Education
Ever since I complained about S’s education, things have gone downhill. Not that the IEP has ever been followed—but before, there was at least the assumption that it should be. Since I started asking questions about S’s education, the case manager has completely stopped doing her job. So, S has been continuously confused about assignments—even though her IEP states that I will receive assignments via e-mail as early as possible on Monday morning. As a result, S doesn’t always get work in on time, which is penalized—even though she has a week’s extension on assignments in her IEP. I can’t get a straight answer about anything via e-mail: when I asked recently about assignments, her case manager suggested I have S should write them down, even though we both know she has never been able to do so accurately. After I reminded her of what S’s IEP says, she sends a list of assignments each week—but the list is incomplete, or incorrect.
In the meantime, S was trying to get through this computer class, a requirement for graduation at S’s high school but nowhere else in the state. Every parent I’ve talked with has warned me it is a completely useless class, and S caught onto this pretty quickly. The goals of the course are unclear. The students are not actually learning to type, though they are being asked to type things like business letters and resumes. S can’t type in the “normal” way—she has fine motor skill issues—but she can type fairly quickly using her index fingers, and she knows how to use a computer—so the class is pointless. Naturally, at first, she spent most of class time trying to do things other than what was required, so we decided as a team to allow her to practice typing on her own during the class in order to fulfill the class requirement and to practice her fine motor skills. She would use a computerized program, and a para would be in the room to help her, I was told. I arranged to allow her a five minute break after each 20 minutes of work to go on a paint program she enjoys, but for reasons that were never directly explained to me, no one, including the para assigned to her, was able to actually monitor her breaks.
Eventually, things hit a breaking point—S got online for more than five minutes (her IEP states she’s not allowed online unless someone is sitting next to her; this was the only way I could think to prevent a repeat of the incident in the Resource Room when she decided to look up her father online). No one noticed for awhile. She looked up some information about Queen Elizabeth and began to hyper-focus on this topic of interest. She’s been obsessed with Queen Elizabeth for quite some time because she rescued animals; S sees her as a kind of savior, a counterpoint to the animal abuse she experienced in her home. Any mention of her brings back flashbacks and confusion, and yet, she is also obsessed with her. Did I mention that S used to be under the delusion that she had descended from Queen Elizabeth, and, as a princess, did not have to do anything she didn’t want to do? This delusion, though finally faded, still comes back in strange ways, usually when any information about queens or princesses is introduced, or when S feels unsafe, or when no one is paying attention to her. For years, the delusion was supported by her biological mother, and it played into S’s abuse in very sick ways. In short, her Queen Elizabeth delusion t is one reason S has trouble distinguishing reality and fantasy, and it is also a reminder of her abuse.
Anyway, like most people with ADHD, S is capable of hyper-focusing to the point of being unable to be disturbed; she was in a hyper-focused state (which, by the way, takes awhile to attain—so she definitely had not been closely monitored, and had been online for quite some time), when her teacher told her to get back on track. She refused and said (accurately) that the class was a joke. She got a detention.
I was fine with the detention. I told her it was fair—she’d been rude to the teacher. She was a wreck, but not because she felt she didn’t deserve it—she quickly admitted she did. Instead, she was worried she would have to spend the time with one of her tormenters who is apparently constantly in detention. I sent an e-mail asking if it would be possible for her to have detention away from him. Her case manager claimed I was overreacting—he hadn’t done anything wrong and didn’t bother her. I explained the process she and I went through to prepare her for the classes she had with him—in detail. I felt it was necessary to do so; she wasn’t getting it. By “in detail,” I mean I wrote about five paragraphs discussing how, when S sees this boy, she pictures her older brother, one of her rapists, and feels panicked. I explained how each morning, we talk through what she will do when she sees him; she has been coached to picture him with donkey dicks hanging off of his forehead and to laugh inside, then look away. I was weary of being questioned on every little thing—and also weary of having to come up with interventions like this without any support from the school--so my e-mails were, admittedly, getting longer and longer. I was constantly quoting from her IEP, or from previous e-mail communications I’d received, constantly pointing out inconsistencies and problems.
