A Fun, Fearless Girl
So, Open House was on Tuesday – the same day we held primary elections here, which was a pain in the ass for other voters but worked out pretty well for us since our polling place is the elementary school. I always take the kids with me to vote and the poll workers always cheer me on and give everyone an “I Voted” sticker for participating in our democracy (we all push the “Cast Ballot” button together).
Open House is a great opportunity to see what the kids have been doing and learning in context – which is very different from the disembodied assignments that come home. (Pro-tip to teachers, teacher appreciation should happen after open house, not before – gotta leverage all of that good will). I was very excited to see Athena’s class and work. Her teacher is so enthusiastic about Athena’s performance and presence in her class. Her work has shown such growth over the year, and she’s a thoughtful and conscientious student, for all that she’s only in second grade. It didn't disappoint – the class was pretty, the work was awesome and I was very proud.
On the other hand, I was a little ambivalent about visiting Quokka's class because school and homework have become such a battle, and I just found out on Monday that Quokka had neglected to turn in several assignments, including two weeks worth of spelling homework. There was some yelling and a bunch of anger Monday night, and on Tuesday I was feeling disappointed and a little defeated.
On top of homework fatigue, I was not necessarily looking forward to seeing Quokka's teachers again. She has two teachers who run the class on a shared contract – one is an older teacher who is near retirement, the other is a newer teacher who is trying to get a full-time teaching gig in our school. The older teacher actually told the kids that she’s retiring soon and is very tired of this teaching stuff, and the confrontation right before the holidays last year made her disengagement really clear. At the end of the hour meeting the younger teacher was crying, I had teared up several times and raised my voice a couple of times too, the principal was apologetic and leaning on the older teacher, and the older teacher…she was fine and a still a bit defiant about the whole issue.
I strive to be realistic and pragmatic about my kids. Like most parents, I think, I have the knee-jerk belief that my kids are smart and dynamic people. But I've never wanted to come off as that parent who doesn't really see her child for who they are – the good and the bad – and blindly thinks their child can do no wrong. So, I've tried to really see Quokka: she’s bright, and funny, and has boundless self esteem (sometimes too much). She has an incredible memory for details, but only when she’s interested in the topic. She’s enthusiastic about learning things, but only things she finds personally interesting. She’s good at math and loves science. She struggles to read; letters and words sometimes make no sense to her, and she’s obstinate about practicing and working with it because she’d rather be bounding and playing. Getting Quokka to practice her reading is like pulling teeth – it is a cold-war battle every day. She’s extremely energetic, and loud, and brash, and outgoing – and everything a boy her age would be praised for and expected to be, but a 9 year old girl…well, that’s another story.
So, there I was, in the position of being That Mom, the one who had gone to war with the teachers for my “precious” kid, and said kid was now disengaged and not turning in her homework. It’s frustrating and mortifying and definitely added to my antipathy about Open House and Quokka's class.
The class was bright and cheery. The work hanging everywhere was beautiful. Older teacher ignored us as we walked past her. We found Quokka's desk and began looking through the work displayed. On top of the pile was a book of poetry, and that was where I found Quokka’s autobiographical poem:
I am a fun, fearless girl who likes dragons
I wonder if the world will change
I hear nature
I see life and death
I want to know everything about animals
I am a fun, fearless girl who likes dragons
I pretend to be a dragon
I feel happiness in the air
I touch friends and family
I worry about my family
I cry when I see something hurt or dying
I am a fun, fearless girl who likes dragons
I understand the world is not perfect
I say, “Everyone is the same but different in their own special way.”
I dream one day I will see the world in harmony
I try to see what other people see
I hope one day the world will be a better place
I am a fun, fearless girl who likes dragons
I stood in that bright classroom, with parents and kids all around, and it grabbed me by the throat – that overwhelming feeling that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, that I am woefully unprepared and utterly unqualified to guide this bright, sensitive soul to successful adulthood. It struck me that none of us really know Quokka at all because none of us had seen this underneath her wild, distracted, spazzy exterior.
As I stood there trying not to sob, Quokka's younger teacher came up and saw what I was holding. Our eyes met and she sniffed and blinked hard to hold back her own tears. She acknowledged, “I know, I had the hardest time not sobbing as I typed these up.” She reached across the desk and hugged Quokka's shoulders and told us, “she has grown so much this year, and her writing is just amazing and creative and incredible for a nine year old. None of us knew.”
