Growing up away from my dad’s parents, it was a big deal when we traveled to Texas for the annual reunion. All the cousins would be there to visit too, and immediately upon exiting the vehicles we all would tear off to the backyard.
The yard was probably legendary to us, though such a concept was foreign to me at the time, so I cannot recall if we considered it such. But that yard was one of a kind to us, and it had traditions attached.
Coming from the country, my cousins and I had to develop games to fit the enclosed neighborhood yard. Thank the Lord it was not just a big dirt patch, but was carpeted by a thick layer of meshed grass that allowed for barefoot running. Bushes ten feet high and pourous enough to climb through divided the yard into sections and tunnels, and one entire section was hidden by tall, climbable trees with smooth bark meant for gripping. The sunny section of the yard played host to a great wooden jungle gym that was like a monstrous castle to eight, nine, and ten-year-olds. There was also one especially huge three growing beside the gym, with thick limbs for sitting, one of which leaned over the gym’s slide so that we would run down the hot tin and take a flying leap onto the limb. That place was great. And it had rules.
One such set of rules applied to the Witch Game. At nighttime, particularly when the moon was out, we would all dash outside after dinner and “vanish” into the dark. The point of the game was to hide from the witch who lived in the moon, usually played out by a certain girl cousin because she had the shrillest witch laugh – and she was the youngest. It was a game not unlike Hide-&-Goseek, though unlike the normal game, the witch started out the game in hiding. After a given number of seconds the witch’s “victims” would tumble out from the screened-in porch and huddle nervously under the green porch light above the patio. We wouldn’t see the witch – though we all knew that she could see us – and though we were “safe” on the porch, she could come up to the invisible wall and circle us, a prospect very unnerving to those closest to the porch’s edge. And if anyone stumbled, she would drag them off into dark…so we didn’t stay there long; as soon as the first or second witch laugh was heard we bolted onto the grass and began shrieking and running in circles as the fleet-footed little she-devil materialized from the gloom. In a frenzied chase around the yard we would try to evade her wicked clutches and escape to the jungle gym where we were safe for a while, until it came time to escape again and run back to the porch and repeat the vicious cycle.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
ONSC Deathmarch: Part Two
The day after the packs were stolen, three of our members went home. The girls had simply had enough, but the other guy was distressed over the three hundred dollars worth of ADD medicine that had been in his pack. He said that without the medicine, he would be in a daze, and would be more liability than team player. So he packed off too and, counting the councilors, we were really the Dirty Dozen.
Over the next couple days we realized that food was not an option anymore. Dominic denied that there had been any such conversation regarding beef jerky and reminded us that this was all about eating whatever came to hand, on the fly. He offered us some hard apples, which we downed reluctantly. But we took him at his word and Day Two saw us diving greedily into every berry patch we could find. As the group trekked along, those at the back came upon berry bushes that were stripped completely bare, as though some sort of berry blight had hit the country in front of them.
Camp was reached by noon after mercifully short hike – perhaps only three miles. Dominic had promised us that the campsite was near a massive berry patch and pond full of cattails, from which we could make cattail tea. After we dumped our packs and slumped down beside them, Dominic called for volunteers to go with him to the nearby patch. How far, we ask. About an hour’s walk. We gave up. We had water, we could stay hungry. Several people did volunteer so in a bid to get something out of the eventual meal, those of us that stayed behind helped set up other’s tents, gathered firewood, and generally engaged in organization of the camp. Then we sat until evening, absorbed either in good novels or contemplations of our own stomachs.
When Dominic and his party returned at dusk, they had several plastic sacks completely filled with berries and cattail roots. We set to with what gusto we had left and for being so hungry and tired, we had a good evening. Even when it started raining, we just put on our ponchos – to this day I don’t know why I didn’t just take a free shower – and lined up for cattail tea. It as very good, and warm, and came with a complimentary cattail fry, which actually tasted like French fries. The next day there were still berries left over from breakfast, so Dominic packed those in preparation for another spare day.
That day Dominic decided that we needed some encouragement. We were making poor time already, so he shaved off a number of miles and then led us up a steep wooded hill. At the top we beheld the green glory of the Ozarks, and considering how drained we all felt, it was remarkably good to see. Thereafter we retired to an Indian shelter under some cliffs for the evening.