I also asked what had happened—how was it possible that she had gotten online and looked up something related to her abuse and begun to hyper-focus? Where was the para? The teacher? Why wasn’t her IEP being followed?
The answer: come in for a meeting. Also, we’ve decided to kick her out of the class.
I reacted by getting a college student to teach her computer skills during sixth hour—anything to keep her from spending more time in the Resource Room. This involves a new expense on my end, a tighter budget, and also the complication of having to pull her out of school, bring her to my office, and take her back for her last period of the day. (I requested a space to do the class in the school building, and no one ever responded).
I also told them I’d come for a meeting only if I could get an agenda and if the school counselor and a PACER advocate could be there. I mentioned that I felt I was repeating things over and over again, and that I had some requests that had been consistent: S should not be on the internet at school unless an internet search is part of an assignment, and in that case, she should be closely monitored; I should receive her assignments in an e-mail each week at the beginning of the week; all parts of her IEP should be followed each day.
The agenda I finally received in the mail was ridiculous. It included words like “accountability” and “accuracy” with no context. It included the point that her grades had gone down and subtly blamed my homeschooling for this—even though I had made clear on multiple occasions that a) she is having a very difficult time emotionally and I am not sure she should be in school at all and b) I need a complete and accurate list of her assignments in order to help her do well. Nevertheless, I agreed to attend, with a PACER advocate and the school counselor present.
PACER, an advocacy organization for parents of children with special needs, has been my savior; they have provided so many resources that have helped me to know my rights and deal with this situation. Pacer advocates have been there to listen to my frustration. An advocate, one of the organization’s most experienced, agreed to sit in on the meeting as well.
But, when I got to the meeting, there was no counselor, and no phone to call the advocate. I had to make a quick decision. I asked for the phone; they looked around the room blankly. Stupidly, I said, forget it, let’s just do this—and they said, “Oh, if that’s your choice, OK. It’s up to you.” By staring blankly around the room, they had tricked me into saying myself that I was willing to have the meeting without an advocate.
I should have refused to meet with them.
I asked why I had never received an accurate list of assignments every week. They said assignments change on occasion. I asked whether the paras in the room with S (who, as far as I can tell, are not doing anything) could notify me of the changes. They say, oh, OK, sure, we could have them contact the case manager, who will contact you. Duh. One battle won, sort of? Though I will be shocked shitless if they follow through.
I asked to get the practice problems for science ahead of time. Earlier, they’d claimed these “weren’t important.” Then they’d said S wasn’t bothering to write them down. Armed with evidence that she’d attempted to write them down but couldn’t do so fast enough—she’d be halfway through copying one down when the teacher would switch to the next one, so she never got the answers down, much less the entire problem—they relented and agreed, finally. Another battle won, maybe, though again, I will be shocked shitless if they follow through.
They asked why I think S’s grades have dropped. I said it is because no one is sending me her assignments as is required by her IEP. I also noted my several e-mails explaining that she is having frequent flashbacks and nightmares that are making it difficult for her to do her work. I also noted that she had received A’s on her last two tests—because, not surprisingly, for the two weeks before the meeting, I’d been notified in advance of these tests.
Oh, they said, OK. We thought maybe it was the fact that she’s being homeschooled and isn’t here for the first two hours of each day.
No, I assured them, that would not be why.
S is upset when we tell her she can’t talk about personal things with her case manager during math class, they said. Well, math class is for math, I reiterated. Sometimes she wants to talk about personal things during English and study skills (the classes I teach her) or computer (the class taught by a college student), but guess what, we tell her that this isn’t the time.
Oh, they said.
She seems less social lately, they said.
I know, I said. Her relationships with her friends have gotten a bit complicated, all part of the process of her growing up and figuring out how to relate to her peers. I am aware of what is going on and she’s processing it with her therapist.
