Lifestyle | Homeschool Reflections
Feat. in photo: Back left my dad, Michael Scheffe, Back right my mom, Deanne. Front row from left to right, sister Stacie, Brother Chris, Me, Baby Brother Matthew.
Prelude
I felt a stirring a few years ago to begin sharing more layers of my education journey. I started feeling the trend of homeschooling to catch traction by way of a funky pressure via social media. To me, the projection is perceived that this is the most caring way to love children, to protect them, to give them just exactly what they need. I feel anxiety tingle. This is big labor people have begun to engage with, even fixate on. Do they know what they’re beginning, I’d ask myself. Because it can be presented so visually beautiful- almost romantic and it gives parents the ability to fully control the narrative of a child’s upbringing for just a little longer, it seems that it has become tempting. This really causes a grievance in me. It seems as though so many who are taking initiative to begin shifting their children’s education inward never have really had experience with this fashion of schooling and I feel there is value in adding some context to the unfolding of homeschooling, as adult who experienced it firsthand as the child. As research of long-term results is important in testing the things we put into our bodies, I believe there also has to be significance to the long-term effects that the type of education experienced can have on a grown human. Of what I’ve been exposed to, many who are homeschooling their children have never been in a teaching role. Many more don’t have a primary relationship with others who have experienced this sphere of education. So how can er fairly deliberate the results that we’re cultivating for our children if we’re working on a quick decision, or even one we’ve thought about but without any finish line data to reflect upon? If I pause to think of how many 30-somethings I know that came from a homeschool background it actually takes some time. They are far and few, especially if you’re in larger cities.
When the happenings of 2020 unfolded and homeschooling became circumstantial for so many I really found myself anxious about the change of the culture in our educational world. So many little ones have been called to agility beyond their years. While I believe the actions of a child can prove resilient, I do not believe our young ones are usually offered necessary tools in order to healthily meet the resilience required to resist it turning into lasting trauma. My heart went out- goes out, not only to the children being homeschooled who may be similarly minded to the way that I was when little but also to parents who weren’t equipped for such happenings to suddenly be so immediately involved in their lives. My nerves have grown weary for an unspoken perspective as I see a shift toward maintaining homeschooling in so many homes. As I am deeply grateful for the expiration tag to be notated well on a freshly wrapped bundle of perishables from the market, I just want to place a little sticker proclaiming a perspective.
Talking about something like schooling one’s child feels gritty, vulnerable, and uncomfortable. Sometimes it feels like if I share my truths, it may expose your truths and that seems similar to the feelings of intrusiveness one might feel when they’ve stayed a few days too long in someone’s home. It seems it could be read as a moral invasion of one’s processing and decision-making. As it is, we humans can only tell our own stories and when they fall in the categories of life that feel unseen the only way that murky water can begin to look more clear is with light drawn near. The story written below is to shine a light on my experience, my grown perspective, and a different look on protecting and preparing children, but most of all, in this piece I’m sharing for the little girl that I was who really needed to be heard, without being fully aware of it during my adolescence. It’s for the voice that was muted, intentionally or unintentionally- maybe both, by the ones in charge of my upbringing and for the little ones who will grow and wish that someone had mentioned a perspective to their parental figures...
The Foundations
I remember getting dressed for school during my introductory year, kindergarten. I remember I wore a dress on my very first day and I felt equal parts elated to be around so many children my size as well as nervous about my mom actually leaving this foreign space, the classroom. I was enrolled in afternoon kindergarten which meant lunch before I left our home. I vividly remember loving digging for the little noodle letters in my daily bowl of soup, as well as the time my mom sat with me and taught me how I’d move the spoon if I ever had been served a bowl of soup at a table with the queen. After lunch, my mom would help me slide my arms through the straps of my backpack, and off we’d go.. The bus met on my friend’s street just a few blocks away. Mom would be pushing the littlest of us in his umbrella stroller and I would be dressed in my matching neon cotton bicycle shorts and oversized shirt walking excitedly through the neighborhood where I would gather with friends alike. Once landing my window seat, I’d wave excitedly to the little bits of my family waiting just outside for me to be on my way, in delight.
