School's Out Forever

"The trouble with normal is it always gets worse."

— Bruce Cockburn


It's been a while since I've posted in this space, and for good reason: my kids graduated from high school last June, which means that our lives are no longer enmeshed in an education system whose flaws were the catalyst for many of my posts over the years. And although my daughters are by no means launched—one is in first-year university and the other is taking a gap year—I've been trying to pull back on the hands-on "parenting," as much for my sanity as for theirs. I've also been preoccupied with other things for the last year and half, things like working (or thinking about working) and sponsoring a Syrian refugee family. At the moment, I'm toying with starting a new, non-parenting blog (because, who says blogging is dead?), but before wrapping this one up, I wanted to offer some final thoughts on the end—and the ends—of high school.

Prom

The whole pre-and post-prom season was horrific, and I say that as a relatively uninvolved observer. It was worse than horrific for my daughters, both of whom participated reluctantly and afterwards wished that they'd taken me up on my offer to take them to Paris for prom week. From my perspective as a parent who skipped her own prom—called "the formal" back then, before the Americanization of every lower-key Canadian event—it was confirmation of my suspicion that everything or almost everything associated with education is getting worse, not better.

Worse, for instance, is the hype surrounding prom, and its sheer conventionality—how the girls stress (far more than I remember my girlfriends stressing about the "formal," and far more than the boys) about the outfit and the hair and the makeup and the promposals or lack thereof (although boys sometimes receive or fret about not receiving promprosals too—progress!). And how both boys and girls stress about the pre-prom parties and the pre-pre-prom parties, and how drunk they can or cannot get before prom, and how they're going to survive without being drunk, and which after-prom party they're going to attend and how they can ditch the date they wish they hadn't agreed to go with, without hurting his or her feelings. Worse also is how parents get conscripted into the madness by means of pre-prom events held by parents for the prom-goers and their parents. (What? When did this become a thing? Why?)

What bothered me most about the whole prom phenomenon is how conventional North American high schools (still!) are when it comes to thinking about ways to mark transitions such as the end of secondary school. Compare "prom" to the Norwegian tradition of russefeiring, a term that means "russ celebration," russ being the Norwegian word for the graduating class. Rather than staging nostalgic performances of 'fifties debutant balls, complete with strictly defined and still mostly enforced gender roles, Norwegian kids decorate buses and hold events and parties in and around them every night and weekend for nearly a month. While I can imagine that for introverted or non-partying types, this travelling carnival might induce its own anxieties, at least it is inclusive* and not predicated on tired, constricting gender norms. In fact, russefeiring allows and even encourages graduates to test and flout of all manner of societal norms, which seems like a healthier way to mark the transition to adulthood than a backward-looking dance that reinforces social conformity.

Nonetheless, in the end, the backward-looking dance that was my daughters' prom lasted only one night; my girls survived and were happy to have put it behind them. Mostly they were happy that it signalled that the four-year-long horror show of high school was also behind them.

Grad

Almost behind them. Because there was one final event that was also worse than I remember it being: graduation. Grad day managed, in the space of a few boring hours, to crystallize everything that is wrong with high school. Like high school in general, grad serves as a sorting mechanism for students, clearly marking out the winners and losers by means of the awards and honours bestowed, or very conspicuously not bestowed. The interesting thing is that although there were a few purely academic honours, a majority of the awards rewarded either sports excellence or "character" or both. Kids were singled out for having displayed "spirit," and though the term was never defined, it became clear from the comments of the teachers and administrators that "spirit" or "character" more or less equalled conformity to the school culture of competition, hard work (i.e., the ability to withstand the ridiculous pressures of contemporary high school), and—somewhat contradictorily—"teamwork."

In fact, the whole ceremony created a fog of cognitive dissonance that thickened and peaked during the valedictorian's speech. The teacher who introduced the valedictorian remarked that the first thing he noticed about her when she entered his classroom in Grade 9 was her competitiveness, which he clearly saw as her greatest virtue. In her speech, though, the valedictorian told an animal fable about cooperation and teamwork, which she analogized to her time in high school. The message, while sweet, was a little surprising given the context in which it was being delivered: a ceremony honouring a graduating class that had just finished tearing its collective hair out in a frenzied attempt to make the grades needed to ensure admittance to competitive universities. But what also struck me about the speech—and in this it mirrored the earlier speeches of the teachers and officials—was how apolitical it was (this in a year during which Donald Trump became president of the United States) and how unmoored from the reality of most kids' experience of high school. I don't know what I was expecting, and I'm not at all blaming the valedictorian: the truth is, she showed herself to be an exemplary product of the current secondary education system, equipped with precisely the kind of mindset regarding hard work, perseverance, and "teamwork" that for her, because she comes from the right school and the right socio-economic class, will yield the results regularly claimed for it. The problem for me was that in her speech, and in the doling out of award after similar award, the school's hidden curriculum—of conformity, hoop-jumping, and ranking—seemed to be clanging quite jarringly against the surface curriculum—of "critical thinking," hard work, and personal achievement. By the time it was over, I felt as if my head was going to explode.