Are you sure it’s not because she’s not in the building before school and only sees her friends at lunch and after school now? they said, trying to prove, again, that my homeschooling had somehow damaged my child. Meanwhile, she hated going into the building during the morning chaos; she loves being able to sneak in before third period, when everything is quiet, so she can focus on getting what she needs out of her locker. She’s told me this.
I’m pretty sure that’s not the reason, I said.
They had nothing else.
I asked again, Why don’t I get class notes from the paras? They insisted, again, that they don’t know what I am talking about; nobody has to take class notes in high school. At this point, I realized I needed the advocate. I needed someone with enough brains, or at least common sense, to know that when a student is in class, she has to write down what happens, especially if she has anxiety issues or memory problems because of her disabilities.
I asked about the biology class for next year—if they have been able to identify the weeks (as I’d requested) when creationism will be (illegally) covered so I can make plans to pull S out of class in advance. What? they said. We never told you that creationism would be covered in biology. (Apparently, they’ve read Minnesota State laws between meetings). Yes you did, I insist. In our last meeting. We talked about it at length, and you agreed to let me know what weeks it would be covered so I could plan for this.
No, no, you must be confused.
Holy shit. At this point, I realized I wasn’t only dealing with people who aren’t very bright, but also people who are actual liars.
We then began to discuss next year. I am hoping to be in Greece for the month of January. S would miss two weeks of one quarter and two weeks of the next, but I had prepared a proposal for projects she could do there that would meet course goals and give her a chance to make sense of her travel. They were unenthused and completely unaware of the benefits of world travel. “Maybe we can work something out,” was all they would say. “We’ll have a meeting about it in the fall.”
And then there was the discussion of next year’s schedule. I mentioned S wanted to learn Spanish, and they “assured” me that Spanish (the only language taught at her high school) isn’t a requirement. She has a 3.2 GPA—I don’t think she’s incapable of learning Spanish, though I do think they are incapable of supporting her in the process. I asked if she could get credit for an internship she’ll do over the summer or for Greek language lessons if I provided them. An unenthusiastic, “Well, you can turn in whatever you want as a parent who homeschools, and we have to put it on her transcript.” In other words, there was no sense of excitement about S’s opportunities, no sense of interest in her intellectual development—just a flat “whatever you want.” Oh, and a bone thrown my way—a condescending, “S is very excited about the internship. It’s good that she’s doing an internship because it’s important for her to learn job skills.”
Duh. Why do you think I’m keeping her as far away from you unprofessional people as I can for as many hours as possible? I want her to learn actual job and life skills.
I’m going to stop here, because continuing to write this is making me mad. Tired and mad. I wasted more than an hour of my time at that meeting making requests that are already clearly outlined in the IEP and responding to inane questions. In the end, I am simply hopeful that I’ll get a list of assignments and the practice problems for science. Seriously, that’s all I want. I am already losing two hours of work/day to homeschool her, as well as $60/week for the computer teacher and $30/week for a science tutor. I am spending countless hours making inane requests via e-mail and tracking S’s education. I am tired.
Meanwhile, my daughter can now write a five paragraph essay, and will likely pass the standardized test in two weeks (if she doesn’t, it will be because of test anxiety and not skill, at least). She knows how to study for a test now, and how to take notes in classes, even though the school claims this is not an important skill. She is learning how to type and also how to find good sources on the internet with the college student working with her. She’s making progress.
Flashbacks, violent outbursts, nightmares—they are getting less and less serious and frequent. She’s starting to have slightly more normal responses to social situations, as a rule, though she will never be totally socially normal. Things are getting, all in all, better.
Math is still a concern. Her case manager teaches her math in the Resource Room. S comes home angry fairly regularly at some story her case manager told the kids—for instance, once she told a story about the violent Native Americans she used to have to teach (she had to wear a bulletproof vest, you know) that understandably angered S, who saw right away how disrespectful she was being about a very complex problem related to violence among people who are oppressed. I remain annoyed that such conversations happen when she should be learning math. And she’s not progressing very rapidly, perhaps because her case manager is attempting to teach her math through a series of worksheets she downloads from the internet. For instance, S is learning about ratios now. She can do a math problem and come up with the ratio 1:10, but when asked what this means (i.e., if there is one male and ten female horses in the pasture, what is the ratio?) she has no idea. As usual, there is a pervasive laziness in her instruction, the idea that she just needs to get through the work.