None of us knew. [sobbing]
I thought about all of the things I said to Quokka on Monday night when I was mired in exasperation, and I wanted to slap myself. She stood there beaming, her bright green eyes shining up at me from behind her glasses. I choked back my issues and hugged her and told her what an amazing job she was doing. Because she is doing an amazing job developing into this thoughtful, intuitive, sensitive person that none of us recognized because we were so busy judging her against the narrow and arbitrary standards imposed by society, our culture, gender stereotypes, the state, the school board and standardized tests. How incredibly ignorant of us.
So, where do we go from here? Quokka will still have to learn how to let her light shine through the filter of societal expectations, other people’s perceptions, standardized curriculum and black-and-white transcripts. I will have to find some way to help Quokka navigate the rough waters of middle school without crushing her creativity and imagination against the jagged rocks of judgmental pre-teens, harried teachers and arbitrary grading standards. She is already facing criticism and mocking from her peers because of her penchant for playing imaginary games (and, yes, being a dragon) in the fourth grade – because she would rather run and fly than sit and gossip, text or play on an iPod at recess.
Half of our battles with teachers have been about Quokka’s differences from other girls in her class (right now we’re running 4/5 for having to have conferences with teachers and the principal because of Quokka – interestingly, all of the teachers with whom we’ve had throw-downs have been older women who were near retirement). It started with her Kindergarten teacher calling a conference because Quokka didn’t read sight words well, like the other girls, and had a “bad habit” of pretending to be a dinosaur on the playground, which was intimidating the boys (no mention of the girls). It came to a head when Quokka was injured by a boy dragging her off of the playground equipment by her ankle because he said that her pretending to be a dinosaur had scared him, and Quokka got a note home about how she had caused the boy to injure her so she needed to stop pretending to be a T-Rex so that boys wouldn't want to assault her (you want to hear someone roar like a T-Rex…that was not a pretty day in the Puff-family house). And yes, teacher retaliation is a thing – the principal started checking up on the class every week to make sure Quokka was okay, and the room mom helped smooth things over too.
It has rolled on from there with Quokka getting in trouble for behavior that is condoned, and even sometimes encouraged, in the boys, but girls “shouldn't act that way.” The younger teachers seem to have more appreciation for Quokka being assertive; we work with them on managing her energetic approach to life and never had a real behavior problem all year. Unfortunately for Quokka, she seems to keep getting mostly older female teachers who are near retirement, and their perceptions on “proper” behavior for a girl cause the school year to be a miserable mess.
I’m ashamed to realize that I've apparently buckled under the weight of expectation and have become part of the problem for Quokka. This poem, this window into Quokka’s world, has shown me, finally I hope, where I've gone utterly wrong raising this strong, unique little person.
She’s a girl – a mighty, fierce and fearless girl – trying to make her way in a society that still isn't entirely sure it’s ready for that; a place where we’re still questioning if a person could lead a country just because that person is born with two X chromosomes. I've been too focused on trying to help her figure out how to fit in. I never wanted Quokka's spirit and imagination to be crushed, but I wanted to help her figure out how to tone it down a bit so that she could blend.
Fuck that. Really, I’m done. Why, WHY should she have to make herself be less? Why have I put up with this even peripherally for this many years? Fuck. That.
The righteous anger I felt as a young woman in college reading about the struggles women went through to get all of us the right to vote and be treated equal in the eyes of the law has bloomed again inside of me. I’m not sure when it withered away, but I suppose I toned it down so that I could fit in, get along and do well at work. I toned it down so that I wouldn't make family members, acquaintances, and friends-of-friends feel uncomfortable. When a manager at work told me that I talk too much like a man and make too much eye contact and that makes people feel uncomfortable, I toned it down. When a teacher told me that Quokka speaks out of turn and is rowdy like the boys, I, all well intentioned and supremely stupid, counseled her to tone it down. I should have invited the teacher to hop in a hand-basket and go to hell. Seriously, why would behavior that is okay for boys be unacceptable in a girl? Why?
I still feel slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of helping this fun, fearless girl become an equally fearless woman who is okay with owning her unique qualities, even if that means she won’t fit in and will always be considered a bit of an odd duck (or dragon as it were). I want to change the world for Quokka to make it a safe place for a girl to be loud, and open about her feelings; to be strong and enthusiastic about her passion for animals, and planets and knowledge; to be a leader who shares her perspective on how things work without being dismissed as “bossy.”
