When you move abroad, you find out new things about yourself. Lots of it is good, to do with the way you rose to the challenge, aspects that you enjoyed more than you anticipated, inner strengths you didn’t know you had. Feel good in retrospect stuff. But you also find out things about yourself that aren’t so nice. These are the dirty little secrets that don’t make it onto the expat websites. For example, you may be rather relieved if you’re honest, to find out from other people’s experience that your kids will lose their American accents when you return home, in spite of your assertion that preferring one accent over another is a form of racism. Or how about the fact that you never thought of yourself as materialistic, but it’s pretty nice, when it comes down to it, to live in a house double the size of the one you left in Britain.
Here is another one. I am not as green as I’d like to think I am. In Britain, I recycled carefully, I didn’t waste things, especially food, we used buses, only owned one car, a diesel, I minded about the future of the planet. Or so I thought. Here, we have two cars (which in our defence, is a necessity, given the almost non-existent bus service). I can salve my conscience by looking at the guzzling SUVs, and think “well, at least my minivan does around 20 to the gallon to your 15”. I try not to waste things, but it is harder, and I do less well. I do recycle, but it took us a while to get round to it, and I’m more lax about it. I have genuine questions as to the value of recycling – in a country where space is so vast, I do wonder if landfill is not a bad option, set against the energy required to recycle (and the comments on my previous post have done nothing to reassure me). It’s not these questions that make me lax though. It’s the conscience-salving that says I might not be doing it perfectly, but at least I’m doing it more than most people.
I can make all kinds of excuses, and have all kinds of logical reservations, but at the bottom level I know this to be true: I cared more for the environment when I loved it more. I know we’re talking global warming and consequences that will affect us all, worldwide. I know that being green is about safeguarding the planet and not about pretty green English lanes and how early in the year daffodils flower these days, and what is causing the decline in the number of sparrows, but there we are, I’m just airing my dirty washing in public and being honest. I may be a citizen of the world, but I am hugely influenced by my local situation.
There’s another element, of course. It’s not all to do with the English countryside. I tried to be green in the UK because everyone else is trying to be green. Sometimes it’s by reason of moral choice and sometimes it’s with financial or other incentive, but it is fairly unavoidable. Being a good citizen is increasingly bound up with being a green citizen.
I don’t share Margaret Thatcher’s view that there’s no such thing as society. There clearly is. We are hugely influenced by those among whom we live. This can be for evil – history shows that the majority of us can turn into the people who spy on our neighbors and colleagues, report them to authorities, turn on them, or turn a blind eye. I think it is often ignored, though, that society is a force for good too. We are all better people for rubbing along beside others who, in all kinds of ways, bring out the best in us. It is easier to behave well if the prevailing wind is carrying you along.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Recycling
Pig in the Kitchen has burst my baggie bubble, by asking if I feel guilty about where these little plastic darlings end up, in all their non-biodegradability shame. She has a point. I have been meaning to write about recycling for ages, so I thought this would be a good moment.
When we first moved here, I was rather horrified at the lack of environmental concern. It has become such a way of life in Britain. Here, recycling is a minority interest. If pressed, most people would agree that it is a Good Thing (difficult to argue the opposite), but few people actually do anything about it. It’s not that easy to do anything about it. You would have to look very hard to find a recycling bin in a car park; in fact, I’m not sure I can think of any at all. At first we paid a supplement to our trash collection service, and once a fortnight they would collect our recycling. We gave that up for three reasons. First, I don’t like paying for recycling if I don’t have to. Second, we had to put it out sorted into four supermarket carrier bags (newspapers, glossy magazines, cans, glass) in an open box, and on more than one occasion I found the wind had taken the lightweight plastic box halfway down the street. I imagined the newspapers and magazines had gone the same way. It’s very windy round here, and open trash boxes are not the way forward. Third, having witnessed the collection of the sorted items, dumped together into the back of a lorry inside their plastic bags, I did doubt that it ended up anywhere other than a landfill site. Maybe I just saw them on a bad day, but I didn’t feel I wanted to continue paying for the service.