Somewhere along the lines of first grade, I really loved wearing my spandex white tights that had little silver and black boxes printed on them similar to the pattern of a Tetris screen. When they grew too short for my boney, long legs, we cut them into biker shorts and I may have loved them even more. Nothing paired better with those shorts than one of my mom’s black tee-shirts and the ever-favorite t-shirt ring, you know the one that we all wove the corner of our shirts through to look as cool as the older kids. These days, I walked a little bit less than a mile to my full days of school. Sometimes with siblings, sometimes alone; and on the return home, I’d often walk with my brother’s friends or my friends who were headed the same way.
Second grade illuminated the textures of the building and the atmosphere of so many bodies in so many rooms. I recall walking through the halls of our school during second grade. I’m tucked somewhere behind and ahead of my classmates. The best part of these single file movements from one room to the next was when we’d align in a parallel movement, opposite directions of the older schoolmates. In these brief exchanges, I’d see my sister in 6th grade or my brother in 5th; which meant there was an opportunity for engagement with older students. As I ran my fingers atop the bumpy, interior bricked walls of our elementary school, I’d fill with joy at the spark of the older boys and girls knowing my name, saying hello, waving to me, or calling to my siblings that I was in a line across the way. I felt known; associated with my siblings by the calling of our last name, I belonged in a place. I felt the advantage offered of others going before me and the notoriety held by more established people acknowledging me. This was the actual moment as an adult that I recall where the eager anticipation to age into a sixth-grader was planted in me. Surely, 6th grade would be the pinnacle of education! The hierarchy achieved. This memory would repeat through my mind dozens of times throughout the rest of my life.
It’s the summer of 1996. I’ve now spent the previous five years preparing for the start of sixth grade. A lot has happened in this same developing chapter of my story. I’ve had scary moments. I’ve experienced attachments to specific teachers and then had to switch to a new one the following year. I’ve experienced struggle and embarrassment when not able to achieve the simplicities of basic mathematics. I’ve been called on and not had answers. I’ve tried out for both President of the class and Treasurer. I learned during these tryouts that being on camera isn’t my favorite and that I have small, repetitive nervous ticks in this climate. I’ve been on the outside and the inside. I’ve been friends with nerds and simultaneously the cool kids and everything in between. I’ve given half of a little golden best-friend necklace and had it returned to me and taken back to cherish forever within a week. Swoon. I’ve been the one the kids wait on to start the game during recess and I’ve sat in the dugout negotiating my spot to the back of the bench again due to dreading my turn at-bat. I’ve been the school guard’s favorite by way of homemade salsa and felt the weight of knowing someone else was the favorite during music class. I’ve passed notes to the boy across the room. I’ve learned what sex was by way of gestures between friends of mine. I’ve not been selected to bring the class pet home and I’ve felt lucky not to have been a “latch key kid.” I’ve had the opportunity to be near kids who have disabilities, others who have the most adorable siblings that get all of the attention and others who are just so good looking while I’m such the awkward duckling. I’ve felt alone when my parents didn’t come to award ceremonies and I’ve felt accomplished when the teacher acknowledged me kindly in front of all of my peers. I’ve even been stuck in the hall for talking too much (proud moment). I’ve sat behind the building to listen to my peers try out the bad words they had heard and wanted to use themselves. I’ve walked alongside the junior high to try and catch a glimpse of the next level- what are they doing? How is it different there? Curiosity pouring from me. In this space, this building, this schoolyard, I’ve learned what life can look like in one hundred different ways. I’ve learned basic education, sure, but even more, I’ve had a taste of the social sciences that allow us to become, often in a more well-rounded way. So much life packed into these first years of living. These six years would become the defense campaign of both the rest of my education and for the entirety of my conversations around my education- well into adulthood.
