Parent Teacher Conference

November 20, 2014 at 11:16 pm Leave a comment

So I found the below essay a million years ago and I look at it before conferences, My goals are different for my kids I think than most. My goal isn’t so much for my kids to be academic geniuses, or top of the class, popular, or even an athletic superstar. My goal is for the teacher not to damage my kids by trying to turn them into something or someone they are not. Accept and teach what that teacher has in front of them for 9 months. And every conference no matter if they were good or bad I’d hug each kid and say, “Boy, your teacher thinks you’re pretty special.” Because they are, no matter if the teacher see’s it or not!! Today was the second to last conference ever. I am happy to report it was a good one. Joe had to participate and he was nervous. I’m a part of my kids life, I know his shortcomings…just don’t ever try and take his spirit, love of life, specialness away….and luckily this teacher didn’t have that on his agenda, Hallelujah!!!
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About School
He always wanted to say things. But no one understood. He always wanted to explain things but no one cared. So he drew. Sometimes he would just draw and it wasn’t anything. He wanted to carve it in stone or write it in the sky. He would lie out on the grass and look up in the sky and it would be only him and the sky and the things inside that needed saying. And it was after that that he drew the picture. He kept it under the pillow and would let no one see it. And he would look at it every night and think about it. And when it was dark, and his eyes were closed, he could still see it. And it was all of him and he loved it. When he started school he brought it with him. Not to show anyone, but just to have it with him like a friend. It was funny about school. He sat with three other pupils at a brown desk built for two. It was like all the other brown desks in the room and he thought it should be red. And his room was a square gray room with bare walls. Like the other two rooms in the school. In his room big tall blackboards divided his class from the other two classes. And it was tight and close and noisy. And at first he thought the black board near him would fall and crush him. He hated to hold the pencil and the chalk, with his arm stiff and his feet flat on the floor, with the teacher watching and watching. And then he had to write numbers. And they weren’t anything. They were worse than the letters that could be something if you put them together. And the numbers were tight and square and he hated the whole thing. And teacher kept the strap around her neck. The teacher came and spoke to him. She told him to wear epaulettes like all the other boys. He said he did not like them, and she said it did not matter. After that they drew. And he drew all yellow and it was the way he felt about morning. And it was beautiful. The teacher came and smiled at him “What’s this?” she said. “Why don’t you draw something like Richie’s drawing? Isn’t that beautiful?” It was all questions. After that his mother bought him a pair of epaulettes and he always drew airplanes and trucks like everyone else. And he threw the old picture away. And when he lay out alone looking at the sky, it was big and blue and all of everything but he wasn’t anymore. He was square inside and brown, and his hands were stiff, and he was like anyone else. And the thing inside him that needed saying didn’t need saying anymore. It had stopped pushing. It was crushed. Stiff. Like everything else.

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