I had to go to a parent teacher conference yesterday. James is in kindergarten and they send home report cards three times a year. After each report card the teacher sends home a little note summoning the parents in for a discussion of progress. Report cards went home last week, and we had our meeting yesterday.
I felt like I was in third grade getting called into the principal's office. I think I have heard that line in a comedy routine, but it is so true that it bears repeating. Trish's dad came over to watch the kids, and Trish and I went in to talk to the teacher. When we got there, we had to go into the receptionist's office. The plumpish lady with hair of some strange hue that had to be the work of Clairol, not genes, looked down her nose at us and told us to "sit on the bench and wait," in a tone of voice that made it quite clear that she was disgusted by the effort that she had to expend talking to us. She was exactly like the receptionist at my elementary school, which was a little surprising because my elementary school was 30 years ago and 750 miles away. Is there an academy somewhere that trains these people? Francis P. Stuffenpuff's Academy of Haughtiness and Condescension?
So there we sat on a colossal wooden bench, awaiting our fate. For a minute, I couldn't think about anything other than that time in 4th grade that I got sent to the office because I wouldn't stop calling my math teacher Mrs. Fig-Newton. It was supposed to be just Newton, no Fig. She didn't think it was very funny. Come to think of it, I don't think it's very funny either, but at the time it was hilarious. The sound of high heels echoing down a long hallway with acoustic tile ceilings snapped me from my flashback and we were told that we could follow her to the kindergarten room.
In the kindergarten room, we were directed to sit in some tiny little chairs at a tiny little table. Those uncomfortable little chairs are exactly where Trish and I sat for the next ten minutes while Mrs. So-and-so talked at us. The teacher's name has been to changed to protect her identity, any resemblance to any real Mrs. So-and-so is purely coincidental. We quickly gave up on trying to shift her monologue to a conversation. She showed us this thing that she was doing and that thing she was doing with the children.
After about ten minutes she finally got to where she was actually talking about James. "He is doing much better, but I still need to remind him to focus on his work sometimes."
I'm thinking to myself, "Lady, he's five and you're a kindergarten teacher. If you aren't reminding him to focus on his work occasionally, then you probably aren't doing your job. And after the last ten minutes, I can see why he is having trouble focusing. I'm having trouble focusing on your droning voice too." It's probably good that Trish was there or that last bit might have made it from my head to my mouth.
"As you can see on the report-card," she continued, "we rate them with an E for emerging, a D for developing, or an A for awareness."
"Because A, B, and C were so clearly too confusing," I thought.
"James did very well on his capital letter recognition. For his lower-case letters I gave him an E."
And that's where the thought burst from my head to my tongue. Fortunately, I did manage to slap a diplomacy filter on it just in time. Again, good thing Trish was there. "See, that confuses me a little, because I know that James knows his letters, big and small. I know that there are a lot of things that James hasn't mastered yet, but he knows his letters." I know he knows his letters because I hung every letter in the alphabet, large and small, on his ceiling about a year ago and we practiced them every night until he could tell me what they were without even thinking about it. Not only does he know his letters forwards and backwards, but so does Ava. They have both known them for about ten months. "So this tells me that the problem isn't with him knowing his letters, it's with him showing you that he knows his letters."
The look she gave me not only showed her annoyance with having her monolgue interupted, it also seemed to say, "You poor ignorant fool. How could you possibly know how to evaluate a child's knowledge?" But that isn't what she said. What she said was, "Sometimes young children may know one or two letters one day and then not know them the next day. That is part of their learning process."
"No shit. Thanks for clueing me in." Managed to keep that one inside. What actually came out after going through the old diplomacy filter was, "I realize that, but I can assure you James knows his letters."
"Well let me show you the evaluation sheet, from when I tested him." After some shuffling through a bulging manilla folder, she produced a sheet with James' name on it. She looked a little surprised as she read her own handwriting which clearly stated that James had gotten every letter, big and small. "I am so sorry, that was a mistake. I will talk to the principle tomorrow to get that changed in our system." Then she went on to explain how they had changed the evaluation format this year, which obviously explained her mistake.
Look, I know I'm being a little tough on this Lady. I know that she is probably spread way too thin. I know that if I were in her shoes, I would probably be devoting most of my time to the kids at the bottom, which would exclude James because from what I can gather he is somewhere near the middle of the pack right now. Unfortunately, I get the impression that she may be the type who just focuses on the ones at the top who need her attention the least, which also excludes James. I know that she is probably working for peanuts. I have never really understood how you can justify paying a lawyer, doctor, or indian chief so much, but the ones who are charged with preparing our next generation of lawyers, doctors, and indian chiefs earn so little. Ultimately she can only do so much in a school system that asks her to teach a full day curriculum in a half day. I realize that part of my venom towards her is just because I'm pissed at myself for not finding or making enough time at home to ensure that James is number 1 in his class. Ultimately, I place the burden of seeing to it that my children are educated on my wife and I, not Mrs. So-and-so. However, it would be nice if my kids got a little extra direction at school in addition to what we give them at home. At the end of the day, Mrs. So-and-so and a school system that thinks a good way to save some money is by cutting kindergarten to a half day will only serve to motivate me to finish strong on my own schooling. The difference between and A and a B for me, could end up being the difference between a job that will get my kids out of the Cranston, Rhode Island public school system, and a job that won't.
I guess that's the whole Catch-22. The more time I devote to my school, the less time I can devote to James' learning. But, less time devoted to my studies may end up meaning more time in a crappier school for him and his sister. How do you measure the future against the present?
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