There were a few moments today while I volunteered in my primary age classroom in the local public school when I considered quitting, or at least changing my station to something mindless. I could put up bulletin boards - but there aren't any. I could tend the school garden- but no one has any time to plant and water and wonder. All time is devoted to the FCAT, the no child left behind act.
I appeared on schedule with my bulging sacks; I had paints and brushes and styrofoam plates to decorate with this week's theme of "teeth". (I have to bring absolutely everything.) I had a sack of bleached skulls with teeth I had collected on the farm. There were skulls of alligators and boars and smaller ones I could not identify. And lots of teeth. I had a mountain of fresh fruits and vegetables for the kids to chomp with their own teeth. I had twenty lovely picture books from the library. I had a new bookshelf for the classroom which Andy made in an afternoon.
Here's what happens in a typical classroom: the kids come in after breakfast in the cafeteria. They have been trained to go immediately and quietly to work. They spend all week on a certain book, 'teeth' this week. It is probably the most unappealing book I have ever seen, no color, printed on cheap paper. It's identical to the huge colored book that resides each week on the easel at the front of the class. The prose, simple for primary kids, is unbelievably boring. Obviously there is a controlled vocabulary of fewer than twenty words. By Tuesday, most of the kids know it by heart, but these patient and good kids know that they will have to struggle with it all week like a gray used towel on the floor, appearing in front of them for days. They are interupted by the required Pledge of Allegiance, coming from a large TV, and everyone sings "My Country Tis of Thee".
Now it's back to the book of the week and the various canned worksheets before them on the tables. The kids seem dispirited and resigned. There is no spark of interest anywhere to be found. They look expectantly at my bulging sacks. In every available free second the teacher goes to her computer to tend to the endless paperwork involved in the program so that no child will be left behind.
I go around and whisper encouragement from kid to kid. Justin wants to know if I brought food today. Kelbie, eyes shining, tells me that she brought the promised Florida pear from her very own tree. Tommy, the only capable reader, tells me he wants me to read one of my books. I tell him he can help me choose it. Adrian, so bright and bored, the bad boy, must know he's such a favorite with me. I'm looking forward to seeing what Felix, a wonderful artist, will do with the painting project I have in mind. Melissa follows me around.
There are no windows in this room, no toys or blocks, no art center, no science center, few inviting books on a child's level, no pets. There is no time for anything but those horrid weekly books. The teaching is completely scripted. This is so disrespectful to a teacher, I think, reducing the job to technician.
'My' teacher is the same age as my oldest child. She's obviously really good. She's patient and good like her students. She's driven to have her students up to the high mark, and if anyone ever could, she does everything to make them succeed by the program. I love it when I see a few glimpses of her individuality, when she extends the lesson, drops the script, and talks to them, sometimes in German, about some fact or other that might come up.
But she hews to the program. Doggedly, she makes these pre-literate kids write their daily output just as FCAT requires in five steps, nevermind that most of the kids can't read yet, much less write anything. And certainly, who would want to write about that boring stuff that isn't what your heart wants to write? (My Dad got drunk and drove off last night) They love their teacher, and clearly, they know she loves them.
Most kids really do not learn to read until they are at least seven years old. (Why are we teaching a dog to talk?) Kids need to have many experiences, lots of them physical. FCAT has no emotional content, important for someone who is five or fifteen! At this school the kids get only two half hour recesses each week! They never see the light of day. Aargh!
Back to today:
I am patiently waiting for my opportunity to grab a bit of time for our art activity. But, to my dismay, the teacher says that only the kids who have done a good job on their homework (Homework??! for seven year olds?) can participate. I am devastated. I was so eager to see what Felix, or Adrian, or Marisol or Justin would do. I had no input about homework, of course, so this was a great blow. I signal the 'bad' kids with my eyebrows that I understand, get back to you later, buddy. Later, I told the teacher that this wasn't a part of my deal. I volunteer to teach all the kids. I am not into punitive actions, FCAT be damned.
What I know is that the reason a third of our children do not graduate from high school is that the public school system has killed their minds and souls. We need to rethink this. FCAT is not the answer.
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