Over the next couple days we realized that food was not an option anymore. Dominic denied that there had been any such conversation regarding beef jerky and reminded us that this was all about eating whatever came to hand, on the fly. He offered us some hard apples, which we downed reluctantly. But we took him at his word and Day Two saw us diving greedily into every berry patch we could find. As the group trekked along, those at the back came upon berry bushes that were stripped completely bare, as though some sort of berry blight had hit the country in front of them.
Camp was reached by noon after mercifully short hike – perhaps only three miles. Dominic had promised us that the campsite was near a massive berry patch and pond full of cattails, from which we could make cattail tea. After we dumped our packs and slumped down beside them, Dominic called for volunteers to go with him to the nearby patch. How far, we ask. About an hour’s walk. We gave up. We had water, we could stay hungry. Several people did volunteer so in a bid to get something out of the eventual meal, those of us that stayed behind helped set up other’s tents, gathered firewood, and generally engaged in organization of the camp. Then we sat until evening, absorbed either in good novels or contemplations of our own stomachs.
When Dominic and his party returned at dusk, they had several plastic sacks completely filled with berries and cattail roots. We set to with what gusto we had left and for being so hungry and tired, we had a good evening. Even when it started raining, we just put on our ponchos – to this day I don’t know why I didn’t just take a free shower – and lined up for cattail tea. It as very good, and warm, and came with a complimentary cattail fry, which actually tasted like French fries. The next day there were still berries left over from breakfast, so Dominic packed those in preparation for another spare day.
That day Dominic decided that we needed some encouragement. We were making poor time already, so he shaved off a number of miles and then led us up a steep wooded hill. At the top we beheld the green glory of the Ozarks, and considering how drained we all felt, it was remarkably good to see. Thereafter we retired to an Indian shelter under some cliffs for the evening.
ONSC Deathmarch: Part One
It is called the Deathmarch by those that survived the trek. There were no screaming guards, no dehydration, no concentration camp awaiting the weary travelers at road’s end. But there wasn’t any food either. And ironically, we had paid money to do this.
I had been to Ozark Natural Science Center before on two occasions for summer camp. The center was roomy and sophisticated, complete with a full kitchen and dining room, schoolrooms, and nearby campsites. On those pleasant occasions I and the other campers were called upon to join in activities from around nine in the morning until dinner time, activities that usually focused somehow on natural science, art, and writing. We made our own paper, sculpted pottery, and took soil samples from creek beds. So when the center’s team leader, Dominic, offered a wilderness trek the following year, my sister and I were stoked.
The idea was to live off the land. There would be a truck that would bring clean water to given drop zones and according to what I heard second hand from the parents’ meeting there would be a handful of beef jerky somewhere, but by and large we would be fishing and collecting wild berries and cleansing our creek water with iodine tablets. Sounded somewhat fun, so we purchased professional hiking backpacks and paid the three hundred dollars to join Dominic’s group.
We were to be the Dirty Dozen, twelve kids hiking through the Ozarks for five days and washing it all down with a leisurely canoe trip. After a quick briefing, we were stowed away for the night in cabins to await Dominic’s call in the morning.
The problems began right away when one of the three councilors turned up sick. That left Dominic rushing to locate another energetic young councilor type at the last minute. The replacement was named Kyle, and he did not really want to be there.
We awoke at “o’dark-thirty” and stumbled aboard the vehicles that would transport us to the first drop zone. As the sun was just turning the gray morning into a faint blue, we found ourselves looking downhill at the dirt road that stretched off into the distance. Tired, but chittery and excited, we hustled off with pent-up high school energy into the early morn. Things went well at first. We snapped pictures and yelled and generally behaved like city kids doing something that they thought brave and possibly dangerous. Kyle was in reasonable spirits, though early on it was apparent that he did not appreciate the incessant questions regarding the distance traveled and the time of day.
Our path took us through fields and streams and along roads both dirt and paved. Every now and again we would stop for a quick breather and splay out across the road, though whenever a vehicle approached someone would yell, “car!” and we’d scatter to either side and wave them by. We stopped for lunch under a large tree in a field. There was some sort of snacks provided, if I remember rightly, and we were made to understand that this was the last of its kind, there would be nothing else coming unless we picked or caught it. That made us a little nervous, but we took heart and started up again. As I pulled on my pack I asked how far we’d come.
“About five miles.”