The ceremony had a similar effect on my daughters. At one point, one of them whispered that to save time, they should have given one humongous spirit award to one prototypical kid, since the awards all seemed to reward the same traits. I do think, though, that my daughters were less surprised than I was by the banality and hypocrisy of grad. After all, they had been forced to sit through myriad similar speeches and ceremonies during their four years at the school. Afterwards, during the snapping of photos with friends and parents, they seemed dazed and detached, as if the reality of what had just happened had not yet sunk in. It was only in the car on the way home that they both finally expressed a sense of release and freedom. High school was over.


*Options that are less heavy on the partying are typically available to religious kids, or kids who don't drink, etc.

A Grade 6 Graduation Ceremony: Awkward

It's mid-summer, we've been to the cottage and back, and my daughters have put Grade 6 graduation behind them. I, too, have tried to forget about it—unsuccessfully. I've been brooding about the ceremony (held over four weeks ago), ruminating on aspects that gave me pause, caused me to wince or—worse—made me angry. I've hesitated to write about it here, but images of the event have persisted in my heat-addled brain, refusing to cede ground to more seasonally-appropriate thoughts. So here it is: my admittedly jaundiced take on one particular Grade 6 graduation and awards ceremony.

It began inauspiciously. Chairs were set up on the leafy lawn of the handsome, 90-year-old public school which my daughters, J and E, have attended since Grade 1. The setup looked pretty, as it always does when the school's Parent Association puts its collective mind (and applies its considerable financial muscle) to something. But just as parents, nannies, aunts, uncles and grandparents were piling out of their SUVs, it started to rain. Staff and parent organizers held out for several long minutes while freshly blow-dried hair wilted, and suits broke out in rain splotches. Finally, the principal called it, and guests were asked to bring their own chairs into the stifling, non-decorated gym.

But in the two and a half-hour ceremony that followed, physical discomfort on the part of guests was the least of the problems.

First there were the interminable speeches. Trustee, area superintendent, parent representative, vice-principal, principal—all spoke about how wonderful X Junior Public school is, how fortunate (read economically-blessed) we all are to have been associated with it. The local Trustee spoke first, turning to address the graduates sitting on benches facing the audience. His speech was the best of the lot. But though he spoke to the graduates, and made interesting points about different avenues to success, in the end he, like the others, seemed to speak for the benefit of, or with the intent of impressing, the adult members of the audience. True, there were student MCs and four student valedictorians, one for each graduating Grade 6 class. Their speeches were short and occasionally funny but, ultimately, they were minor blips in a sea of boring, adult self-congratulation.

Then the dispensing of awards began. There were prizes—small wooden plaques with the recipient's name engraved on them—in physical education, art, music, and French; there were also spirit, character and leadership awards (but, interestingly, given the emphasis on STEM in the TDSB, no science or math awards). I suspect I was not the only parent made uncomfortable by the way the awards were allocated and bestowed. In a misguided effort to be inclusive, several students were chosen to receive each award. So, for instance, the art prize was handed out to three students, the phys. ed. prize to four, and so on. While possibly a good idea in theory,* the result was that at least 70 per cent of the entire graduating class (of approximately 125 kids) received awards. That left a minority of kids who did not, which is far worse for the award-less than if only a few kids had been recognized. More troubling, regardless of their ostensible purpose, the awards seemed to celebrate the same types of kids. Art, music, and physical education plaques went to kids who were competent in those subjects, but who also—perhaps more importantly—demonstrated concomitant "leadership qualities." In other words, with the exception of the honor roll certificates and a prize for highest academic achievement, the awards were in fact "spirit" awards—validating kids for displaying the kind of meaningless "school spirit" I have critiqued elsewhere. So, the quiet, introverted, well-behaved kids, the ones who by default or by choice fall under the radar, were the ones who received nothing.

Given that I have twins in the same class who have completely different personalities, I feel I am uniquely positioned to understand the ramifications of such a system. Both my daughters made honour roll, but J also received an art award. Both she and her sister love art, but E is by far the better artist. She spends a great deal of her spare time creating and studying art, and has educated herself about technical matters not covered in the curriculum, such as shading and colour theory. But J is more outgoing, more obviously enthusiastic and less shy than E. J gets noticed, E does not. J gets the art prize, E does not. E was not upset (at least not overtly), but the irony was not lost on her or her sister. Both instinctively understood that the reward system favours a certain type of personality, irrespective of ability. The allocation of the actual "character," "leadership" and "spirit" prizes reinforced my daughters' understanding of how the system works. These awards were given out to a specific type of kid: the extrovert who exhibits the requisite level of school-sanctioned enthusiasm—at least outwardly.

The most surprising thing about this awards ceremony was not its unfairness, but how apparently oblivious the organizers were to its effect on the audience. After it was over, and we were relaxing at home, my daughters told a revealing story. The final event was the presentation of the graduation certificates, handed out by the Grade 6 teachers to their own students. My daughters' class was first, and their teacher read out each child's name, stipulating "with honours" for the kids who had made honour roll. He read out the first two names, adding "with honours" after each. Then he read the third name; no "with honours" followed. A friend of my daughters' leaned over to J and said, "awkward." Awkward. Exactly. The question is, if an 11-year-old understood this—immediately, intuitively—why didn't the adults in charge?


