Character keeps popping up in educational and leadership news lately. In this NY Times article http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/18/magazine/what-if-the-secret-to-success-is-failure.html?pagewanted=all&_r=1& the writer describes an elite New York private school where standardized tests are eschewed and character again made king. It’s an odd anachronism in the post No Child Left Behind era. George Bush’s sweeping educational law reauthorization ushered in a golden age of entitlement for learners. “My kid gets the grade or else.” As the NCLB vice grip has tightened and schools threatened with increasing sanctions for less than perfect student performance on standardized tests, the competitive frenzy of Obama’s Race to the Top has actually appeared to be an attractive alternative for beaten down and confused educational institutions. Politicians have hit the motherlode: as they perennially characterize schools as failures, their grand coming to the rescue remains a top of the charts hit.
The article quotes Riverdale School’s headmaster, Dominic Randolph. “The idea of building grit and building self-control is that you get that through failure. And in most highly academic environments in the United States, no one fails anything.”
What? I thought everyone was failing everything.
Yesterday, as another mother rushed to complain about a teacher hurting her son’s feelings by rebuking him, I was again reminded of how things have changed. The new generation of over protective parents and cloistered kids is upon us. As a mother, I have that over-blown impulse too. I want to throw my weight around when a teacher fails to recognize the special talents of my amazing boy and, even worse, dares to miss counting one of his assignments in the grade book, or unfairly scores his quiz. Yep. Guilty.
But who did that for me as a child? No one. At best Mom was un-involved, and at worst either sided with the teacher or engaged the teacher in an embarrassing argument. Which incidentally was never about my specialness. Dad was completely disengaged from my life at school; his job was at Lockheed and mine was at school. His work was classified – he could not have talked about it if he wanted to; and mine at school might as well have been the same. I rode my bike to my own softball practice, and when my catcher’s glove caught in the spokes, took a head-first spill, scraping my thigh and hip raw. I got up, wiped away a tear or two, and continued on without ado. Neither parent ever watched me play any sport. Nor did they peruse my homework. The envelope with my report card could sit on the counter with the junk mail for a full week before anyone bothered to open it.
Flash to now: I’m on the sidelines of every soccer game, yelling words of encouragement and unauthorized advice. Email to teachers prevents the report card from bearing the slightest surprise. I’m engaged.
Which of these approaches is more likely to build character? We all know the answer, don’t we?
Somehow the responsibility meter went haywire in my generation and we’ve all turned into insufferable bosses, unable to relinquish the slightest bit of control to the small extensions of our identity we so smotheringly love.
Enter the Great Recession. Schools are threadbare, yet continue their sweatshop labor under the NCLB lash, pushing the standardized test scores higher, and yes, more students graduate. The college entry stats inch upwards. Everyone believes in himself and his dream, and nothing can stand in his way. Not GPAs, not admissions policies, not tuition costs. We push them through and they graduate, eyes shining and expensive degree in hand, only to land on the doorstep of the real world without the slightest inkling what to do next. No jobs. Housing market in the basement. I guess one way or another, failure eventually comes.
We built our grit and determination as eight year olds in the meandering reaches of the neighborhood, exploring on our own, and taking our licks where we got them. Our children have been pulled indoors by the irresistible allure of bright screens, and protected by an out of whack parental instinct in an increasingly scary world. They will make it to adulthood with children’s lessons yet to learn.
So what’s wrong with advocating for your child? With supporting him in his endeavors and helping him feel good about himself? Nothing. It’s just that when these impulses take honesty hostage, the formula goes sour. A good thing gone rotten. Neglect is not a parenting strategy, no. But healthy boundaries mean exhibiting the self-control to let your child struggle, to let him find his own path, to allow him to experience losses as well as wins, and yes, to allow him to fail. We can empathize without rescuing. We can console without going to war with the loss. Loving your child means believing he can develop the character and grit to overcome obstacles, hone muscles, spark brain cells, and discover his own talents and joy. Loving your child means getting out of the way and letting him become someone. It’s not so much that No Child be Left Behind, but rather that each child have authentic opportunity. That each be allowed to discover his path, in his way and time. Just like we did.
Valentine's Day 2013: the usual elementary school melodrama. Girls come to school in fancy dresses akin to the finery they wear for Fall Picture Day. Every funny little awkward kid believes he will magically have scores of friends for one amazing day. And every year such hopes are cruelly dashed by an imperfect reality. Expectations are in the stratosphere. Yet he still gets out in foursquare. Doesn't get to be line leader. Misses his turn at read aloud because he wasn't paying attention. And the lunch table with the cool kids was full by the time he got there with his tray.
Feelings get hurt. Emotions boil over. Sugar adds volatility. Recess is more of a melee than usual. Hallway lines cannot contain the bursting emotion of the day. Insecure mothers overdo the goody-bags, hoping to ensure their child the popularity they didn't enjoy as a kid. Some even send ostentatious heart balloon bouquets and FTD flowers. It's a mess.