I am realizing I can’t rely on other people to educate my daughter; I’m going to have to do it myself. I never in my life thought I’d say something like this, but if I had the time, I’d pull her out entirely and homeschool her in everything, and find other ways for her to interact with kids her own age, but that’s not an option. I’m definitely never putting her back in for a full school day. I’m hoping, in fact, to find a way to provide her with half-days of school starting next year, to figure out how she can get more of her school day out of the way through activities she’s already going to be doing. I’m going to look at my financial situation and see if I can pay off some debts this summer so I can hire more people to help her with school work and hopefully get her out of the Resource Room for math.
Maybe every parent realizes this at some point, though perhaps not so dramatically—they can’t rely on a broken public school system, no matter how hard the people in that system are trying (though, in my case, I think the idea that anyone is “trying” is a bit of a joke), to truly provide an education. Facts, maybe, some skills, maybe, but an education? Not a chance. We need a system that teaches kids to recognize world problems, and then to work with others to solve them. We need critical thinkers, creative thinkers. We need passion and compassion, an ability to see other people’s viewpoints. Maybe it’s irrational to think that high schools could provide these things without a radical change. (Yes, I do know that some high schools have embarked on radical changes, but my daughter’s school is simply not one of them).
It is sad, the amount of deceit and fear I experienced in that room with the principal, S’s caseworker, and the head of special ed for the district. It is sad, the lack of critical and creative thinking in that room, the lack of commitment to anything besides their own need to be right. I have for years been a vocal supporter of the school system, critical of parents who claim there are serious problems; as part of my job, I’ve partnered with several teachers and administrators and have had a good experience overall. But now I understand what I perceived to be academic snobbery—professor parents forever critical of all the ways the school system is not measuring up--as something much more serious: a justified concern about the school’s fear of creativity and change. The system is broken, so much so that I think it is damaging children rather than educating them, and that is terribly sad. Even sadder is the fact that I know I can’t do more, and I am a parent with a decent job and salary and an education; the kids who will suffer most are those whose parents don’t have the time or energy or education to be as watchful as I am able to be.
In the meantime, S was trying to get through this computer class, a requirement for graduation at S’s high school but nowhere else in the state. Every parent I’ve talked with has warned me it is a completely useless class, and S caught onto this pretty quickly. The goals of the course are unclear. The students are not actually learning to type, though they are being asked to type things like business letters and resumes. S can’t type in the “normal” way—she has fine motor skill issues—but she can type fairly quickly using her index fingers, and she knows how to use a computer—so the class is pointless. Naturally, at first, she spent most of class time trying to do things other than what was required, so we decided as a team to allow her to practice typing on her own during the class in order to fulfill the class requirement and to practice her fine motor skills. She would use a computerized program, and a para would be in the room to help her, I was told. I arranged to allow her a five minute break after each 20 minutes of work to go on a paint program she enjoys, but for reasons that were never directly explained to me, no one, including the para assigned to her, was able to actually monitor her breaks.
Eventually, things hit a breaking point—S got online for more than five minutes (her IEP states she’s not allowed online unless someone is sitting next to her; this was the only way I could think to prevent a repeat of the incident in the Resource Room when she decided to look up her father online). No one noticed for awhile. She looked up some information about Queen Elizabeth and began to hyper-focus on this topic of interest. She’s been obsessed with Queen Elizabeth for quite some time because she rescued animals; S sees her as a kind of savior, a counterpoint to the animal abuse she experienced in her home. Any mention of her brings back flashbacks and confusion, and yet, she is also obsessed with her. Did I mention that S used to be under the delusion that she had descended from Queen Elizabeth, and, as a princess, did not have to do anything she didn’t want to do? This delusion, though finally faded, still comes back in strange ways, usually when any information about queens or princesses is introduced, or when S feels unsafe, or when no one is paying attention to her. For years, the delusion was supported by her biological mother, and it played into S’s abuse in very sick ways. In short, her Queen Elizabeth delusion t is one reason S has trouble distinguishing reality and fantasy, and it is also a reminder of her abuse.