The News
Can’t you just imagine it? In the coming weeks, I’d pick the best school clothes I could during school clothes shopping with my grandparents. I’d have a slick, new, matching outfit to wear while walking into the schoolyard. I’d meet up with all of my friends on the playground before lining up and heading toward the much longed-for sixth grade. This was the start of a chapter desired for as long as I could remember. I’m not the coolest kid but I’m not a premature “Karen” and mostly, I have friends in all different groups. I really felt like I was a connector, kind of bridging the gaps between. When it came to talking and making friends, and being social, I felt unmatched. The prettiest girls liked me, and inherently the boys felt non-problematic. All I want to do is conclude summer so that I can start the new school year.
Approaching our Fall start, the clothing shopping has been accomplished, I’m full of adrenaline waiting to find out who my teacher will be, of course, to learn who will be in my class and what the close of my elementary school career will entail. However, shortly after returning from our long Colorado summer the four of us are at home while mom and dad run an errand. They were gone for hours, which always felt like days. Four kids in a quaint home made for a lot of noise and commotion, especially without our parents present. Upon their return, their hands are weighted with bags and bags, which is a rarity. We’re awestruck. Anytime bags of anything came into our home it was a call for show and tell. Once they’ve brought in all of their findings, my dad calls a “family meeting.” For my entire childhood, nothing was met with outward dread in our home, however, internally many things offered a mixture of undesirable feelings. Family meetings were one of them.
Family meetings could mean anything from a 4-hour dissertation on god knows what, to a list of things we had to deep clean (like with toothbrushes to really get in the crevices), or every once in a while a really fun surprise. Usually, the fun surprise was completely organized and ready to go- as “integrity” was held in the highest regard. So certainly if something was stated as being anticipated but without follow-through, it would appear that one was without honesty or good character and we just couldn’t have that. So if a thing was set to be done, it was sure to be… which was actually really exciting or reassuring as a child. This felt trustworthy and kind but also meant there wasn’t a lot of talking our parents in or out of a decision. I digress. We labor into our spots. At the sound of dad’s voice, immediacy was to follow, always. Within seconds we’ve piled into the living room, or maybe it was the around the ‘60s, dining table of Formica wrapping, paired with tall backed chairs that once landed me a black eye. Either way, we’re sitting in a common meeting place and experience bags of books and learning tools, interactive items, and so on being unpacked and explained; however, I remember nothing more than, “We’re going to homeschool you in the coming year.”
Pregnant pause….
All four of us?! We’re going to be homeschooled… Together? Class of 4? I’m not sure you could have four more widespread reactions. My sister says nothing, likely smiled, and received well with complacency. “But how?” I ask myself. She’s so smart, won’t she miss learning from school? My older brother couldn’t be more indifferent about it. It didn’t make very much sense to me because he seemed so social, but maybe because he had so many friends in the neighborhood and was often gone until dark anyway, maybe that created an assumption that this lifestyle would remain the same? My little brother looks happy. He’s never set either of his five-year-old feet in a school; home is all he’s known. He’s precious and unphased. This one makes sense. The unknown is always safer than exposed.
And then, me. After scanning the room and assessing my sibling’s reactions, my immediate thought was that I must have misunderstood. A million questions and statements running through my mind. I’m sorry, my parents are teachers now? Dad, don’t you have a job to go to? Mom, have you been a teacher before that I wasn’t made aware of? I thought you have to learn how to do this during continued schooling- which we don’t believe in. Of fight or flight, the fight was still my most common draw. My immediate plan of action is to certainly talk them out of this. I’m really good at getting what I want, I can do this. Or maybe this is simply a test? An oversight? Maybe it’s one of their infamous practical jokes. All I know is that this isn’t real. The pause releases and the words, “This is what we believe God has called us to do.” It poured right out of their mouths and landed in my ears. The phrase immediately permeated my soul and I knew it was a game over, a game that never really began. At the ripe age of twelve, I understand enough that “God” is the end-all, be-all in this little home. His authority is overused as the predecessor for anything that was desired to have taken place without any questioning. His name was used as both the silencer and the adult cure for any predicament. Sixth grade as I anticipated it, slid right through my fingers- just like that. No questions, no conversations, no considerations further than what was done in preparation prior to their permanent reveal. I bundled up all of my tears, asked to be dismissed, and left the room…. Maybe this was the beginning of losing the fight reflex and finding comfort in the flight.