We now collect all our recycling in our garage, and once every now and again, load it into the minivan and take it to a recycling center. It’s an intriguing experience. The place is staffed by volunteers, whose average age must be in the 70s. How shaming that the lead is being taken by the older generation who have little personal stake in all this. One old lady sorts and assists, going from bin to bin slowly and painfully with her zimmer frame. You have to dump your recycling items into the appropriate bin, so it is quite a task, sorting out the different plastics and papers. They recycle everything in great detail – even the lids of milk containers. There is often a line of cars if you go on a Saturday, so a round trip can easily take an hour. Our kids quite enjoy sorting and dumping, so we sell it to them as a fun trip, but I suppose you have to be fairly committed to recycling to be bothered.
On the depressing side, this recycling center, though very admirable, is small. There is space for no more than a dozen cars to park and unload at one time. The bins are not much larger than the kind of bin you see in every supermarket car park in the UK. It serves a city of over 300,000. Does that tell you how much recycling activity there is here? On the optimistic side, I do believe that there is more awareness and activity now than when we arrived, less than 2 years ago. The school has set up a working group, the preschool collects plastic bags to recycle, Dillons has a bin at the entrance for Dillons bags. It’s not high on most people’s agenda, but the beginnings are there.
So Pig, to answer your question. No, I didn’t feel guilty about baggies, but I do (a bit) now. In my defence, I don’t use THAT many (how much Playmobil do you think I have?), and in the kitchen, is it any better to use cling film? You have made me stop and think, though, you and the commenters who wash and reuse their baggies. I have never been a washer and reuser of baggies, but henceforth I undertake to be so. There you are, lovely Bloggy Friends. You are slowly changing the world through your blogging. As for you, Pig, don’t tell me you weren’t very grateful for plastic bags on this occasion (make sure you read the 'Addendum'). And none of us would blame you at all for not recycling those ones...
.
When we first moved here, I was rather horrified at the lack of environmental concern. It has become such a way of life in Britain. Here, recycling is a minority interest. If pressed, most people would agree that it is a Good Thing (difficult to argue the opposite), but few people actually do anything about it. It’s not that easy to do anything about it. You would have to look very hard to find a recycling bin in a car park; in fact, I’m not sure I can think of any at all. At first we paid a supplement to our trash collection service, and once a fortnight they would collect our recycling. We gave that up for three reasons. First, I don’t like paying for recycling if I don’t have to. Second, we had to put it out sorted into four supermarket carrier bags (newspapers, glossy magazines, cans, glass) in an open box, and on more than one occasion I found the wind had taken the lightweight plastic box halfway down the street. I imagined the newspapers and magazines had gone the same way. It’s very windy round here, and open trash boxes are not the way forward. Third, having witnessed the collection of the sorted items, dumped together into the back of a lorry inside their plastic bags, I did doubt that it ended up anywhere other than a landfill site. Maybe I just saw them on a bad day, but I didn’t feel I wanted to continue paying for the service.
We now collect all our recycling in our garage, and once every now and again, load it into the minivan and take it to a recycling center. It’s an intriguing experience. The place is staffed by volunteers, whose average age must be in the 70s. How shaming that the lead is being taken by the older generation who have little personal stake in all this. One old lady sorts and assists, going from bin to bin slowly and painfully with her zimmer frame. You have to dump your recycling items into the appropriate bin, so it is quite a task, sorting out the different plastics and papers. They recycle everything in great detail – even the lids of milk containers. There is often a line of cars if you go on a Saturday, so a round trip can easily take an hour. Our kids quite enjoy sorting and dumping, so we sell it to them as a fun trip, but I suppose you have to be fairly committed to recycling to be bothered.
On the depressing side, this recycling center, though very admirable, is small. There is space for no more than a dozen cars to park and unload at one time. The bins are not much larger than the kind of bin you see in every supermarket car park in the UK. It serves a city of over 300,000. Does that tell you how much recycling activity there is here? On the optimistic side, I do believe that there is more awareness and activity now than when we arrived, less than 2 years ago. The school has set up a working group, the preschool collects plastic bags to recycle, Dillons has a bin at the entrance for Dillons bags. It’s not high on most people’s agenda, but the beginnings are there.