Anyway, like most people with ADHD, S is capable of hyper-focusing to the point of being unable to be disturbed; she was in a hyper-focused state (which, by the way, takes awhile to attain—so she definitely had not been closely monitored, and had been online for quite some time), when her teacher told her to get back on track. She refused and said (accurately) that the class was a joke. She got a detention.
I was fine with the detention. I told her it was fair—she’d been rude to the teacher. She was a wreck, but not because she felt she didn’t deserve it—she quickly admitted she did. Instead, she was worried she would have to spend the time with one of her tormenters who is apparently constantly in detention. I sent an e-mail asking if it would be possible for her to have detention away from him. Her case manager claimed I was overreacting—he hadn’t done anything wrong and didn’t bother her. I explained the process she and I went through to prepare her for the classes she had with him—in detail. I felt it was necessary to do so; she wasn’t getting it. By “in detail,” I mean I wrote about five paragraphs discussing how, when S sees this boy, she pictures her older brother, one of her rapists, and feels panicked. I explained how each morning, we talk through what she will do when she sees him; she has been coached to picture him with donkey dicks hanging off of his forehead and to laugh inside, then look away. I was weary of being questioned on every little thing—and also weary of having to come up with interventions like this without any support from the school--so my e-mails were, admittedly, getting longer and longer. I was constantly quoting from her IEP, or from previous e-mail communications I’d received, constantly pointing out inconsistencies and problems.
I also asked what had happened—how was it possible that she had gotten online and looked up something related to her abuse and begun to hyper-focus? Where was the para? The teacher? Why wasn’t her IEP being followed?
The answer: come in for a meeting. Also, we’ve decided to kick her out of the class.
I reacted by getting a college student to teach her computer skills during sixth hour—anything to keep her from spending more time in the Resource Room. This involves a new expense on my end, a tighter budget, and also the complication of having to pull her out of school, bring her to my office, and take her back for her last period of the day. (I requested a space to do the class in the school building, and no one ever responded).
I also told them I’d come for a meeting only if I could get an agenda and if the school counselor and a PACER advocate could be there. I mentioned that I felt I was repeating things over and over again, and that I had some requests that had been consistent: S should not be on the internet at school unless an internet search is part of an assignment, and in that case, she should be closely monitored; I should receive her assignments in an e-mail each week at the beginning of the week; all parts of her IEP should be followed each day.
The agenda I finally received in the mail was ridiculous. It included words like “accountability” and “accuracy” with no context. It included the point that her grades had gone down and subtly blamed my homeschooling for this—even though I had made clear on multiple occasions that a) she is having a very difficult time emotionally and I am not sure she should be in school at all and b) I need a complete and accurate list of her assignments in order to help her do well. Nevertheless, I agreed to attend, with a PACER advocate and the school counselor present.
PACER, an advocacy organization for parents of children with special needs, has been my savior; they have provided so many resources that have helped me to know my rights and deal with this situation. Pacer advocates have been there to listen to my frustration. An advocate, one of the organization’s most experienced, agreed to sit in on the meeting as well.
But, when I got to the meeting, there was no counselor, and no phone to call the advocate. I had to make a quick decision. I asked for the phone; they looked around the room blankly. Stupidly, I said, forget it, let’s just do this—and they said, “Oh, if that’s your choice, OK. It’s up to you.” By staring blankly around the room, they had tricked me into saying myself that I was willing to have the meeting without an advocate.
I should have refused to meet with them.
I asked why I had never received an accurate list of assignments every week. They said assignments change on occasion. I asked whether the paras in the room with S (who, as far as I can tell, are not doing anything) could notify me of the changes. They say, oh, OK, sure, we could have them contact the case manager, who will contact you. Duh. One battle won, sort of? Though I will be shocked shitless if they follow through.