And then on the home front.... boyfriends everywhere choke on the high stakes test. Girlfriends demurely hope for an outlay that perfectly captures their emotional investment. (The only thing worse than failing to get the right attention from someone exciting is getting the wrong attention from someone who is stalking you.) Husbands tread lightly, never sure they will strike the right note. Wives say they don't need any fuss made ... which could either be true or the lie of the year. Stores lose their tenuous hold on any sanity, filling their aisles with red and pink bags of hard brown sugary wax they pass off as chocolate. I don't know if Hallmark really did invent this "holiday" but we have done what we always do in America, we have utterly over-consumed it.
I wrote cards to my loved men, and told my beloved that what I really wanted was simply a card with a heartfelt message from him. (Which was - surprise - the complete truth!)
We went to dinner at Mireille's Bistro - an inspired choice. In a world of mass-produced digitalized schlock, it is original, local, analog - a sensory delight. The food is real, exquisitely prepared, and consistent in quality. A talented accordion player performed live music that imbued the cozy interior with yet more soft delight. I sat next to my husband and we talked while living every moment of the experience.
When one can share such an experience after 19 years of marriage, that is the best Valentine a person can hope to receive. You really do have that one amazing friend on this one amazing day, and even better, more days to come.
On July first, Oregon's new restraint law took effect. Public educators can no longer restrain a child unless the child poses "serious bodily injury to himself or others". Such bodily injury must be of a degree that "a medical doctor would verify injury". No more gripping the hand of a child prone to straying from the ship-shape line. And those tiny runners who like to bolt out of the classroom in the earliest years? No chasing, no grabbing, no holding.
On the first day of school, a five year old sat rooted in his seat and clung to the bus window, refusing to get off the bus to start school.
"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" he cried.
He was new, a kindergartener, so we did not know who he was.
"What's your name honey?"
"Mommy!" he cried with greater vigor.
We could not call home because we didn't know which family he belonged to. Seven different staff members tried every trick in the book - stuffed animals, affectionate cajoling, promises - no go. He stayed there and cried.
The bus driver was held hostage by an incoherent five year old while we all looked helplessly on. The driver radioed in to let dispatch know he could not continue his route. Fifteen minutes into the siege we called the non-emergency Sheriff's number. The only one who could forcibly remove a child from the bus would be law enforcement. (Now there's an enduring childhood memory - remember when a police officer made you go to kindergarten Johnny?)
Absurd? Absurd.
Fortunately, law enforcement is busy. Pulling small children off buses is not their highest priority. We waited a while. And before the sheriff's deputy arrived, the eighth staff member somehow either wore the child down or struck on the right words to say. The little boy held her hand and descended the bus stairs, ending the standoff.
My school sits on a busy road. Since we cannot physically restrain an impulsive child in motion, we must rely on our words, no? Langston's Hughes' brilliant poem comes to mind.
Baby
Albert!
Hey, Albert!
Don't you play in dat road.
You see 'dem trucks
A goin' by?
One run ovah you,
An' you die!
Albert, don't you play in dat road!
Today marks a special day. The birthdays of some big personalities: Ronald Reagan, Bob Marley, and my own brother, affectionately known as U.J. (That's short for Uncle John.) We all know the stories and folklore, the posthumous adoration for the Gipper and the man who made Reggae famous. But what about the other legend? U.J!
He's got Reagan's way with words and easy charisma, and Marley's melody and surfer cool good looks. But his quicksilver mind, lightening wit, and rollicking humor are 100% his own. My college roommate always referred to him as Einstein.
U.J. was a year and three days old when I came on the scene. He memorialized our first meeting by feeding me chocolate chips. (This happened in the days when adults had no problem leaving a one year old and newborn alone unsupervised - just the first in a long line of grown-up-free disasters to come.) Certainly my sugar addiction harks back to that first taste.
But nevermind.
U.J. went on to lead the charge on many an adventure. Early schemes included asking neighbors to contribute money for the dead sister's funeral. (Guess who, lying prone in the red wagon, couldn't keep her eyes shut and gave away the whole scam?) As a slightly older little kid, he dug an ambitious tunnel in the backyard, making it nearly to China before the undercover project was discovered by Angry Dad. He came up with splendid ideas like flooding the back lawn to make a huge wet "slip and slide" for all the neighborhood kids to enjoy. Later adventures included sneaking through private artichoke fields in Santa Cruz to get to the best surfing beach, and serving as editor in chief of his high school's underground protest newspaper. True to his early devotion, he always brought me chocolates when he returned home from his first job at Morrow's Nut House. U.J. headed up our first all-kid roadtrip when he was 17 and we drove nearly the length of California in his rattletrap VW Beetle. No matter how farflung my travels in college and beyond, U.J. came to visit, charming the locals. He has always been the chief architect of adventure, and I, a happy first deputy.
By now we can officially call him a grown-up, but U.J. retains the same mess-up-your-hair sense of fun. He is loyal, loving, smart, and highly entertaining. Happy Birthday U.J. I hope the cake has plenty of chocolate.