So Pig, to answer your question. No, I didn’t feel guilty about baggies, but I do (a bit) now. In my defence, I don’t use THAT many (how much Playmobil do you think I have?), and in the kitchen, is it any better to use cling film? You have made me stop and think, though, you and the commenters who wash and reuse their baggies. I have never been a washer and reuser of baggies, but henceforth I undertake to be so. There you are, lovely Bloggy Friends. You are slowly changing the world through your blogging. As for you, Pig, don’t tell me you weren’t very grateful for plastic bags on this occasion (make sure you read the 'Addendum'). And none of us would blame you at all for not recycling those ones...
.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Bags
Bags. Seems an obvious one to follow ‘Tea’. But here I’m talking about Ziploc bags. One of the three defining features of American domestic life: motherhood, apple pie and Ziploc bags.
When we lived in Scotland, I had been intrigued by the frequency with which Ziploc bags came into play when in the company of the American women I knew. I suppose, looking back, it was because when I saw them, it was often at group social gatherings which involved food. And where there is food, there must be Ziploc bags.
If you have them on your shopping list, you must add a good few minutes to your anticipated shopping time. The choice is bewildering. There is the basic kind, with the strip at the top that you pinch closed. Then there is the advanced kind, with a slider that you whizz across. If you want to go really up-market, you can get ones with a double strip, ones that are super-thick, ones that have a white space on them to write on, ones that are specially designed for the freezer, ones that do your ironing and read your children stories. Each type comes in a range of sizes (would you have a clue how big a bag holds a gallon? or a quart? I didn’t), and then each type and size comes in a choice of brands: Ziploc, Glad and the supermarket own brand. I like the idea of buying Glad bags. I could put my glad rags in my Glad bags. So what with choice of type, choice of size and choice of brand, I’m just grateful I learned how to do Venn diagrams at school, otherwise I wouldn’t have any chance of making a decision.
The other thing I’ve learned about Ziploc bags is that they are invaluable for things way beyond the realm of food. Playmobil bits (aaargh!), Barbie’s endless little plastic accessories and the minute scraps of material that she calls fashion-wear, half-used wax crayons that have lost their box, small pieces of games where the manufacturer didn't bother to think about how you would keep the darn thing together once you'd taken off the shrink-wrap (I offer you the monkeys in Monkey Business, or the balls in Hungry Hippos as examples), a pine cone collection, a special stones collection, 5 toothbrushes on an aeroplane, foreign coins, glow-in-the-dark stars that don't stick well on the wall but can't possibly be thrown away, errant playdough… what did I used to do with these things?
I was standing in a friend’s kitchen in England over the summer, and as she got out the cling film, I started talking to her about my conversion to Ziploc bags and how I now use them for everything. “Well,” she said, “I’m pleased to hear about it. It would be a shame if you invested years of your life settling in a foreign country, and found there was no cultural interchange at all.” Ah, those widened horizons.
Oh, and they call them ‘baggies’. I love that.
.
When we lived in Scotland, I had been intrigued by the frequency with which Ziploc bags came into play when in the company of the American women I knew. I suppose, looking back, it was because when I saw them, it was often at group social gatherings which involved food. And where there is food, there must be Ziploc bags.
If you have them on your shopping list, you must add a good few minutes to your anticipated shopping time. The choice is bewildering. There is the basic kind, with the strip at the top that you pinch closed. Then there is the advanced kind, with a slider that you whizz across. If you want to go really up-market, you can get ones with a double strip, ones that are super-thick, ones that have a white space on them to write on, ones that are specially designed for the freezer, ones that do your ironing and read your children stories. Each type comes in a range of sizes (would you have a clue how big a bag holds a gallon? or a quart? I didn’t), and then each type and size comes in a choice of brands: Ziploc, Glad and the supermarket own brand. I like the idea of buying Glad bags. I could put my glad rags in my Glad bags. So what with choice of type, choice of size and choice of brand, I’m just grateful I learned how to do Venn diagrams at school, otherwise I wouldn’t have any chance of making a decision.