*One might ask, if inclusion is in fact the goal, why not go all the way, and reward each child for something he or she has achieved during elementary school (as this school in BC chose to do)? Or do we really believe that there are some children who have achieved nothing worthy of recognition?

Real-Life Problems and How to Solve Them: Grad

Recently my daughter, J, has taken to writing an advice column—she calls it Real-life Problems and How to Solve Them—modelled on those she has seen in kids' magazines. She writes both questions and answers, and one particular question—specifically, the answer she composed—caught my eye. It has to do with the numerous, over-the-top events and celebrations taking place this week for her class's grade six graduation. Although J is looking forward to these events, her twin sister, E—who is the kind of introvert that schools routinely overlook and can easily crush—is not. J's advice is clearly directed towards her sister. It is not bad advice.

Q: Everyone at my school is looking forward to the graduation festivities but me. They're always talking about the dresses and shoes they are planning to wear, but I don't even want to go. I know my friends will think I'm crazy, but I really want to just stay at home and read a book. — Ella, age 11

A: Dear Ella — You know if you really want to go or not. And the decision about going is all up to you. Don't let anyone influence you while making your decision because if you end up going and having a bad time, you won't have a very good memory of your grade six graduation. Tell your friends to take pictures and describe the time they had so you don't feel completely left out, but don't worry if they start talking about how cool it was in front of you. The great time they had might have been the worst time you had. But whatever you do, let your memory of your last days of grade six be a good one. Good luck.

Smells Like School Spirit

What the bourgeoisie has installed as its number-one, i.e. as its dominant ideological State apparatus, is the educational apparatus, which has in fact replaced in its functions the previously dominant ideological State apparatus, the Church. Louis Althusser

The other day, my daughter, E, woke up in a foul mood. She muttered something about it being the worst day of her life, then sullenly took her place at the breakfast table. She said she didn't want to go to school, but when my husband and I asked why, she was reluctant to to tell us. Finally, after some cajoling, she told us the reason: it was pajama day at school. E said the kids had been told to wear their pajamas to show school spirit. "How does wearing pajamas at school show school spirit?" she asked. "And why do we have to show it, anyway?"

Good questions.

The official character education program at my daughters' school, Future Aces, is fairly innocuous. According to the program's website, the "Aces" part of the name is an acronym for:

A Attitude, Ability, Action, Achieve
C Co-operation, Courage, Confidence
E Empathy, Example, Education

At our school, these character traits or behavioral goals are inculcated by means of monthly assemblies in which students perform sketches or sing songs about the attribute of the month. As character education programs go, it is relatively harmless (especially compared to programs such as PBIS, which Chris Liebig has blogged about over at A Blog About School), but it also seems to have little effect on the kids, who can regularly be seen yawning and squirming during the assemblies.

There is, however, a parallel, less innocuous character education program in effect at my daughters' school, one that is part of what has been called the "hidden curriculum." It involves regular exhortations to school spirit in the form of specially designated "spirit days," house colour days (in this, our semi-private school has taken a page from private schools) and, yes, pajama days.

The dictionary lists as one of the many possible meanings of the word "spirit," "enthusiastic loyalty (school spirit)." Most people would argue that enthusiastic loyalty to one's school, like loyalty to one's favourite sports team, is not in itself a bad thing. And the truth is, there are aspects of my daughters' school about which one could imagine both kids and parents being enthusiastic. (Its wonderful music program is one of them.) But the enthusiasm being encouraged by spirit days is not a considered enthusiasm; it is not a reasoned response to anything tangible. In fact, what is being exhorted (coerced, some might say) through spirit days is the kind of blind, general enthusiasm that precludes thought, or at least renders it superfluous: my school right or wrong. As such, spirit days are inimical to the school's stated goal of fostering independent, critical thinking. A more cynical person might even argue that spirit days constitute the principal means by which schools carry out their ideological function: in Althusserian terms, such events "interpellate" or "hail" children who, by responding appropriately—i.e, with appropriate unthinking enthusiasm—aid in their own construction as subjects (in this case, as proper, conformist school-children).

Yes, I know, it's only spirit day or pajama day or colour day. It is quite possible—probable, even— that I am investing these events with too much meaning. But if they have no meaning, serve no deeper purpose, why do schools persist in proclaiming such days on a regular basis?

Perhaps it's time for progressive educators and parents to think about alternatives to spirit days or, rather, to ask themselves what an alternative, more meaningful spirit day might look like. I don't have any definitive answers, but I can conceive of assemblies in which children would be encouraged to articulate reasons for their "enthusiasm" for their school, as well as reasons why they might not be enthusiastic. Too often teachers and parents solicit only the pre-conceived, positive responses they want from children, rather than being sincerely interested in hearing their views. An alternative "school spirit" would not be so far away in meaning or import from the kind of "spirit" that all schools claim to be interested in nourishing: the spirit of free and open inquiry.