I asked to get the practice problems for science ahead of time. Earlier, they’d claimed these “weren’t important.” Then they’d said S wasn’t bothering to write them down. Armed with evidence that she’d attempted to write them down but couldn’t do so fast enough—she’d be halfway through copying one down when the teacher would switch to the next one, so she never got the answers down, much less the entire problem—they relented and agreed, finally. Another battle won, maybe, though again, I will be shocked shitless if they follow through.
They asked why I think S’s grades have dropped. I said it is because no one is sending me her assignments as is required by her IEP. I also noted my several e-mails explaining that she is having frequent flashbacks and nightmares that are making it difficult for her to do her work. I also noted that she had received A’s on her last two tests—because, not surprisingly, for the two weeks before the meeting, I’d been notified in advance of these tests.
Oh, they said, OK. We thought maybe it was the fact that she’s being homeschooled and isn’t here for the first two hours of each day.
No, I assured them, that would not be why.
S is upset when we tell her she can’t talk about personal things with her case manager during math class, they said. Well, math class is for math, I reiterated. Sometimes she wants to talk about personal things during English and study skills (the classes I teach her) or computer (the class taught by a college student), but guess what, we tell her that this isn’t the time.
Oh, they said.
She seems less social lately, they said.
I know, I said. Her relationships with her friends have gotten a bit complicated, all part of the process of her growing up and figuring out how to relate to her peers. I am aware of what is going on and she’s processing it with her therapist.
Are you sure it’s not because she’s not in the building before school and only sees her friends at lunch and after school now? they said, trying to prove, again, that my homeschooling had somehow damaged my child. Meanwhile, she hated going into the building during the morning chaos; she loves being able to sneak in before third period, when everything is quiet, so she can focus on getting what she needs out of her locker. She’s told me this.
I’m pretty sure that’s not the reason, I said.
They had nothing else.
I asked again, Why don’t I get class notes from the paras? They insisted, again, that they don’t know what I am talking about; nobody has to take class notes in high school. At this point, I realized I needed the advocate. I needed someone with enough brains, or at least common sense, to know that when a student is in class, she has to write down what happens, especially if she has anxiety issues or memory problems because of her disabilities.
I asked about the biology class for next year—if they have been able to identify the weeks (as I’d requested) when creationism will be (illegally) covered so I can make plans to pull S out of class in advance. What? they said. We never told you that creationism would be covered in biology. (Apparently, they’ve read Minnesota State laws between meetings). Yes you did, I insist. In our last meeting. We talked about it at length, and you agreed to let me know what weeks it would be covered so I could plan for this.
No, no, you must be confused.
Holy shit. At this point, I realized I wasn’t only dealing with people who aren’t very bright, but also people who are actual liars.
We then began to discuss next year. I am hoping to be in Greece for the month of January. S would miss two weeks of one quarter and two weeks of the next, but I had prepared a proposal for projects she could do there that would meet course goals and give her a chance to make sense of her travel. They were unenthused and completely unaware of the benefits of world travel. “Maybe we can work something out,” was all they would say. “We’ll have a meeting about it in the fall.”
And then there was the discussion of next year’s schedule. I mentioned S wanted to learn Spanish, and they “assured” me that Spanish (the only language taught at her high school) isn’t a requirement. She has a 3.2 GPA—I don’t think she’s incapable of learning Spanish, though I do think they are incapable of supporting her in the process. I asked if she could get credit for an internship she’ll do over the summer or for Greek language lessons if I provided them. An unenthusiastic, “Well, you can turn in whatever you want as a parent who homeschools, and we have to put it on her transcript.” In other words, there was no sense of excitement about S’s opportunities, no sense of interest in her intellectual development—just a flat “whatever you want.” Oh, and a bone thrown my way—a condescending, “S is very excited about the internship. It’s good that she’s doing an internship because it’s important for her to learn job skills.”