I’m going back to fight because we still have a lot of ground to take, and I'm recruiting my little troop of girls to march with me.
We're going to help make Quokka’s world a better place. A place where my fun, fearless girl who likes dragons can fly.
Open House is a great opportunity to see what the kids have been doing and learning in context – which is very different from the disembodied assignments that come home. (Pro-tip to teachers, teacher appreciation should happen after open house, not before – gotta leverage all of that good will). I was very excited to see Athena’s class and work. Her teacher is so enthusiastic about Athena’s performance and presence in her class. Her work has shown such growth over the year, and she’s a thoughtful and conscientious student, for all that she’s only in second grade. It didn't disappoint – the class was pretty, the work was awesome and I was very proud.
On the other hand, I was a little ambivalent about visiting Quokka's class because school and homework have become such a battle, and I just found out on Monday that Quokka had neglected to turn in several assignments, including two weeks worth of spelling homework. There was some yelling and a bunch of anger Monday night, and on Tuesday I was feeling disappointed and a little defeated.
On top of homework fatigue, I was not necessarily looking forward to seeing Quokka's teachers again. She has two teachers who run the class on a shared contract – one is an older teacher who is near retirement, the other is a newer teacher who is trying to get a full-time teaching gig in our school. The older teacher actually told the kids that she’s retiring soon and is very tired of this teaching stuff, and the confrontation right before the holidays last year made her disengagement really clear. At the end of the hour meeting the younger teacher was crying, I had teared up several times and raised my voice a couple of times too, the principal was apologetic and leaning on the older teacher, and the older teacher…she was fine and a still a bit defiant about the whole issue.
I strive to be realistic and pragmatic about my kids. Like most parents, I think, I have the knee-jerk belief that my kids are smart and dynamic people. But I've never wanted to come off as that parent who doesn't really see her child for who they are – the good and the bad – and blindly thinks their child can do no wrong. So, I've tried to really see Quokka: she’s bright, and funny, and has boundless self esteem (sometimes too much). She has an incredible memory for details, but only when she’s interested in the topic. She’s enthusiastic about learning things, but only things she finds personally interesting. She’s good at math and loves science. She struggles to read; letters and words sometimes make no sense to her, and she’s obstinate about practicing and working with it because she’d rather be bounding and playing. Getting Quokka to practice her reading is like pulling teeth – it is a cold-war battle every day. She’s extremely energetic, and loud, and brash, and outgoing – and everything a boy her age would be praised for and expected to be, but a 9 year old girl…well, that’s another story.
So, there I was, in the position of being That Mom, the one who had gone to war with the teachers for my “precious” kid, and said kid was now disengaged and not turning in her homework. It’s frustrating and mortifying and definitely added to my antipathy about Open House and Quokka's class.
The class was bright and cheery. The work hanging everywhere was beautiful. Older teacher ignored us as we walked past her. We found Quokka's desk and began looking through the work displayed. On top of the pile was a book of poetry, and that was where I found Quokka’s autobiographical poem:
I am a fun, fearless girl who likes dragons
I wonder if the world will change
I hear nature
I see life and death
I want to know everything about animals
I am a fun, fearless girl who likes dragons
I pretend to be a dragon
I feel happiness in the air
I touch friends and family
I worry about my family
I cry when I see something hurt or dying
I am a fun, fearless girl who likes dragons
I understand the world is not perfect
I say, “Everyone is the same but different in their own special way.”
I dream one day I will see the world in harmony
I try to see what other people see
I hope one day the world will be a better place
I am a fun, fearless girl who likes dragons
I stood in that bright classroom, with parents and kids all around, and it grabbed me by the throat – that overwhelming feeling that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, that I am woefully unprepared and utterly unqualified to guide this bright, sensitive soul to successful adulthood. It struck me that none of us really know Quokka at all because none of us had seen this underneath her wild, distracted, spazzy exterior.
As I stood there trying not to sob, Quokka's younger teacher came up and saw what I was holding. Our eyes met and she sniffed and blinked hard to hold back her own tears. She acknowledged, “I know, I had the hardest time not sobbing as I typed these up.” She reached across the desk and hugged Quokka's shoulders and told us, “she has grown so much this year, and her writing is just amazing and creative and incredible for a nine year old. None of us knew.”