We made it seventeen miles that first day. Up hills, down hills, tramping and trudging, stretched out in a line roughly a quarter of a mile long, each person or couple of people keeping mere line of sight with those in front. As the sun set we were exhausted, though still a little exuberant, and happy to know that our campsite was nearing. At last we came to a huge man-made hill around which the road bent. We had two options: walk the road, or climb the hill and cut off about half an hour of walking. Several of us elected to climb, sherpa-like with our heavy packs, by hands and feet up the hill, while the rest trudged along. I and my sister kept our packs on, but a couple girls and two other friends decided to leave their packs on the highway for the water truck to bring along. At the top of the hill, the girls agreed to watch the bags from the high point while we went on to the camp to await the others. It was a little ways into the woods and off the road that had snaked around. It was pleasant and we began putting our tents up when the girls suddenly approached. The bags were gone. Apparently a truck had come, picked them up and driven away and the girls assumed that, despite the fact it was a totally different vehicle and did not have a trailer like the water truck, that it must be the one. When the others arrived with the water truck close behind and demanded to know who had taken the bags, the girls shrugged. It didn’t matter to them anyway, they were ready to go home and absence of packs was a perfect excuse.
More on our own series of unfortunate events next time…
I had been to Ozark Natural Science Center before on two occasions for summer camp. The center was roomy and sophisticated, complete with a full kitchen and dining room, schoolrooms, and nearby campsites. On those pleasant occasions I and the other campers were called upon to join in activities from around nine in the morning until dinner time, activities that usually focused somehow on natural science, art, and writing. We made our own paper, sculpted pottery, and took soil samples from creek beds. So when the center’s team leader, Dominic, offered a wilderness trek the following year, my sister and I were stoked.
The idea was to live off the land. There would be a truck that would bring clean water to given drop zones and according to what I heard second hand from the parents’ meeting there would be a handful of beef jerky somewhere, but by and large we would be fishing and collecting wild berries and cleansing our creek water with iodine tablets. Sounded somewhat fun, so we purchased professional hiking backpacks and paid the three hundred dollars to join Dominic’s group.
We were to be the Dirty Dozen, twelve kids hiking through the Ozarks for five days and washing it all down with a leisurely canoe trip. After a quick briefing, we were stowed away for the night in cabins to await Dominic’s call in the morning.
The problems began right away when one of the three councilors turned up sick. That left Dominic rushing to locate another energetic young councilor type at the last minute. The replacement was named Kyle, and he did not really want to be there.
We awoke at “o’dark-thirty” and stumbled aboard the vehicles that would transport us to the first drop zone. As the sun was just turning the gray morning into a faint blue, we found ourselves looking downhill at the dirt road that stretched off into the distance. Tired, but chittery and excited, we hustled off with pent-up high school energy into the early morn. Things went well at first. We snapped pictures and yelled and generally behaved like city kids doing something that they thought brave and possibly dangerous. Kyle was in reasonable spirits, though early on it was apparent that he did not appreciate the incessant questions regarding the distance traveled and the time of day.
Our path took us through fields and streams and along roads both dirt and paved. Every now and again we would stop for a quick breather and splay out across the road, though whenever a vehicle approached someone would yell, “car!” and we’d scatter to either side and wave them by. We stopped for lunch under a large tree in a field. There was some sort of snacks provided, if I remember rightly, and we were made to understand that this was the last of its kind, there would be nothing else coming unless we picked or caught it. That made us a little nervous, but we took heart and started up again. As I pulled on my pack I asked how far we’d come.
“About five miles.”
We made it seventeen miles that first day. Up hills, down hills, tramping and trudging, stretched out in a line roughly a quarter of a mile long, each person or couple of people keeping mere line of sight with those in front. As the sun set we were exhausted, though still a little exuberant, and happy to know that our campsite was nearing. At last we came to a huge man-made hill around which the road bent. We had two options: walk the road, or climb the hill and cut off about half an hour of walking. Several of us elected to climb, sherpa-like with our heavy packs, by hands and feet up the hill, while the rest trudged along. I and my sister kept our packs on, but a couple girls and two other friends decided to leave their packs on the highway for the water truck to bring along. At the top of the hill, the girls agreed to watch the bags from the high point while we went on to the camp to await the others. It was a little ways into the woods and off the road that had snaked around. It was pleasant and we began putting our tents up when the girls suddenly approached. The bags were gone. Apparently a truck had come, picked them up and driven away and the girls assumed that, despite the fact it was a totally different vehicle and did not have a trailer like the water truck, that it must be the one. When the others arrived with the water truck close behind and demanded to know who had taken the bags, the girls shrugged. It didn’t matter to them anyway, they were ready to go home and absence of packs was a perfect excuse.
