing that hasn’t changed–and that is my need to go slow through this life.  It turns out that a poet crawled into my head and, having rattled around there, came back and wrote a poem that exactly describes my Actual Real Reason for doing this life the way I do.

To wit:

Leisure

by William Henry Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

That’s my reason, folks.  What’s yours?

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No Room in the Inn: Why High School is No Place for Weirdos

weirdo, n.

1. A person who is considered strange to other people. One who may do strange things can be considered a “weirdo”.
2. A non-conformist who does not follow trends or a subculture.  Urban Dictionary

There’s no room for weirdos in America’s high schools. They exist, of course, but they aren’t welcome. I sensed it the moment I stepped through the front doors of the small town school I’d attend for the next four years. I was a transplant from another state and I’d been warned that I had several strikes against me. I talked with a Midwestern accent, for one thing. Then there was my upbringing. I’d traveled a fair bit, played the cello, cried to Rachmaninoff. I used two-dollar words, was unselfconscious. That last part would change.

I don’t know about other people’s schools. I hear that some students don’t feel like they’re in prison all day, or maybe it’s more accurate to say that they feel like the meals and the workout equipment make their jail time bearable. Whatever. I’m not here to argue with the jocks and the cheerleaders. If they like things the way they are, so be it. But what happens if you’re fat or pimply or strange?

We all know.

At the very least you sit at a table by yourself during lunch. In fact, this is small potatoes compared to what could happen to you and you figure that out soon. So then sitting alone surrounded by shiny-haired kids with good teeth starts to seem acceptable—like it’s the least bad thing that could happen to you and, by comparison, you’re kind-of thankful.

I was strange in an OK way. It didn’t feel like that at first but I came to see that I had it pretty good, all things considered. I mean, people didn’t really like or understand me but they left me alone, too. I managed to scrape together a few unlikely friends eventually, so I didn’t have to eat my sack lunch alone for more than a few weeks at the beginning of my freshman year. I always knew, however, that there was a Cold War on at our school. You could feel it. I knew that there were kids getting the treatment and it sobered me.

There was this guy in my classes. He was strange in a bad way, according to the social elites. He wore black clothes back before they became an organized statement. His hair was greasy and lank. Even I was grossed out. I don’t know why he refused to wash it. He’d let it grow long and some of the smart kids called him Jesus. He had zits and that was nothing new, only his kind left scars and made weird patterns along his jawline. The thing is he acted weird, too, and I kind-of thought he did it on purpose. He muttered to himself and had shifty eyes. They were Alaskan husky eyes, the lightest blue, deep set in a swarthy face. His zit scars were bluish. I felt bad about that.

He and I were in typing class together along with several other students of various backgrounds. Truth is, none of our backgrounds meant anything. The real divisions were Popular Kids and Everyone Else. Like I said, I wasn’t popular but I was pretty and kept my head down. I’d made my peace with being on the upper end of Everyone Else. Randy, however, was on the lower end. The lowest were the special ed. kids, which is what they used to be before they were differently-abled, special needs, and finally just special. He wasn’t quite that low but then, in some ways, he had it worse than they did. The special eds could swear in the middle of home room and no one batted an eye. They ran up and down the hallways sometimes, pants half down, drinking sloppily from a water fountain I’d reminded myself never to use. Randy couldn’t show up in a classroom without someone saying something.

It was a Thursday after lunch and we’d all filed in to typing class hoping that our instructor was distracted and bored, as he so often was. We plopped down in our seats and booted up our computers. I slid my backpack under my seat and took a minute to stare into space. The day was almost over. The school week, too. I’d have a couple of days to detox before it all started over.

As my computer came to life a green message popped up on the screen accompanied by a beeping sound. It read: Randy has sex with his mother. I stared for a moment as a sick feeling filled my stomach. I heard laughter and leaned back to look at the computer screen of the person behind me. She was an Everyone Else but she had sex with a lot of boys so she could sort of do what she wanted as long as it didn’t involve self-respect. The message was on her screen, too.

I leaned forward. I knew immediately who was sending the messages. It was a stupid football player who looked like Matt Damon. He was laughing uproariously behind a balled-up fist. He rocked back and forth in a chair that looked too small to hold him. I thought of a gorilla I’d seen at the Nashville zoo. Another message: Randy’s mom does him all night long. She wanted me, too, but I don’t have sex with whores. More laughter.

I’d been raised to value people, to stand up for the underdog. In that moment I had every chance to say something as Randy sat there, humiliated and growling like a junkyard dog. It wouldn’t have done any good but I could have. I should have. Instead I looked around the room at all the blank, merry faces. I let my eyes flick to Randy’s face but I had to look away again fast.

We’re all strange in our own ways. But the real problem is the cruelty and cowardice that exist in all of us. They were in me that day and I had to face it. Randy was a weirdo and there’s no place for weirdos in high school. And, sadly, hatred isn’t strange at all.

How the Amish Are Helping Me Get Over It

They were at the farmer’s market the other day, as usual.  The Amish stood behind their stall, an older man and two teenaged boys, inviting us to look at heirloom tomatoes the size of our heads.  My sons surveyed the diverse group around us, a band united in our common love for misshapen produce and hemp soap.  We were people with sunburns and short shorts, people with tattoos, people with canes and perms, moms, dads, kids who helped push strollers, kids who needed time-outs.

My middle son pulled me close and whispered, “Why do they always have those weird haircuts?  You know, those super short bangs and ear flaps.”

I don’t like whispering but I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know who he meant.  I turned away and looked at trays of ceramic beads, tugging my eleven-year-old with me.  I told him that there’s a reason Amish men wear their hair in that peculiar way.  True, I didn’t know what that reason was, but there was one, I was sure.  He thought about that for a moment.  Then he turned around again and looked at the teenagers with their overalls and straw hats.  They smiled and nudged one another, eyes betraying inside jokes.  They were lanky and clear-skinned.  The taller boy’s hands revealed nail bitten fingers as he loaded eggplant into a paper sack.

They were just boys with weird haircuts.  And they seemed OK.

I watched them, too, pretending to need cucumbers.  They made me wonder if it might do a person some good to be intentionally different on the outside in order to reflect a difference on the inside.  A person who chooses to look different has already told the world what it wants to know, has already decided that the world wasn’t that important anyway.  This kind of person has learned that most of the time it doesn’t kill you to be stared at, or misunderstood, or judged.  That the feeling is something you can get used to, that sometimes it makes you stronger.

My family is living differently from many others around us.  We don’t wear our differences on our sleeves nor do we wish to make them a bigger deal than they are.  Sometimes, though, looking like everyone else on the outside while feeling different on the inside is its own kind of strange.  You wonder how long it will take before people discover your brand of other.  You wait, bracing yourself for the surprised looks, the head nods or the raised  eyebrows.

The Amish don’t have to wait, and they seem to be doing just fine.

I look at those short bangs and smile.

They make me want to be brave.