 |
||||||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Disclaimer: All information contained in the Schooldays magazine website is material supplied by the writers and advertisers. Schooldays magazine bears no responsibility for any claims made by the writers or advertisers. All information is for educational purposes only, it is up to the reader to make a decision of integrity.
© Schooldays magazine 2009-2011
Letters - A parent's story
(searching for the right school)
We encourage your letters and feedback and in this issue publish a letter from Joy DuPuis who describes herself as a mother, homeopath and ardent traveller.
Joy's letter follows details of her daughter's journey through 5 different schools. To give your feedback email schooldays.
After five schools in six years, I had to take a look at myself. We all care about our children’s education, but to the tune of five?
Perhaps I’ve been trying to replicate my International School years in Vienna. But who wouldn’t after attending school with kids from 60 different nationalities, three languages required and friends named Pascale, Verity, Natasha, Marliesja, Sita, Rana and Nihal?
The Vienna International School was located across from a lovely park in the Grinzing District of Vienna. Every recess we ran across the street to the huge playground to play soccer, jump rope, hide and seek or wander the park. Each break time we waited with anticipation for our chocolate milk (I’m sure the cows in Austria were GMO free) and everyday, I walked the halls with a sense of belonging, no small feat in an amalgamation of cultures, but we all had one thing in common; we were all foreigners in a foreign country, learning to speak a language which was not our own, trying to find something that named us in this new adventure.
But, I haven’t found the International School atmosphere, the atmosphere of acceptance and belonging. I have found some other things along the way, such as insight into myself and the reasons for my quest for the right environment for our daughter.
Am I a perfectionist? Is nothing quite good enough for my daughter? Or is what happened in 10th grade United Nations class, where there were not enough spaces for the whole class to go to The Hague? The teacher suggested a vote on who would stay behind. And my name was chosen. It’s amazing that one moment in life can freeze us, petrify us, at 16. It’s hard to thaw out. I slipped through the cracks. I didn’t think I was smart. That incident remained dormant in my mind, resurfacing like a resurrection when my daughter was ready for school.
Annika was pulled from her first school, known for it’s structured curriculum, emphasis on language and rather sterile environment. The pickens were slim where we lived and I had liked the little French school-girl uniform. To this day I have one in my closet.
However, as much as I adored the sailor dress, I did not like it when the French teacher threatened the kids in her accent "You MUST git it rrrright zis time". Our daughter was terrified of her and after the spelling tests came back in red corrections, I sent her a polite little note explaining that I didn’t think it necessary to correct her English as well as her French and could she possibly not use a red marker? The Head of the school was displeased I had not gone to her first. One just does not contact the teacher directly. "Perhaps we need to talk about a progressive school for Annia," she said as she leaned her head in my car window in the pick up line. "I didn’t know there were any around here?", I said, not the correct reply.
The French teacher was retired at the end of the year. Apparently, I was the first in a long line of concerned parents, who didn’t want to see their French schoolgirl-dress wearing daughters, shamed.
And if I’m honest, there was something stepford wife-ish about the school. Everyone seemed to have the same reaction to things – bland. Except for Bambi, the ex-porn star with a legit famous father, who informed me they were all on Prozac. She was the only one disappointed when we left because then she had to face the zombies alone on Friday morning when we all squeezed into the auditorium to see our adorable French schoolgirl-dressed children, reciting poems and getting Busy Bee and Tender Heart awards. We said good-bye to the uniform and got Annika a spot at a Waldorf School, forty-five minutes away. It was as a beautiful campus with a rock waterfall in the entrance. I almost cried at the hand carved sign with her name engraved, hanging on the front of her desk.
I almost cried when Annika came home and told me that she had been made to stand by her desk with Grace because Grace had made her laugh.
In my exchange with the teacher, I asked if my daughter was a problem. No, not at all. Then why shame her? Why not just say in a playful voice that you are looking forward to her input? It’s not meant to shame, she emphasised. We all do this. Really? But I love the crayons, the wooden toolbox, the fairy play.
I almost cried when Annika came home and said she was afraid she would be sent back a class. Why would that happen I ask, honestly bemused. When you do something wrong, the teacher says you must not be old enough to be in the class and you should go sit in the younger class. Well, I don’t want you to worry because You. Are. Not. Going. To. Be. Sent. Back. A. Class. But I love the campus, the waterfall, the fairy play.