More on our own series of unfortunate events next time…
Sunday, November 29, 2009
My Cousin's Appendix
I’ve typically thought of appendixes as scary little beasts. A container for culturing bacteria in the human’s lower gastric system (bio majors out there, feel free to correct me or add enlightenment via the comments), if it gets destabilized it goes into critical mode and erupts inside the abdomen, spewing said bacteria into the vulnerable bodily systems. I guess it is no more volatile that any other body part, but the seemingly fickle attitude that some appendixes have with regard to their vital duty disturbs me.
My opinion was not improved when my cousin had his appendix removed last year. I was in a friend’s dorm room playing Call of Duty when my phone rang. My cousin calls all the time so I was not really concerned. I ducked my British Special Forces troop behind a heavy-looking crate and picked up.
“Yeah, what up?”
“Hey, listen I think I have Appendicitis.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, I’m at the campus clinic and in a lot of pain. You wanna come to the hospital with me?”
I was taken aback and I stammered some kind of rebuttal and wished him luck before handing up and exiting the game before me. Appendicitis, really? Wasn’t that sort of deadly? What was I supposed to do, anyway? Better to stay behind and say a prayer on his behalf rather than get in everybody’s way.
No.
I called him back and asked if anything had changed. No. Where was he? Same place, getting ready to drive to the hospital. Okay, but wait for me, I was on my way.
After donning my street clothes and filling a bag with homework and casual reading, I marched down to the clinic and found my cousin outside, leaning against a pillar in the covered breezeway. We grinned and exchanged nods – none of the usual rough greetings – and he informed me that his wife was on her way. They were planning on going home, packing up, and heading out pronto. She arrived and we bundled into the car to go to their house where my cousin snatched a few papers and kissed his wife goodbye. Now that I was on board, there was a new plan: I would drive to the hospital with cousin riding shotgun and wife would follow with supplies enough to make it through the night if necessary.
I’ve never driven so fast in my life. To date I had driven my Mom’s 1987 Volvo at a top speed of seventy miles-an-hour when I lost track of my speed. With my gut-busting cousin unbuckled and reclined beside me, I topped out somewhere between eighty and ninety, cutting off Mack trucks and taking exits when they were right on my bumper. We whipped into the emergency room drop zone and cousin marched briskly inside while I sought out the parking deck. Well, things must not have been too bad because by the time I made it into the emergency room the nurse was only taking his blood pressure. After a short wait my cousin was stripped and laid on a mobile bed to await surgery.
At that point I learned a little more about appendectomies. Apparently if caught in time, the doctors make no rush out of the procedure. My cousin was left in his place for several hours, visited only by his wife – lugging several duffle bags full of clothes and food – and a nurse who proffered some papers granting the doctors permission to perform surgery. That document was signed at once but no doctor bothered show up for another couple hours. About five hours after admission, roughly six or seven since I received the phone call, my cousin was wheeled away into surgery and I joined his wife in the waiting room.
It was loud and crowded and entirely unpleasant, but in a little while my aunt and uncle arrived with my cousin’s grandmother and we all hugged before moving to another, plushier waiting room where we waited out the surgery. It was done in short order so that about eight or nine hours after the phone call he was coming out of the drug-induced sleep and was allowed a few visitors. I was allowed to leave in his car with a few Burger King coupons in hand, though I struggled for about ten minutes to disable the car alarm, dodging wary cops and rediscovering how to use an automatic.
After the surgery, my cousin was allowed to come home, but was excused from work and school. Fearing lest he injure himself, his wife requested that I stay with him during her work hours that week. I didn’t mind, there was Xbox.
My opinion was not improved when my cousin had his appendix removed last year. I was in a friend’s dorm room playing Call of Duty when my phone rang. My cousin calls all the time so I was not really concerned. I ducked my British Special Forces troop behind a heavy-looking crate and picked up.
“Yeah, what up?”
