After twenty years of teaching everything from pre-school to graduate school, of doing my 16-hour-a-day best to incorporate the latest educational trends, as well as a few of my own, I worked an additional five years building one of the finest charter schools blood, sweat, logical argument, and legal help could, er, buy. Oh, and after all that, I decided to homeschool my perfectly capable thirteen-year-old daughter. Here's why: I knew too much.

I knew that public school districts purchased the best PR agents, often stealing them from mega-corporations with YOUR tax dollars. They had to. They had stuff to hide. And what they couldn't hide, they had to spin--yep, dirty politics style. PR agents became for school districts what the mob mentality was for that naked emperor--yeah, you remember that children's story. They kept the masses of parents believing, "The Emperor/School/Entire Educational System" is not only dressed, but dressed-out, designer style. The homework, the grown-up-job-length school day, the CRCT, super-dooper Gifted Everything, all of it: straight from Gucci, no Prada...Garner, Bennett, Bryson, Discovery Learning, Relearning, whatever, whatever you want to believe about your child's education, we're providing it. Surrrrre, we are. The Emperor of Education is one NOT-NAKED Class Act.

Here's what I saw day after day, in classrooms across the country, in hallways, in lunchrooms, in courtyards, in parking lots, where my kids, your kids, everybody's kids were supposed to be learning to think; to analyze; certainly that learning is a good thing, something to pursue for life. I saw kids, too many to count, and two teachers nearly beaten into comas for offenses as horrific as bumping into the wrong kid in the hallway, by accident, of course, during the race to make it to Mr. McGulligan's class, taught everyday by: "Fill in the bubble completely; otherwise, the scantron machine won't grade 'em for me. Huh? You? What's your name? It's December, by now, cretin--look it up--you should know NEVER to arrive here late. Sign the detention thing...then fill in today's bubble work." Once, Mr. McGulligan taught, truly convinced his students that mathematics was indeed beautiful. Oh, he had a gift...back in a day, before he became so bitter, so angry at a system that snatched away his own, hard-crafted methodology, replacing it with choice A, B, C, all nearly-scripted versions of "teaching".

I saw, in too many jr/senior high schools that the bathrooms for students were kept locked during the day, forcing your kid, mine, too--no matter her incessant kidney infections--to beg, plead for a teacher to get someone else to cover her class long enough to: "Oh, I'm so sorry, pretty please, Mrs. Janiteacher...but I've held it as long as I could. I'll promise to be fast. Oh yes, and I'll never ask to void my bladder again," in front of...who cares how many people.

When the bathrooms were open, I saw, through the thick wafts of Marlboro, boys, girls, both, engaging in sexual this/that, the sort of which you, yourself, have never imagined. And I understood, after eating lunch with the Wellness Helper (the real RN was outted a few years back, too expensive) that these children had regular sex lives: all accomplished in the back of the bus, when Mr. McGulligan was nodding off, or during the prime time hours of 5:00-7:00, when both mom/dad were working to keep everybody in digitech-everything.

You don't believe me? Not in your district? Yep, that's what I said too. Denying what was right in front of me, sitting in the half-desk, contort-your-wrong-body to fit the euphemism of laminate in my dumbed WAY down AP literature class: girl after girl explicating, in perfect Process Essay format her last abortion; girl after guy, 14 years old at best, directing his business partners to "lift that Prada/Vera Bradley/CD/DVD/ $567.99 whatever BY FRIDAY OR ELSE"--they were running a business, you know.

Heard enough? Because I have more, much, much more. All true, and all so shivery-terrible-awe inspiring that you'll deny it, "Maybe in some other district, with other kids, but not here. Never here." Yep. I said that as I watched it happen. I said that as I wrote my home phone number on the board, saying, "I will help you. I promise." I said it as I held too many mothers' heads in my hands, like you might a small child needing rocking, whispering in their ears, "If I knew your daughter was going to off herself with the Xanax she found in your purse...if I knew...." I said it as I sat in the ICU, holding the hand of the AP student who was beaten bloody unconcious because she didn't hand over her knock-off backpack fast enough.

AP: you're safe because your kid's in AP. Well, having worked for ETS, having labored over thousands of AP exams before they became commonplace, I know a bit about Advanced Placement. AP became essential within high schools, oh, about five, six years back, when Newsweek made the downright moronic decision to rate the top 100 high schools in the country by the following criteria: How many AP classes does a particular high school offer? Oh, and that's it. Nothing more. Not how many kids actually PASS the AP exam? Not how well is the class taught? Nothing else. So what happened? Every high school bleeding out for a spot on that NW list OFFERED as many AP-Whatever classes for which they had 25 units worth of kids. ETS dumbed down the test, upped the price, and on we went pretending to teach hard stuff, to kids too embarassed/humiliated/just plain exhausted to utter: "Um I don't get it, never did actually. And am tired of faking it by reading SparksOnline and plaigerizing nearly every essay you, ma'am, don't have time enough to read."

Enough. Having said that, there ARE most definitely excellent teachers burning out within every school in every district in this country. Having said that, there ARE really good kids who will get a great education by sheer grit, with the support of superior parents, who hover, who love, who ask questions, who insist upon it.

But here's the thing: My kid, MY KID, was spending nine hours at school, learning/hating what I could teach her in a fraction of that time. Did I get slammed for it? Heck yeah. All the time. Yep, you're right. It was mostly socialization criticism. My new response, thanks to Home Education magazine, "[Recite something, anything by Robert Frost] if you think any of the following are good ways to socialize: Sitting in boring classes with same-age, same-ability children for twelve years; pushing through crowded corridors to beat a buzzer; cheating; bullying; forming cliques; conforming to group pressures; busywork; dangerous bus rides; hectic meals; being drugged for behavior; being diagnosed as 'learning disabled' and put into special rooms to be treated as patients instead of students.... [School] has [sadly] become a prison for innocent children run by people with dubious motives." Extreme. Of course, extreme understatement.

Homeschooling is definitely not for everyone. But in less than a year, I taught my 7th grader (once described as "mathematically...sort of learning disabled") Algebra, Algebra II, Geometry, and some trig; she has read Shakespeare and the contemporary (appropriate) novels on Oprah's reading list; she understands history both in terms of the past and the crazy present; she can handle most adult social situations with politesse and grace; she can write a decent business letter, is tech-savvy enough to pull off a Power Point presentation with some of the finest consultants I've known. Oh, she can also change a flat tire, bake bread, buy stock, and manage her $20/week allowance. (She purchases, on her own, all of her neccessities.) Not bad. She's the smart one, though school destoyed her sense of self.

I'm only the coach. Trust me. If you're thinking of homeschooling, and you need a nudge, I'll help.... I'll start by giving you my home phone number and an (appropriate) hug. Vivbjones@comcast.net [1]

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