I went to my bed. Back flat on my mattress, looking up at the little designs etched into the drywall mud that coated the ceiling and sidewalls, feet touching the floor at the base of the bed just before the door, tears streaming down either side of my face. Full sob. Big weeps. I hated this. To my very core, how could this be happening? Going to school was my very favorite part of life, second to visiting family in Colorado for 3 months of each year. Even if I wasn’t the star singer in Chorus and although I lacked the ability to understand multiplication well, participating in school was my heartbeat. It was an entire experience… I learned of new things there, people, types, scenarios, stories from this large brick covering. The stories of other children opened my ears to rhythms otherwise unknown. On the playground, there were a multitude of situations to solve, attitudes to be alongside, different styles of playing, different levels of intelligence, rules that were inapplicable at home but required in that space, perspectives different than my core family unit, the stretching of becoming a well-rounded being. In hindsight, the glimpses into the lives of others are measured invaluable. Their rhythms were different than ours- different than mine. I learned an abundance of atmospheric attributes in school- not just about what the words inside of the curriculum were teaching me but the way other children were creating space for differences in my life. In real-time, it could’ve been about who their parents were or what their careers were and how that might have looked different than the lens I peered through at home. I was curious to see what my friend’s homes looked like, where their travels were, the language they used with one another, and how their dining experience was or wasn’t. The systems inside of their homes taught me by way of exposure, validating certain behaviors, and striking a chord with what might be peculiar in my own.
And then poof, I saw it leave my world.
At the moment, I had hoped the friendships would progress with my existing friends but gutturally I knew that lacking presence in the day-to-day would create an inevitable pause in the needed attention for elementary level friendships. Not to their fault or credit, just a non-social media world paired with adolescence and relative to new beginnings, new students, and natural immaturities. In reflection, staying in school would’ve also been inclusive of education awareness- where do I land in contrast to my peers? Being present in a school with required talking points from teachers would have given attention and structure to electives in high school and further education options for after primary schooling. Staying could’ve given tools to navigating humanity in a more thorough way. For good, for bad, being surrounded by others has proven throughout the course of my life to refine me on a core level, I believe a more formal education would have also made these offerings. In response to life, we learn the tools to deal with the happenings of our circumstances, or we learn the ways that allow us to become.
As a parent, my job is not to protect my children from ever encountering differences but to equip them with the tools to protect themselves in these situations. When we remove our children from instances that teach them how to evolve and grow by way of diversity and human challenges outside of our very own comfort zones, we remove the necessary equipment to navigate through life at full potential and leave them with the task to lean in independently to self teach or to ignore and become stagnant in important areas of their lives.
In the late ’90s, the homeschool groups were avoidable at best, if you could find them. The only other kids I really knew who were homeschooled were much younger than me and lived 45 minutes away and maybe spoke 38 words over the course of an 8 hour hang our parents would engage in. Kind-hearted, sure, but what is happening? Is this supposed to be the network that I grow from? Mostly mute and uniform in regard, stance, and behavior. Other easy reach descriptives for a homeschooled kid in the ’90s would include long flowered skirts with several buttons, peculiar, quiet, socially awkward, conservative, homely or granola, godly in a “weird” way, isolated, really smart- this just an expectation… all of these stereotypes- however many true.
The Plea
One of my larger takeaways applied to parenthood from my own childhood is to work hardest at hearing the needs of my children however that may arrive at me. To listen to the desires of their little hearts that will one day be grown enough to love another and nurture something, someone else down their road. To honor who my children are from the beginning to the end… begging at myself to overcome my own insatiable desire to control a situation and to give them a voice. To get on their level in positions of humility, to look into their sweet little souls through their beautiful eyes and hear them. To give them permission not just to filet the depths of them but to honor them. If we’re parenting in a way of true servanthood, that feels like a movement away from any kind of an agenda on Justin and my end. Any motive other than wholeness, requiring full removal. I’ve not perfected but reminding myself to continue leaning into a better offering.