“Hey, listen I think I have Appendicitis.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, I’m at the campus clinic and in a lot of pain. You wanna come to the hospital with me?”
I was taken aback and I stammered some kind of rebuttal and wished him luck before handing up and exiting the game before me. Appendicitis, really? Wasn’t that sort of deadly? What was I supposed to do, anyway? Better to stay behind and say a prayer on his behalf rather than get in everybody’s way.
No.
I called him back and asked if anything had changed. No. Where was he? Same place, getting ready to drive to the hospital. Okay, but wait for me, I was on my way.
After donning my street clothes and filling a bag with homework and casual reading, I marched down to the clinic and found my cousin outside, leaning against a pillar in the covered breezeway. We grinned and exchanged nods – none of the usual rough greetings – and he informed me that his wife was on her way. They were planning on going home, packing up, and heading out pronto. She arrived and we bundled into the car to go to their house where my cousin snatched a few papers and kissed his wife goodbye. Now that I was on board, there was a new plan: I would drive to the hospital with cousin riding shotgun and wife would follow with supplies enough to make it through the night if necessary.
I’ve never driven so fast in my life. To date I had driven my Mom’s 1987 Volvo at a top speed of seventy miles-an-hour when I lost track of my speed. With my gut-busting cousin unbuckled and reclined beside me, I topped out somewhere between eighty and ninety, cutting off Mack trucks and taking exits when they were right on my bumper. We whipped into the emergency room drop zone and cousin marched briskly inside while I sought out the parking deck. Well, things must not have been too bad because by the time I made it into the emergency room the nurse was only taking his blood pressure. After a short wait my cousin was stripped and laid on a mobile bed to await surgery.
At that point I learned a little more about appendectomies. Apparently if caught in time, the doctors make no rush out of the procedure. My cousin was left in his place for several hours, visited only by his wife – lugging several duffle bags full of clothes and food – and a nurse who proffered some papers granting the doctors permission to perform surgery. That document was signed at once but no doctor bothered show up for another couple hours. About five hours after admission, roughly six or seven since I received the phone call, my cousin was wheeled away into surgery and I joined his wife in the waiting room.
It was loud and crowded and entirely unpleasant, but in a little while my aunt and uncle arrived with my cousin’s grandmother and we all hugged before moving to another, plushier waiting room where we waited out the surgery. It was done in short order so that about eight or nine hours after the phone call he was coming out of the drug-induced sleep and was allowed a few visitors. I was allowed to leave in his car with a few Burger King coupons in hand, though I struggled for about ten minutes to disable the car alarm, dodging wary cops and rediscovering how to use an automatic.
After the surgery, my cousin was allowed to come home, but was excused from work and school. Fearing lest he injure himself, his wife requested that I stay with him during her work hours that week. I didn’t mind, there was Xbox.
The Karate Years
Like most little kids, I grew up loving heroes. I watched Star Wars and read the Hobbit and dreamed that one day I could be an almighty conqueror on whom men would look with awe. When I learned about marital arts, I thought that my dream had come true. People learned how to fight? At all ages? Without joining the army first? I begged and begged to learn. At length I suppose that my parents decided that I was in earnest, so they signed me up for Taekwon-do lessons. I would be in martial arts for the next ten years.
My first teacher was a Korean that we called Master Kang. He was a middle-aged Mr. Miyagi type, who spoke with an accent and behaved as though his parents had been samurai. I remember him as a fantastic teacher, and though he was a little rough – he would give us a smart knuckle rap on the forehead for being late, which he called a “peanut” – he was fair – whenever an older/bigger/more advanced student beat up on a junior student, Master Kang would pair them next with someone even bigger. I stayed at Master Kang’s for about six months, where I earned my Yellow Belt and a going away trophy that is still in my room.
After Dad changed jobs and we left Florida, I spent a year or so without any Taekwon-do. But after some searching we discovered a local school run by Mr. Edwards. He was a good teacher and fun to be around, but at his school I learned two important truths about most martial arts instructors: they are always looking for new real estate, and they don’t always stay in business. After several changes of building location, Mr. Edwards turned over the school to a subordinate, who in time turned it over to Mr. West. Mr. West lasted a while, but he too changed locations once or twice and subsequently fell on hard times, so before long his business closed. I moved from there on to Mr. Place. He had been a subordinate under Mr. Edwards and I spent several good years at his new school. But as I grew older and earned more ranks until I was a Black Belt, I grew tired of the competitive atmosphere and decided to give Taekwon-do a break.