The other thing I’ve learned about Ziploc bags is that they are invaluable for things way beyond the realm of food. Playmobil bits (aaargh!), Barbie’s endless little plastic accessories and the minute scraps of material that she calls fashion-wear, half-used wax crayons that have lost their box, small pieces of games where the manufacturer didn't bother to think about how you would keep the darn thing together once you'd taken off the shrink-wrap (I offer you the monkeys in Monkey Business, or the balls in Hungry Hippos as examples), a pine cone collection, a special stones collection, 5 toothbrushes on an aeroplane, foreign coins, glow-in-the-dark stars that don't stick well on the wall but can't possibly be thrown away, errant playdough… what did I used to do with these things?
I was standing in a friend’s kitchen in England over the summer, and as she got out the cling film, I started talking to her about my conversion to Ziploc bags and how I now use them for everything. “Well,” she said, “I’m pleased to hear about it. It would be a shame if you invested years of your life settling in a foreign country, and found there was no cultural interchange at all.” Ah, those widened horizons.
Oh, and they call them ‘baggies’. I love that.
.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Tea
Good news, People!
Wal-Mart sells PG tips. Not cheap, I grant you: $6.77 for 80, but a significant step in the progress of the teaification of the area.
When we first came here, you could get PG tips and other brands of tea at a marvellous store called World Market, but I never saw them anywhere else. Then, our local Dillons created a small section of foods from overseas countries, and the British aisle contains PG tips, Tetleys, and a choice of ordinary or decaf. (There are probably people here who assume I'm talking about Dillons when I talk about the British Aisles. They should know better, though. There's only one aisle, and I would never wantonly misuse a plural like that.) And now Wal-Mart has PG Tips in the regular, everyday, common or garden tea and coffee section. They'll be delivering them with the mail next.
I wonder if I could plot a map, something like those moving radar maps they have on the weather forecast. We would probably still be in an area of light brown low density tea availability, but the dark brown area of high tea availability could be shown moving slowly in from the east. I could explain that this followed the high pressure consumer interest which has been mounting slowly. I would put symbols on the map to clarify: little cups on saucers, with drips falling into them - a bit like inverted clouds.
In this election season, I like to see the teaification of the area as a sign of hope for America.
Wal-Mart sells PG tips. Not cheap, I grant you: $6.77 for 80, but a significant step in the progress of the teaification of the area.
When we first came here, you could get PG tips and other brands of tea at a marvellous store called World Market, but I never saw them anywhere else. Then, our local Dillons created a small section of foods from overseas countries, and the British aisle contains PG tips, Tetleys, and a choice of ordinary or decaf. (There are probably people here who assume I'm talking about Dillons when I talk about the British Aisles. They should know better, though. There's only one aisle, and I would never wantonly misuse a plural like that.) And now Wal-Mart has PG Tips in the regular, everyday, common or garden tea and coffee section. They'll be delivering them with the mail next.
I wonder if I could plot a map, something like those moving radar maps they have on the weather forecast. We would probably still be in an area of light brown low density tea availability, but the dark brown area of high tea availability could be shown moving slowly in from the east. I could explain that this followed the high pressure consumer interest which has been mounting slowly. I would put symbols on the map to clarify: little cups on saucers, with drips falling into them - a bit like inverted clouds.
In this election season, I like to see the teaification of the area as a sign of hope for America.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
What to Say, What Not to Say
People often say to me “Iota, you know a thing or two about moving abroad. I have a question you might be able to help me with.” Actually they don’t. No-one has ever said that to me. Ever. I wish they would. It would add some kind of meaning and value to the experience, and make me feel affirmed and reconstructed. What they do say is “I love your accent”. That doesn’t add meaning and make me feel reconstructed. It makes me feel like I’ve got an English accent.