Sales pitches were a big deal in our family. Almost everything we asked of my dad had to be done so in the fashion of a sales pitch. The motto ingrained in the very core of me? Ask and you shall receive- but only to be wrapped in an adult-worthy sales pitch. Over the course of my sixth grade, I began preparing my pitch to return to normal life in the Fall of my seventh-grade year. The idea of reentry already felt intimidating but very worthwhile. I couldn’t believe how in a few short months, I already felt nervous about returning to a once-familiar place. When I finally felt confident enough, I called a meeting of my own. Mom, Dad, and I. Conversations directly relating to getting something I want always proved more successful if I handed them without the peanut gallery of my siblings. And guess what? My dad actually asked me to go to breakfast-- in public, to discuss my why further. This felt like significant progress- it was. I only remember a handful of outings during my childhood that was exclusive to my dad and me. And a meal out, just as rare. So it must have meant something.
The next morning, I eagerly dressed for the day, did my hair, and excitedly bounced into the car. Here we go, I thought. A real chance. Literally, it’s now or never. We sat at a local Denny’s, tucked into a corner booth. You know the one, vertically tufted, brown vinyl that wrapped around a table much too large for two people, wet eggs and soggy bacon awaiting their devour. All things are well and I’m feeling ready to talk through one of life’s longest-lasting decisions. And so the investigation began. The surveying of the land…. Like some type of panel that one would pay to go to in 2021… But between a 13-year-old and her dad. Why would you want to go back? What do you think you’re missing? What is it that’s in the school that you can’t have at home? Why do you think you need those friends? Don’t you think you’d get teased too (pooling me with others, not considering just me)? All of my answers ready and prepared. I did well. Very well. I felt so confident as I wiped the excess butter off of my face and scrambled back into our silverish, blue-hued, extra-long Oldsmobile, the one with blue bench seats front and back.
I was sure upon our arrival home, he’d confer with mom and they’d come to the conclusion that the exception was appropriate to be made. However, when I followed up hours later, dad just looked at me with the most dumbfounded look on his face and responded, “No, of course, you’re not going back. I just wanted to know why you thought it was a good idea.” I’ve only felt that invisible one other time in the recounting of my life. I was struck with disappointment, to the very core of me.
Public, private, charter schools, and the like are not the saviors in this story. I’m not inconclusive enough as an adult to not be able to comprehend that traditional schooling is not the end all be all or that some of what I’d built in my mind was likely elevated in my dreaming. No situation is without hardship or aches and pains somewhere along the way. However, the overlooking with such disregard for an individual, pleading (both verbal and non) personal needs is unforgettable- a treacherous carry-on.
So, I became.
I became a bigger personality than I already was but with the awkward fumbling of a preteen who didn’t quite know where to put my lanky arms, my long hair, thick bangs, and my big feet, and very few to discuss the disjointedness of one’s self with. No real peers to observe from any longer, to absorb or differentiate from. I wrestled the deep valleys in my soul that longed to be surrounded by my former classmates and their new ones. I began studying my older siblings' mannerisms to discover what mine would be. I paid attention to who received attention and how. I took on the language of the family that I spent the most time with…. For example, that we really loved homeschooling….
Somewhere between the loss of who I was and the becoming of who I would be, I spent a lot of time searching for normalities. Our home’s fencing lined the walkway that many of my friends walked to and from school daily. There were two very large trees that overhang the idyllic, Phoenician cinderblock wall. Most afternoons at 3:20 you could find me here, hiding. I’d tuck myself beneath the willowing branches to hear what the passersby might be talking about and once their voices had trailed a bit, I’d peek over the top to catch a glimpse of it all. Their outfits, their movements, their backpacks, I needed to know the visual differences- their expressions through and through- was I becoming much different from those who were peers, or was I staying on track? This very embarrassing period of time was my twenty minutes of the day away from my family that made me feel completely alone and also alongside kids like me. This ritual felt weird and I hated it but I also longed so deeply for companionship that I made it okay inside of me. I imagine this likeness to social media for today’s more isolated fashion of schooling. I can see how even more access to an even more widespread volume of children in my age bracket could be damning.