A year or so passed before I grew restless and started again. We looked around, but several familiar schools were on hard times and not terribly functional. So I turned to karate. Where Taekwon-do was a kicking-based Korean variant, karate was a fist-based Japanese variant. I wound up at a kenpo karate dojo run by Professor Cale. Unlike my previous instructors, the professor did not have to close down, though he did change locations several times. I consider my time spent at his dojo to be the best period of my martial arts career. Prof Cale was easygoing, but serious and did not push his students beyond what they would not willingly do. However, the style that he taught was much more dire than what I had experienced in Taekwon-do: a certain move as taught by Edwards would disarm an opponent, while the same move as taught by Cale would shatter an elbow.
I enjoyed my time at Professor Cale’s but as college became my new life, the trouble of setting up a contract for only summers – busy, part-time job summers – was too great a headache and I’ve since ceased attending classes. I miss martial arts and have not really found a comparable experience on campus. Maybe once I settle down after college I’ll give the Professor another try.
My first teacher was a Korean that we called Master Kang. He was a middle-aged Mr. Miyagi type, who spoke with an accent and behaved as though his parents had been samurai. I remember him as a fantastic teacher, and though he was a little rough – he would give us a smart knuckle rap on the forehead for being late, which he called a “peanut” – he was fair – whenever an older/bigger/more advanced student beat up on a junior student, Master Kang would pair them next with someone even bigger. I stayed at Master Kang’s for about six months, where I earned my Yellow Belt and a going away trophy that is still in my room.
After Dad changed jobs and we left Florida, I spent a year or so without any Taekwon-do. But after some searching we discovered a local school run by Mr. Edwards. He was a good teacher and fun to be around, but at his school I learned two important truths about most martial arts instructors: they are always looking for new real estate, and they don’t always stay in business. After several changes of building location, Mr. Edwards turned over the school to a subordinate, who in time turned it over to Mr. West. Mr. West lasted a while, but he too changed locations once or twice and subsequently fell on hard times, so before long his business closed. I moved from there on to Mr. Place. He had been a subordinate under Mr. Edwards and I spent several good years at his new school. But as I grew older and earned more ranks until I was a Black Belt, I grew tired of the competitive atmosphere and decided to give Taekwon-do a break.
A year or so passed before I grew restless and started again. We looked around, but several familiar schools were on hard times and not terribly functional. So I turned to karate. Where Taekwon-do was a kicking-based Korean variant, karate was a fist-based Japanese variant. I wound up at a kenpo karate dojo run by Professor Cale. Unlike my previous instructors, the professor did not have to close down, though he did change locations several times. I consider my time spent at his dojo to be the best period of my martial arts career. Prof Cale was easygoing, but serious and did not push his students beyond what they would not willingly do. However, the style that he taught was much more dire than what I had experienced in Taekwon-do: a certain move as taught by Edwards would disarm an opponent, while the same move as taught by Cale would shatter an elbow.
I enjoyed my time at Professor Cale’s but as college became my new life, the trouble of setting up a contract for only summers – busy, part-time job summers – was too great a headache and I’ve since ceased attending classes. I miss martial arts and have not really found a comparable experience on campus. Maybe once I settle down after college I’ll give the Professor another try.
Homeschool "Cons"?
So is it true that homeschoolers are socially inept? Or that they have an inferior education? Or that they have been too sheltered to face the “real” world? I honestly do not know, because I have not spoken with every homeschooler in America. But to judge from my own experience with those of my homeshcooled friends, I’d say that our time at home was invaluable, not detrimental.
Granted, it is not often that the above-mentioned assumptions come up in conversation. Most people that I talk to regard a home education to be beneficial and out of the several universities that I considered for application, only one even hinted that my education might negatively impact my chances of being accepted.
But from time to time I have encountered a subtle condescension in conversations that suggests that the old biases against the home educated are still lingering in the popular imagination. Whether it be the casual statement made by a guest teacher at summer camp back in 2002, “at least he’ll get to meet other kids his own age,” or the observation by a friend that I might not be comfortable in a classroom setting, the vibe does not suggest that my kind are entirely accepted yet. Which is strange, since – if I remember my American history correctly – public education was not a fact of life until the Twentieth Century.