Let me start again. I wish people would say to me “Iota, you know a thing or two about moving abroad. A friend of mine tells me her husband has just got a job in some far-flung place in America which no-one has ever heard of, and they’re leaving in a few months time. What should I say to her?” I would reply “I’m glad you asked me that. Yes, you’re right. I do indeed know a thing or two about what someone in that situation would like to hear. In fact, right here I have a copy of a list I prepared on just this very topic, since people are always asking me this type of question.” I would click my fingers, and my assistant would bring it through from the outer office. Either that, or I’d fidget about on my computer, puzzle over why the darn thing wasn’t working, remember to turn the printer on, sweep aside the Barbie colouring pictures that I’d printed out earlier that morning from the internet, and print it out myself, since actually I was lying about the assistant and the outer office.
Things Not to Say
• Don’t immediately say “how long are you going for?” If you want to know, slip that one in further along in the conversation. Just don’t make it your first question. Doesn’t focus on the positives enough.
• Don’t sing. If she’s going to Oklahoma, don’t burst into song about the wind coming sweepin’ down the plain. If she’s going to Texas, don’t start up about the way to Amarillo. If she’s going to San Francisco, don’t warble about flowers in her hair. You will not be the first. I guarantee you will not be the first. She will not find it funny (though may be polite enough to smile instead of decking you).
• Don’t express an opinion about the children’s education. In particular, don’t help her to calculate how many years it is before she needs to be back for the start of GCSE curricula. She will already have done this. She does not need your help. Don’t ask “what are the schools like?”. America is a big place. She will be hoping there might be one or two good schools out there.
• Don’t talk about the children’s accents. Not unless you want to damn yourself as unoriginal in the extreme.
• Don’t use the words ‘cope’ and ‘children’ in the same sentence. Team up the word ‘children’ with words such as ‘flourish’, ‘enrich’ and ‘widen horizons’.
• Don’t point out she’ll be Mom instead of Mum. It’s a conversation stopper.
• Don’t ask about hurricanes, tornadoes or other natural disasters. Best not.
Things to Say
• Wow, that’s exciting. What an opportunity!
• Good for you. Is there anything I can do to help?
• You probably won’t ever want to come back (and try not to look as if you both know this is a fib - it’s a useful one at this point in the proceedings).
• Americans are very friendly and welcoming.
• They’ll love you over there. They love the English. (If you really really have to talk about accents, you can do it at this point.)
• I’ve noticed, when you read the little biographical notes in book jackets about people who have had really interesting lives and done really interesting things, it often says that they grew up in more than one place. I’ve noticed that loads of times. It must add something to a childhood.
I was lying about the assistant and the outer office, but believe me when I tell you this last one is worth tucking into your memory for future use. I think it is the best thing that anyone said to me about our move. You’ll have to remember it, though, because I won’t necessarily be around when you want to ask me. Even if I am, you’ll have to get past the assistant, and she’ll just tell you to join the end of the long line snaking its way out of the outer office and down the corridor.
Let me start again. I wish people would say to me “Iota, you know a thing or two about moving abroad. A friend of mine tells me her husband has just got a job in some far-flung place in America which no-one has ever heard of, and they’re leaving in a few months time. What should I say to her?” I would reply “I’m glad you asked me that. Yes, you’re right. I do indeed know a thing or two about what someone in that situation would like to hear. In fact, right here I have a copy of a list I prepared on just this very topic, since people are always asking me this type of question.” I would click my fingers, and my assistant would bring it through from the outer office. Either that, or I’d fidget about on my computer, puzzle over why the darn thing wasn’t working, remember to turn the printer on, sweep aside the Barbie colouring pictures that I’d printed out earlier that morning from the internet, and print it out myself, since actually I was lying about the assistant and the outer office.
Things Not to Say
• Don’t immediately say “how long are you going for?” If you want to know, slip that one in further along in the conversation. Just don’t make it your first question. Doesn’t focus on the positives enough.
• Don’t sing. If she’s going to Oklahoma, don’t burst into song about the wind coming sweepin’ down the plain. If she’s going to Texas, don’t start up about the way to Amarillo. If she’s going to San Francisco, don’t warble about flowers in her hair. You will not be the first. I guarantee you will not be the first. She will not find it funny (though may be polite enough to smile instead of decking you).