None of us knew. [sobbing]
I thought about all of the things I said to Quokka on Monday night when I was mired in exasperation, and I wanted to slap myself. She stood there beaming, her bright green eyes shining up at me from behind her glasses. I choked back my issues and hugged her and told her what an amazing job she was doing. Because she is doing an amazing job developing into this thoughtful, intuitive, sensitive person that none of us recognized because we were so busy judging her against the narrow and arbitrary standards imposed by society, our culture, gender stereotypes, the state, the school board and standardized tests. How incredibly ignorant of us.
So, where do we go from here? Quokka will still have to learn how to let her light shine through the filter of societal expectations, other people’s perceptions, standardized curriculum and black-and-white transcripts. I will have to find some way to help Quokka navigate the rough waters of middle school without crushing her creativity and imagination against the jagged rocks of judgmental pre-teens, harried teachers and arbitrary grading standards. She is already facing criticism and mocking from her peers because of her penchant for playing imaginary games (and, yes, being a dragon) in the fourth grade – because she would rather run and fly than sit and gossip, text or play on an iPod at recess.
Half of our battles with teachers have been about Quokka’s differences from other girls in her class (right now we’re running 4/5 for having to have conferences with teachers and the principal because of Quokka – interestingly, all of the teachers with whom we’ve had throw-downs have been older women who were near retirement). It started with her Kindergarten teacher calling a conference because Quokka didn’t read sight words well, like the other girls, and had a “bad habit” of pretending to be a dinosaur on the playground, which was intimidating the boys (no mention of the girls). It came to a head when Quokka was injured by a boy dragging her off of the playground equipment by her ankle because he said that her pretending to be a dinosaur had scared him, and Quokka got a note home about how she had caused the boy to injure her so she needed to stop pretending to be a T-Rex so that boys wouldn't want to assault her (you want to hear someone roar like a T-Rex…that was not a pretty day in the Puff-family house). And yes, teacher retaliation is a thing – the principal started checking up on the class every week to make sure Quokka was okay, and the room mom helped smooth things over too.
It has rolled on from there with Quokka getting in trouble for behavior that is condoned, and even sometimes encouraged, in the boys, but girls “shouldn't act that way.” The younger teachers seem to have more appreciation for Quokka being assertive; we work with them on managing her energetic approach to life and never had a real behavior problem all year. Unfortunately for Quokka, she seems to keep getting mostly older female teachers who are near retirement, and their perceptions on “proper” behavior for a girl cause the school year to be a miserable mess.
I’m ashamed to realize that I've apparently buckled under the weight of expectation and have become part of the problem for Quokka. This poem, this window into Quokka’s world, has shown me, finally I hope, where I've gone utterly wrong raising this strong, unique little person.
She’s a girl – a mighty, fierce and fearless girl – trying to make her way in a society that still isn't entirely sure it’s ready for that; a place where we’re still questioning if a person could lead a country just because that person is born with two X chromosomes. I've been too focused on trying to help her figure out how to fit in. I never wanted Quokka's spirit and imagination to be crushed, but I wanted to help her figure out how to tone it down a bit so that she could blend.
Fuck that. Really, I’m done. Why, WHY should she have to make herself be less? Why have I put up with this even peripherally for this many years? Fuck. That.
The righteous anger I felt as a young woman in college reading about the struggles women went through to get all of us the right to vote and be treated equal in the eyes of the law has bloomed again inside of me. I’m not sure when it withered away, but I suppose I toned it down so that I could fit in, get along and do well at work. I toned it down so that I wouldn't make family members, acquaintances, and friends-of-friends feel uncomfortable. When a manager at work told me that I talk too much like a man and make too much eye contact and that makes people feel uncomfortable, I toned it down. When a teacher told me that Quokka speaks out of turn and is rowdy like the boys, I, all well intentioned and supremely stupid, counseled her to tone it down. I should have invited the teacher to hop in a hand-basket and go to hell. Seriously, why would behavior that is okay for boys be unacceptable in a girl? Why?
 |
| Here there be dragons |
I still feel slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of helping this fun, fearless girl become an equally fearless woman who is okay with owning her unique qualities, even if that means she won’t fit in and will always be considered a bit of an odd duck (or dragon as it were). I want to change the world for Quokka to make it a safe place for a girl to be loud, and open about her feelings; to be strong and enthusiastic about her passion for animals, and planets and knowledge; to be a leader who shares her perspective on how things work without being dismissed as “bossy.”
I’m going back to fight because we still have a lot of ground to take, and I'm recruiting my little troop of girls to march with me.
We're going to help make Quokka’s world a better place. A place where my fun, fearless girl who likes dragons can fly.