But facts and figures aside, how does my personal experience disprove the assumptions? For starters, I’d say that I’m socially stable by-and-large. Growing up at home, I got along with my sister just fine, in defiance of the stereotypical sibling-rivalry model. It was based on the assumption that siblings aught to get along, and we got to know one another on very personal terms. Likewise, I was called to interact with a range of age groups within my own extended family, as well as in my homeschool group – which also solved the problem of social interaction.
What about inferior education? I suppose that is subjective, because I do not think that my education was lacking at all. Rather, the liberty that I experienced growing up leads me to suspect that what restraints I might have experienced in a public environment were simply non-existent at home. History was read out of real books of our own choosing, not textbooks. When given the opportunity, I chose ballistics as a science focus and my sister and I jointly took a course in forensics. We also had liberty to choose our foreign language, so we took Japanese because we were simply interested. And Mom could tailor the curriculum whenever there appeared to be trouble – such as the hateful Hooked On Phonics and our different mathematics programs. Too, if ever there was a subject that Mom could not teach, but required more than a few books – like Japanese or high school chemistry – we could always turn to tutors or other moms in the homeschool group.
But what about my worldview, my opinions? Was I not simply indoctrinated by my parents from day one? Again, that is a subjective argument, because one must first argue that any education will not have a bias. Of course my parents were biased, but so are all my instructors at university. But what my instructors at university largely fail to do is teach how to think. At home, my parents and family and friends taught us how to think rationally, and we even took worldview classes at the homeschool group, where we read books by authors with radically different assumptions about life and compared them. Those were some of my best memories. As a consequence, now that I’ve been to university and experienced the different worldview available to me, I’ve not only kept the faith of my childhood, I’ve come to appreciate it more.
So are there any cons to being educated at home? I’m sure there are plenty, but I can’t think of any.
Granted, it is not often that the above-mentioned assumptions come up in conversation. Most people that I talk to regard a home education to be beneficial and out of the several universities that I considered for application, only one even hinted that my education might negatively impact my chances of being accepted.
But from time to time I have encountered a subtle condescension in conversations that suggests that the old biases against the home educated are still lingering in the popular imagination. Whether it be the casual statement made by a guest teacher at summer camp back in 2002, “at least he’ll get to meet other kids his own age,” or the observation by a friend that I might not be comfortable in a classroom setting, the vibe does not suggest that my kind are entirely accepted yet. Which is strange, since – if I remember my American history correctly – public education was not a fact of life until the Twentieth Century.
But facts and figures aside, how does my personal experience disprove the assumptions? For starters, I’d say that I’m socially stable by-and-large. Growing up at home, I got along with my sister just fine, in defiance of the stereotypical sibling-rivalry model. It was based on the assumption that siblings aught to get along, and we got to know one another on very personal terms. Likewise, I was called to interact with a range of age groups within my own extended family, as well as in my homeschool group – which also solved the problem of social interaction.
What about inferior education? I suppose that is subjective, because I do not think that my education was lacking at all. Rather, the liberty that I experienced growing up leads me to suspect that what restraints I might have experienced in a public environment were simply non-existent at home. History was read out of real books of our own choosing, not textbooks. When given the opportunity, I chose ballistics as a science focus and my sister and I jointly took a course in forensics. We also had liberty to choose our foreign language, so we took Japanese because we were simply interested. And Mom could tailor the curriculum whenever there appeared to be trouble – such as the hateful Hooked On Phonics and our different mathematics programs. Too, if ever there was a subject that Mom could not teach, but required more than a few books – like Japanese or high school chemistry – we could always turn to tutors or other moms in the homeschool group.
But what about my worldview, my opinions? Was I not simply indoctrinated by my parents from day one? Again, that is a subjective argument, because one must first argue that any education will not have a bias. Of course my parents were biased, but so are all my instructors at university. But what my instructors at university largely fail to do is teach how to think. At home, my parents and family and friends taught us how to think rationally, and we even took worldview classes at the homeschool group, where we read books by authors with radically different assumptions about life and compared them. Those were some of my best memories. As a consequence, now that I’ve been to university and experienced the different worldview available to me, I’ve not only kept the faith of my childhood, I’ve come to appreciate it more.
So are there any cons to being educated at home? I’m sure there are plenty, but I can’t think of any.