• Don’t express an opinion about the children’s education. In particular, don’t help her to calculate how many years it is before she needs to be back for the start of GCSE curricula. She will already have done this. She does not need your help. Don’t ask “what are the schools like?”. America is a big place. She will be hoping there might be one or two good schools out there.
• Don’t talk about the children’s accents. Not unless you want to damn yourself as unoriginal in the extreme.
• Don’t use the words ‘cope’ and ‘children’ in the same sentence. Team up the word ‘children’ with words such as ‘flourish’, ‘enrich’ and ‘widen horizons’.
• Don’t point out she’ll be Mom instead of Mum. It’s a conversation stopper.
• Don’t ask about hurricanes, tornadoes or other natural disasters. Best not.
Things to Say
• Wow, that’s exciting. What an opportunity!
• Good for you. Is there anything I can do to help?
• You probably won’t ever want to come back (and try not to look as if you both know this is a fib - it’s a useful one at this point in the proceedings).
• Americans are very friendly and welcoming.
• They’ll love you over there. They love the English. (If you really really have to talk about accents, you can do it at this point.)
• I’ve noticed, when you read the little biographical notes in book jackets about people who have had really interesting lives and done really interesting things, it often says that they grew up in more than one place. I’ve noticed that loads of times. It must add something to a childhood.
I was lying about the assistant and the outer office, but believe me when I tell you this last one is worth tucking into your memory for future use. I think it is the best thing that anyone said to me about our move. You’ll have to remember it, though, because I won’t necessarily be around when you want to ask me. Even if I am, you’ll have to get past the assistant, and she’ll just tell you to join the end of the long line snaking its way out of the outer office and down the corridor.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Sidewalk chalks
Sidewahk chahks. One of the staples of American childhood, and I don’t think we have them at all in Britain. Perhaps we do, and I just never came across them. I wish I had done – they’re a very useful arrow in the mother’s quiver of outdoor toys for small children. Happy hours are spent doodling on the steps, the path or the patio, and then when the rain comes, it’s all washed clean and you can start all over again.
If you have a front drive, or a front porch, a front path, or even just a front doorstep, you can display your work for passers-by. Most will miss it, of course, cocooned in their cars from such neighbourhood detail, but the occasional walker, in trainers, sports gear and headphones, will glance over, and I like to think we make the mailman’s job more interesting.
Earlier in the year, 7-yo wrote a lovely message of welcome for visitors. “The Manhattans live here - this is our house - hello” it read, in a spidering melee of capitals and lower case, some letters twice the size of others, and no one the same colour as its neighbour. If you’d passed by that day, before the rain came, I’m sure you’d have enjoyed the message, and perhaps you would have wondered about the blur of colour underneath. That was where the open-hearted child had written “Our garage code is ####”, to be extra welcoming, and the more security-conscious mother had scuffed it out, sad to have to explain a little more of the world to him as she did so.
Three weeks ago, on the day of our return from Britain, some friends came by and covered our drive and porch in “Welcome Home” messages: a huge red heart and big flowers, and personalized exclamations. “Hi, 11-yo, can’t wait to see you!” “We missed you, 7-yo!” It was wonderful, and made me promise myself that I would do the same for others in the future. Perhaps I could bring the custom back to repressed Britain, where such a gesture would be embarrassing. Heavens, other people would see it! And children’s names, their own NAMES, outside for all to read! Embarrassing, but enjoyed too, I think. I will take the risk one day (but maybe not use the children’s names).
Now, if you walk by our house, you will see a four-letter word carefully inscribed three times in different colours. Hurry though, before the rain comes. “OLAY OLAY OLAY”. Intrigued, I asked 4-yo why she had fetched the bottle of body moisturiser from the bathroom, and taken it outside to copy. “I wanted everyone to know that I can do that letter now”, she replied, pointing to the Y, somewhat larger than the other letters and a little more wobbly, but absolutely recognisable. She learns so fast these days, in that engaging 4 year old way, and often teaching herself. I wouldn’t even have known that she can do all the other three letters. I wonder why she picked the letter Y as the next one to master. I wonder why that word on that bottle caught her interest. I wonder if she feels, as I do still, that letters have their own personalities. I wonder which ones she will like best. I have always liked Y.