Duh. Why do you think I’m keeping her as far away from you unprofessional people as I can for as many hours as possible? I want her to learn actual job and life skills.
I’m going to stop here, because continuing to write this is making me mad. Tired and mad. I wasted more than an hour of my time at that meeting making requests that are already clearly outlined in the IEP and responding to inane questions. In the end, I am simply hopeful that I’ll get a list of assignments and the practice problems for science. Seriously, that’s all I want. I am already losing two hours of work/day to homeschool her, as well as $60/week for the computer teacher and $30/week for a science tutor. I am spending countless hours making inane requests via e-mail and tracking S’s education. I am tired.
Meanwhile, my daughter can now write a five paragraph essay, and will likely pass the standardized test in two weeks (if she doesn’t, it will be because of test anxiety and not skill, at least). She knows how to study for a test now, and how to take notes in classes, even though the school claims this is not an important skill. She is learning how to type and also how to find good sources on the internet with the college student working with her. She’s making progress.
Flashbacks, violent outbursts, nightmares—they are getting less and less serious and frequent. She’s starting to have slightly more normal responses to social situations, as a rule, though she will never be totally socially normal. Things are getting, all in all, better.
Math is still a concern. Her case manager teaches her math in the Resource Room. S comes home angry fairly regularly at some story her case manager told the kids—for instance, once she told a story about the violent Native Americans she used to have to teach (she had to wear a bulletproof vest, you know) that understandably angered S, who saw right away how disrespectful she was being about a very complex problem related to violence among people who are oppressed. I remain annoyed that such conversations happen when she should be learning math. And she’s not progressing very rapidly, perhaps because her case manager is attempting to teach her math through a series of worksheets she downloads from the internet. For instance, S is learning about ratios now. She can do a math problem and come up with the ratio 1:10, but when asked what this means (i.e., if there is one male and ten female horses in the pasture, what is the ratio?) she has no idea. As usual, there is a pervasive laziness in her instruction, the idea that she just needs to get through the work.
I am realizing I can’t rely on other people to educate my daughter; I’m going to have to do it myself. I never in my life thought I’d say something like this, but if I had the time, I’d pull her out entirely and homeschool her in everything, and find other ways for her to interact with kids her own age, but that’s not an option. I’m definitely never putting her back in for a full school day. I’m hoping, in fact, to find a way to provide her with half-days of school starting next year, to figure out how she can get more of her school day out of the way through activities she’s already going to be doing. I’m going to look at my financial situation and see if I can pay off some debts this summer so I can hire more people to help her with school work and hopefully get her out of the Resource Room for math.
Maybe every parent realizes this at some point, though perhaps not so dramatically—they can’t rely on a broken public school system, no matter how hard the people in that system are trying (though, in my case, I think the idea that anyone is “trying” is a bit of a joke), to truly provide an education. Facts, maybe, some skills, maybe, but an education? Not a chance. We need a system that teaches kids to recognize world problems, and then to work with others to solve them. We need critical thinkers, creative thinkers. We need passion and compassion, an ability to see other people’s viewpoints. Maybe it’s irrational to think that high schools could provide these things without a radical change. (Yes, I do know that some high schools have embarked on radical changes, but my daughter’s school is simply not one of them).
It is sad, the amount of deceit and fear I experienced in that room with the principal, S’s caseworker, and the head of special ed for the district. It is sad, the lack of critical and creative thinking in that room, the lack of commitment to anything besides their own need to be right. I have for years been a vocal supporter of the school system, critical of parents who claim there are serious problems; as part of my job, I’ve partnered with several teachers and administrators and have had a good experience overall. But now I understand what I perceived to be academic snobbery—professor parents forever critical of all the ways the school system is not measuring up--as something much more serious: a justified concern about the school’s fear of creativity and change. The system is broken, so much so that I think it is damaging children rather than educating them, and that is terribly sad. Even sadder is the fact that I know I can’t do more, and I am a parent with a decent job and salary and an education; the kids who will suffer most are those whose parents don’t have the time or energy or education to be as watchful as I am able to be.
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