Homeschooled
Before going to college I had never set foot in a public school. Ever. Except if one counts 4-H and the Sundays when our then-nomadic church was held in a high school cafeteria. I was homeschooled, and I regret nothing.
I am not sure when my mom started making plans to educate my sister and I by herself. I don’t think she even knows when the decision was made. More accurately, I cannot even say that the decision was made at all, like just sort of happened.
The initial purpose was to let us “play one more year.” Mom did not see any point in making us perform elementary math equations or regurgitate grammatical principles. She read to us herself and math was not terribly important to five and six-year-olds. But the law is the law, so at age seven I was suddenly called inside and commanded to count M&Ms before eating them. It was great fun, and the math problems were interactive pictures, not unlike my coloring books. So school began.
Unfortunately, not all school was so enjoyable, nor did those enjoyable subject remain so. Hooked On Phonics was my bane through the early years of grade school and Saxon Math was just as bad. Mom diligently sought out new materials for us to use, and with each passing year she refined her methods and curriculum. Her mission was to make school profitable and fun at the same time, so before long we were enjoying comparably superior course programs. In the tradition of reading as a pastime, Mom made it a policy – to which I am eternally grateful – to use as few textbooks as possible, leaving us with real books for use in most every subject besides math and the occasional science.
Each year Mom made plans to send us to public school, but each year something would come up and she would decide that another year at home wouldn’t hurt. So grade school passed and we were “off” to junior high and high school, so before we knew what had happened, I was a senior and my sister was making plans to spend a semester of her junior year studying overseas in Osaka, Japan. By that point Mom had given up on the idea of ever sending us off to finish up in public schools, so we churned right along until graduation.
It was said the other day by one of my history teachers that it takes a few years for a newly proved fact to become common knowledge. That seems to be the case with the assumption about homeschoolers and functioning in society. Some years ago I heard about a study conducted that found that homeschoolers are just as socialized as “public school kids,” if not more so. And yet, I continue to encounter a subtle assumption that because I was educated at home, I am somehow inferior in my social skills. I can see the logic, and if I was indeed “chained to a table leg,” as goes the joke among my homeschooled friends, then I would certainly consider myself socially juvenile. But as things stand, I can sense no indication that I am lacking at all.
More on homeschooling “cons” next go ‘round.
I am not sure when my mom started making plans to educate my sister and I by herself. I don’t think she even knows when the decision was made. More accurately, I cannot even say that the decision was made at all, like just sort of happened.
The initial purpose was to let us “play one more year.” Mom did not see any point in making us perform elementary math equations or regurgitate grammatical principles. She read to us herself and math was not terribly important to five and six-year-olds. But the law is the law, so at age seven I was suddenly called inside and commanded to count M&Ms before eating them. It was great fun, and the math problems were interactive pictures, not unlike my coloring books. So school began.
Unfortunately, not all school was so enjoyable, nor did those enjoyable subject remain so. Hooked On Phonics was my bane through the early years of grade school and Saxon Math was just as bad. Mom diligently sought out new materials for us to use, and with each passing year she refined her methods and curriculum. Her mission was to make school profitable and fun at the same time, so before long we were enjoying comparably superior course programs. In the tradition of reading as a pastime, Mom made it a policy – to which I am eternally grateful – to use as few textbooks as possible, leaving us with real books for use in most every subject besides math and the occasional science.
Each year Mom made plans to send us to public school, but each year something would come up and she would decide that another year at home wouldn’t hurt. So grade school passed and we were “off” to junior high and high school, so before we knew what had happened, I was a senior and my sister was making plans to spend a semester of her junior year studying overseas in Osaka, Japan. By that point Mom had given up on the idea of ever sending us off to finish up in public schools, so we churned right along until graduation.
It was said the other day by one of my history teachers that it takes a few years for a newly proved fact to become common knowledge. That seems to be the case with the assumption about homeschoolers and functioning in society. Some years ago I heard about a study conducted that found that homeschoolers are just as socialized as “public school kids,” if not more so. And yet, I continue to encounter a subtle assumption that because I was educated at home, I am somehow inferior in my social skills. I can see the logic, and if I was indeed “chained to a table leg,” as goes the joke among my homeschooled friends, then I would certainly consider myself socially juvenile. But as things stand, I can sense no indication that I am lacking at all.
More on homeschooling “cons” next go ‘round.
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