Anyway, I felt her achievement and her desire for recognition deserved a wider audience than our - no doubt rather puzzled - mailman.
If you have a front drive, or a front porch, a front path, or even just a front doorstep, you can display your work for passers-by. Most will miss it, of course, cocooned in their cars from such neighbourhood detail, but the occasional walker, in trainers, sports gear and headphones, will glance over, and I like to think we make the mailman’s job more interesting.
Earlier in the year, 7-yo wrote a lovely message of welcome for visitors. “The Manhattans live here - this is our house - hello” it read, in a spidering melee of capitals and lower case, some letters twice the size of others, and no one the same colour as its neighbour. If you’d passed by that day, before the rain came, I’m sure you’d have enjoyed the message, and perhaps you would have wondered about the blur of colour underneath. That was where the open-hearted child had written “Our garage code is ####”, to be extra welcoming, and the more security-conscious mother had scuffed it out, sad to have to explain a little more of the world to him as she did so.
Three weeks ago, on the day of our return from Britain, some friends came by and covered our drive and porch in “Welcome Home” messages: a huge red heart and big flowers, and personalized exclamations. “Hi, 11-yo, can’t wait to see you!” “We missed you, 7-yo!” It was wonderful, and made me promise myself that I would do the same for others in the future. Perhaps I could bring the custom back to repressed Britain, where such a gesture would be embarrassing. Heavens, other people would see it! And children’s names, their own NAMES, outside for all to read! Embarrassing, but enjoyed too, I think. I will take the risk one day (but maybe not use the children’s names).
Now, if you walk by our house, you will see a four-letter word carefully inscribed three times in different colours. Hurry though, before the rain comes. “OLAY OLAY OLAY”. Intrigued, I asked 4-yo why she had fetched the bottle of body moisturiser from the bathroom, and taken it outside to copy. “I wanted everyone to know that I can do that letter now”, she replied, pointing to the Y, somewhat larger than the other letters and a little more wobbly, but absolutely recognisable. She learns so fast these days, in that engaging 4 year old way, and often teaching herself. I wouldn’t even have known that she can do all the other three letters. I wonder why she picked the letter Y as the next one to master. I wonder why that word on that bottle caught her interest. I wonder if she feels, as I do still, that letters have their own personalities. I wonder which ones she will like best. I have always liked Y.
Anyway, I felt her achievement and her desire for recognition deserved a wider audience than our - no doubt rather puzzled - mailman.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Making the grade
Back to school again. All well in general. We now have a preschooler, an elementary schooler and a middle schooler. Middle school is a bit of a step up: classes in different rooms with different teachers, changing for PE, having a locker, and no recess. 11-yo is horrified by the thought of having no time off during the day, and only half an hour for lunch, and I have to say, I do rather agree with him. How can you expect kids to function well from 8.00am to 3.00pm with only half an hour off? They do have PE, and “electives” which are less academic and more fun (though not the ping-pong that I’d been told would be on offer, and which I’d held out as a recess-alternative bone to 11-yo all through the summer). Useful training, I suppose, should any of them end up perchance living in a society where a long-hours work culture prevails.
Middle school, we were told, would bring increasing expectation on the kids to take responsibility for themselves and their work. Yesterday, 11-yo came home with his first History homework. “I don’t really know what I’m meant to write,” he said, “but I’ve got to do two sheets. On the first I’ve got to say what grades I expect to get, and how I’m going to behave, and on the second, I’ve got to say what grades you expect me to get, and how you want me to behave.”
On the first sheet, he duly stated that he hoped to get A grades, or at least Bs, that he would turn homework in on time, that he would work hard in class, be respectful and honest, make friends with people who need friends, and a few other undertakings, which had me looking for the “for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health” clauses by the time he’d finished. He discussed with me what he should say on the second sheet, and paraphrased our conversation as follows: “My Mum says she doesn’t mind what grade I get, so long as I do my best.”