The Spin
I believe inevitably that good-hearted children lean into pleasing their parents for some chunk of their youth. I believe that when the unification of a family has emphasis put on it through health or abuse the protective wall that grows shows itself in our body language and our sentence structure. I believe that the influence of the role of a parent is so heavily weighted on our children that the impressions of our desires for them can begin to triumph over the deepest parts of our children’s individual needs. I don’t believe there are many who want to feel the weight of being outstandingly different in a peculiar way specific to fundamental needs. I don’t believe that while children are experiencing something so different that if they hear from the outside one million times over, “you’re normal” it will make the atmosphere seem more right. I think deep knowings quieted become internalized expressions of agitation down the road.
Intrinsically, I’m fiercely protective of the ones I love and I want them to be pleased with my representation of them. When constant words from my parents encouraged a disposition of gratitude toward homeschooling, or constant affinity toward the goodness that they felt it offered it became the easiest way to describe what was happening inside of our home to anyone that wasn’t included in those walls, the inner circle. When adults asked us questions, no one had to rehearse what was said, really. We just knew. We heard our parents talk about how our relatives or others might not approve, or how they might not think we were getting a thorough education so there was always reassurance around speaking confidently of how much success we were experiencing. There was a lot of focus on the highlights of homeschooling and when met with perceived resistance we had an arsenal of one-liners to reflex toward, “We receive report cards,” “Mom stays up all night prepping tests and grading our papers” “Mom studied the topic for weeks prior to teaching us.” “Oh no, we’re not really in a bubble.” “Who? My parents?! No, they’re not super Christian… they listened to rock music before they had us, they swear and the only thing they really care about us not doing is watching rated R movies.” These things weren’t really the whole truth but they had truth to them and were safe with approval, so they were well to repeat and felt like truth. Of course, human behavior is drawn toward having to reconcile differences felt. People had to rectify the differences they were seeing and felt a social obligation to hide their quandaries, which to me, sounded a lot like processing inward thoughts out loud and landing at the idea that we were probably normal. Which they’d say… often with that awkward delivery that only a child can overlook.
The most common “compliment” I guess, that we received over and over again was that we weren’t a “normal” homeschool family. Regularly people lavished us with this six-word sentence, I think to make us feel better? As though we were really doing something right... and as much kindness as they tried tying around it in, the ring of judgment always held as true as the effort made to normalize my personality, my education, and my responses to a thousand questions. This conversation was so cyclical that it was predictable. And I absorbed it all. The glaring truth that we were different, the graciousness to make us seem less peculiar than the others, and everyone with permission to say anything they felt because they were approving of it…I beamed with gratitude to them, unbuckled my seatbelt, wandered into our home and prayed to God that the days would pass quickly and we could all move on. People still stay this to me and I’m 36-- I’m 36, and people still say this to me.