I did cry when Annika cried everyday on the way to school and begged not to go, and I was called to drive back another 45 min to pick her up when she wasn’t feeling well, again. The campus is not so beautiful the second time back in two hours.
I took action after the first semester. She ran out smiling after a visit to another school more low key, yet familiar, alas, no sailor dress. "This is where I want to go to school", she beamed. And it was a wonderful 5 months until we moved to Chicago.
"I’m not going to THAT school" my daughter said with conviction as she slammed the door to the car. "All we did was stand around all day and NO ONE spoke to me!" Well, it IS a progressive school. The website had me in tears - LOVE TO LEARN CHERISH THE JOURNEY EMBRACE THE WORLD. It showed everything I hoped to see and the admissions director said everything I wanted to hear. And it was the only private school we got in to. We were treading on new territory, marching to a new beat and it could be any beat – welcome to a progressive school.
 |
Unfortunately, the school was in transition and after one parent meeting, my heart sank; the school didn’t even know how to define themselves now that they were not owned by a University but gulp, by the parents. I forged ahead and tried to make it work, while making it my life’s work to tour every school in the city.
All the tours were great. They all presented their best side, except our local public school from which my husband laughed the whole way home. Roared in fact, and in between each outburst he said, "She’s not ahahahaha going there." To every question we asked, the answer had been a resounding, No, we don’t do that here. And No. No. No. No. What if we don’t want her to watch the movie you are showing on a rainy day in the auditorium? Can she read? No. Can we drive her instead of sending her on the school bus? No.
Although our daughter was not shamed at the Progressive School, she was forgotten, left to run in the gym alone because she forgot her swimsuit on swim day. The young teacher we had was great but the school was too progressive for even her. She couldn’t get half the class to do their homework, what little they had, because the parents’ told her they wouldn’t make their kids
do it.
And last but not least, our daughter was accepted at a top private prep school that was very progressive. She had a stellar year. And then Middle School started with sometimes up to 2-3 hours of homework.
Even after a Holiday concert, two tests were scheduled. And then there’s the strange use of advocacy. It’s popular at this school. But I get the impression it means something different to me than it does to them. How is a child to advocate for them against an unfair grade? Annika is always encouraged to ‘be a better advocate’ for herself. It’s not acceptable for me to send an e-mail that she couldn’t finish the homework due to a fever. "Next time I hope I will hear from Annika directly."
And then there was Health Class. When I asked about documentaries, inside I blanched at the answer. I realise I am in the minority and a homeopath, even stranger, but I just don’t see the purpose in Dying to be Thin and Adolescent Depression, which I think is rare.
So, we pulled her from that class. The Head of Middle School informed us, that in her 10 years of teaching at the school, we were the first family to do so. I guess I take it as a compliment. Our daughter still wants to play with her dolls and be a child. She is not ready for Dying to be Thin, which was apparent in the following poem:
I am, just a child
I am, just a child
My hopes and dreams still fly high
In the open horizon,
That leads nowhere,
But home.
I sit and watch the elders rocking in the breeze,
And wonder,
Will I ever come to see the day when my life turns that way?
I laugh,
And giggle,
To no end,
But soon that will fade away.
When work becomes an endless drag,
Of money, and rents, and pay.
My father says that when you dream big,
There is no end,
But sometimes,
I put aside,
That dreams I have yet to ponder.
Besides, my life awaits me.
And I am just a child.
Yes, Annika. Your life awaits you. And mine still awaits me as well. I found my brave cape after my mentor suggested I try to make the changes where we are at, instead of moving Annika again. Shift the energy without force. Stand my ground with grace.
The next time I felt something needed to be addressed, it was over food. Every Wednesday is breakfast in advisory and donuts are the breakfast of choice. Although the cafeteria offers many healthy choices, chips, ice-cream, blue juice are also available.
The Middle School principal had recently told me that all the teachers prefer to have the kids in the morning, before lunch, and that is why the schedule rotates. I sent her a letter suggesting that the rotation might not be necessary if those foods were taken out and an advisory breakfast policy established. She agreed. Annika came home from school the next week and said there were major changes in the cafeteria and that donuts were no longer allowed in Advisory. I turned away to hide my smile. Perhaps my mentor was right.
Joy DuPuis, mother, wife, homeopath.