Fffffff, sharp intake of breath through teeth. What do you mean, you don’t mind what grade your kid gets? Well, I appreciate that we can’t all be good at everything. So, 11-yo might be gifted in History, or he might not. Time will tell. He might get As and Bs, or he might not. If he doesn’t, he might get those As in other subjects, but, well, he might just not be terribly academic, and end up with all Bs and Cs, and excel at being a sportsman, or the piano, or cooking, or nothing at all. He might just be a thoroughly nice rounded individual who is happy in himself and contributes to society, and that’ll be mighty fine. I did say I would encourage him to aim high, be diligent and punctual in doing his homework, attentive and respectful in class, and contribute well to discussion. I thought that was the least I could do.
This grades obsession, though. It’s a bit sad. I know parents who reward their first graders each week-end (with playstation time, I think) according to their weekly grades. I know parents who say “I don’t care what he does at home, how much TV he watches, whatever, so long as his grades don’t suffer”. I know a first grade teacher who has to operate a system of grading in which 5 and 6 year olds are graded for reading ability, so those who can’t yet read have to be routinely given a C, and then she has to deal with the parents freaking out about it.
Anyway, back to 11-yo. He then asked his father to contribute, and added “My Dad says that he isn’t worried about my grades, but wants me to develop a life-long love of learning”. Fffffff, again. So you differentiate between a good education and good grades? That’s definitely pretty crunchy (have I used that word right?). Probably got 11-yo put on a list of children at risk.
We may have got good at understanding the school supplies list, we may even be able to operate the complex drop-off and pick-up procedures, but I’m afraid our performance at this first middle school hurdle will have ruined our chances of being straight A parents.
Middle school, we were told, would bring increasing expectation on the kids to take responsibility for themselves and their work. Yesterday, 11-yo came home with his first History homework. “I don’t really know what I’m meant to write,” he said, “but I’ve got to do two sheets. On the first I’ve got to say what grades I expect to get, and how I’m going to behave, and on the second, I’ve got to say what grades you expect me to get, and how you want me to behave.”
On the first sheet, he duly stated that he hoped to get A grades, or at least Bs, that he would turn homework in on time, that he would work hard in class, be respectful and honest, make friends with people who need friends, and a few other undertakings, which had me looking for the “for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health” clauses by the time he’d finished. He discussed with me what he should say on the second sheet, and paraphrased our conversation as follows: “My Mum says she doesn’t mind what grade I get, so long as I do my best.”
Fffffff, sharp intake of breath through teeth. What do you mean, you don’t mind what grade your kid gets? Well, I appreciate that we can’t all be good at everything. So, 11-yo might be gifted in History, or he might not. Time will tell. He might get As and Bs, or he might not. If he doesn’t, he might get those As in other subjects, but, well, he might just not be terribly academic, and end up with all Bs and Cs, and excel at being a sportsman, or the piano, or cooking, or nothing at all. He might just be a thoroughly nice rounded individual who is happy in himself and contributes to society, and that’ll be mighty fine. I did say I would encourage him to aim high, be diligent and punctual in doing his homework, attentive and respectful in class, and contribute well to discussion. I thought that was the least I could do.
This grades obsession, though. It’s a bit sad. I know parents who reward their first graders each week-end (with playstation time, I think) according to their weekly grades. I know parents who say “I don’t care what he does at home, how much TV he watches, whatever, so long as his grades don’t suffer”. I know a first grade teacher who has to operate a system of grading in which 5 and 6 year olds are graded for reading ability, so those who can’t yet read have to be routinely given a C, and then she has to deal with the parents freaking out about it.
Anyway, back to 11-yo. He then asked his father to contribute, and added “My Dad says that he isn’t worried about my grades, but wants me to develop a life-long love of learning”. Fffffff, again. So you differentiate between a good education and good grades? That’s definitely pretty crunchy (have I used that word right?). Probably got 11-yo put on a list of children at risk.
We may have got good at understanding the school supplies list, we may even be able to operate the complex drop-off and pick-up procedures, but I’m afraid our performance at this first middle school hurdle will have ruined our chances of being straight A parents.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)