I’m not sure how all of the childhood hardships compress into the shaping of a person. I would likely benefit greatly from a degree in psychology, however, working with what I know, I imagine that much of the cheery countenance and very positive perspectives I held over the next 20 years of my life from this point formulated during this time. A response to pain in a topically beautiful way. I would glean from the reflections of my life that these years of hiding the regret of my parent’s choice for me in the most radiant wonderful light was a response to my ache in order to make it through in the best way possible. For the sake of strength, projection, and a desperate ache to be acceptable I tucked all of that pain in the lowest parts of me and became a most radiant beam of joy for all who participated in life with me. I also believe the weight of it is why I would stay awake until 3 AM regularly during high school due to the inability to sleep. I believe the insecurities planted in me by way of the questioning of so many around me affirmed my deep concern that there wasn’t enough being learned. Be it true or not, as a child so many doubtful insights even with their most positive spin felt weary. The premise of reasoning for homeschooling was founded by my parent’s “protection”. They felt God led them to do a thing but paired it alongside my sister being picked on too much by other kids and my struggling in math. Which after hearing reiterated became a hum- a constant resting that maybe this was catering to unintelligence, then compounded by the stream of disbelief and doubt that an 11-year-old, a 13-year-old, a 15-year-old cannot decipher alone. It certainly wasn’t true, I was very smart, however, when I wasn’t tracking alongside anyone my age in the present, this became a space for discomfort to transition back- I felt this heavily while I pushed and pulled with the idea of community college. The culmination of these activities can become a breeding ground, I believe, for my deep insecurities- That I still can feel the weight of as a 36-year-old woman. The parts of school that I watch so many leave behind or cling to, I do too but with a little bit of resentment and loneliness because there are so few in my weird 2003 high school graduate homeschool group. The questions were good- I think questions should’ve been asked, it created red flag alerts in me that I could reference later in my own healing. I encourage questions to children about situations that may seem different, often they can be protectionary. I also believe had my parents offered me to go back to school a few years in, the damaging feeling of not being able to keep up may have prevented me from a solid yes. I’ll never know, but I can see myself swaying into the lack of confidence enough that I would’ve stayed put- maybe.
Because I had foundational years of public school education I felt more permission to be semi-comfortable in the groove of talking about homeschooling. Pairing my actual vocal volume, with my personality and those awkward, young model features (like being 5’9 and 114 pounds of skin and bone until I was 20) pushed me through a lot of social barriers. But I clung to and led with the fact that I had at least five years of formal education and it gave me enough to push forth. But gah, what a lot of work for a kid. I became resilient and tucked all of the pains in deep parts for decades. Compartmentalized some might say.
The haunting of being asked which school was met with dread. I’d name our homeschool a different name as needed in order to resist the knowledge that I went to my living room at 9 AM every morning for school but without actually telling a lie. After my very weird graduation, I sloppishly filled out applications on that education line for jobs hoping they’d not challenge me. I leaned into every homeschool joke well into my 20’s before I gently- okay, very directly, asked friends to please stop crediting my oddities to my schooling. As I continued to move further and further from home, I began realizing that there was just so much I didn’t know about the world because the bubble was too tight. It was just too restraining.
I’m very coherent that it is part of our job to make decisions for our children often. And as my children are still very young, I imagine that starting from making all choices for a completely dependent being and transitioning into allowing them to make a contribution to the process, and then even more- giving them space to make decisions fully independent of us as parents will be very challenging. Very complex. I imagine that it feels like losing control and like we know better so the best decision is to make the decision for them. However, when we stop seeing the child as an individual and categorically make decisions that are more or less better for us adults or a family unit, it’s no longer equipping them with proper tools to become who they’re designed to be. We are the sum of our experiences. These words never ring more true than when we’re only exposing our children to a very specific tunnel of life.
This is not a homeschooling experience where we’re jet-setting on private jets across the world while mama sings on a stage to 100k humans. This isn’t a setting where we’re flying often so that dad can play a professional sport. This is not a scenario where we’re hopping in a vehicle for so many weeks or months of the year in order to achieve a more global perspective of culture and people’s way of life. This is a traditional sentiment of homeschooling, where most days are spent among our parents and our siblings. Inside of the walls of our home with an outing here and there, outdoor playtime as often as we’d like, and time with peers based upon the ones our parents deem best suited for our family or us individually. We have to choose what we’re protecting our children from. Potential to fundamentally learn problem-solving, navigating foreign territory with peers, social differences in perspective, and exposure to more knowledge in order do things differently from what is learned in our nearest sphere, the home; in my considerations these learning opportunities, in contrast to my life experiences have taught me that not much takes precedence over them.
-Karen Mitchell
