Am I a School Dissident?

Mother: Despite my being ignorant to the fact that it was the school bus that my daughter was afraid of, even more than school itself, she did eventually adjust enough to make it through her Kindergarten year. In all honesty though, I think that she did not adjust to riding the bus as much as she accepted her miserable fate..oh the guilt. It breaks my heart even now, two decades later, to think of putting her little tear-stained face on the bus. And for what? All in all, Kindergarten sucked way more life out of her than it gave.

Summer flew by, filled with free play and fun, reading and swimming, family and cookouts. The jaws of the school bus came around again, this time gobbling up my little girl for the an entire seven hour day. I would come to detest those back-to-school commercials that portrayed the gleeful mom, happily shopping for her kids, knowing they would be “out of her hair” soon. For some us, back-to-school was something to dread. And in those early years I could not shake the nagging feeling that it was all so pointless. My kids were reading, learning, and exploring the world outside of school, with joy. What in the world would they gain by joining the masses in a building that seemed to have them on high alert? Could anything be less natural a way to learn and grow than what our society deemed mandatory? What about freedom? What about play? And peace and authenticity? What about their brief childhood ?

But school is the norm. School is what we do to kids. School is what kids do. And therefore I was scared to face how wrong it felt to me. I was almost scared to think it, let alone speak it.

What if I became a dissident?

What if I didn’t?

To “celebrate” the Brittni’s first day of first grade, (I was trying very hard to put a positive spin on this, and to focus on the success!) I had the bad idea that our family would go out to dinner. What was I thinking? Oh to be able to go back in time and let the older, wiser me make all past decisions. I think this is why I don’t often get nostalgic- In so many instances, I want a redo. This is one of them.

We all piled into the car and drove the fifteen minutes to the restaurant. The next scene involves Brittni hugging a telephone pole outside the car, screaming and crying at the top of her lungs, wanting to go back home.

Why someone did not call the cops at this obvious sign of a kidnapping, I have no idea. But at that point I really thought we could not allow her to dictate the family’s evening plans, and so we waited it out, doing our best to soothe her tantrum, and assure her that dinner really could be pleasant and peaceful.

All of us a little less hungry at this point, but no longer making a scene on Main Street, we got through that meal quietly, deflated.
 And here is what I now know, and what Brittni was able to articulate many years later: School took every single ounce of her energy and then some- to pay attention, to follow the rules, to tune out the noise and focus on the teacher, to be around many people, all day long as an introvert, to squelch the desire for quiet, for art, for more movement- to be a good girl. Then she came home and lost it. And I wondered what had happened to my child. What was school doing to her? And why couldn’t I fix it?


Originally published at highlysensitivematerial.com on August 5, 2017.