My mother chose
to homeschool me, with Dad as her support.
He taught 10th grade biology at the local high school, but
still felt I’d be better off at home. A
lot of stigma goes along with homeschooling. Everywhere you look, a “homeschool kid” is
perceived to look, talk, and act a certain way.
You know the type: long hair, long skirt, bad at sports, doomed to be a
cat-lady. Well, I’ve never been much of a cat person, and prefer dogs, myself.
With a degree in
English, Mom favored reading and writing above all else. By eleven years-old I had flipped through the
Great Books, all of Shakespeare’s plays, Mark Twain, Charles Dickens (who I
utterly detest), Louisa May Alcott, and most other classic authors. When I could find a place to hide, I also had
a stash of Larry McMurtry novels, and plenty other “grown-up” books from which
I learned most of how the human body works.
Mom also taught me history and languages, while Dad filled in with
science and math. I took things at my
own pace, and soon found myself ahead of my friends. When the student-to-teacher ratio is 1:1,
it’s pretty hard to get behind.
My hair might
have been somewhat long, but certainly not long enough to sit on, and it wasn’t
“big” in front as you might assume. I
didn’t own a single denim skirt, and
mainly ran around in jeans and t-shirts.
I was well aware of the fads—what was in, what wasn’t—and I begged for
designer clothes just the same as any other kid. And that one name-brand shirt I got for
Christmas, I wore to shreds—desperately trying to keep up with the
Joneses. If you saw me in the grocery
store, I certainly didn’t fit that “homeschool mold.” I didn’t wear tie-dye, I didn’t pull my socks
up over my leggings, and I knew the importance of deodorant. To see me, I could be anybody, and at eleven
years-old that was really
important. As puberty creeps up, no one
wants to stick out.
A homeschooler
is often classified as a kid with two left feet that shuns sports or physical
activity. After all, schooling at home
impedes the ability to grow muscles, play team sports, and run without tripping
on your shoelaces. But I loved sports. As the only girl in town to play in a
boys-only baseball league, I had a lot of pride as well as a lot to prove. My team might as well have been the “Bad News
Bears.” We were the team that had all
the kids that didn’t make it through try-outs, and had to provide our own
uniforms (namely sweatpants) and gear.
My dad coached us every day in rain or shine until we won a couple games
here and there. I’m not afraid to say
that I was the best on the team, because I wanted it more than anyone else. I had to work harder to achieve the respect
they earned just by showing up. I sat
behind home plate and caught ball after ball, but I never could seem to see
through the rusty old mask. Each year I
tried out for our town’s “major league,” but it didn’t really matter because I
knew they wouldn’t let me through.
As a homeschooler,
I might have been doomed to play the clarinet in the local concert band, but
that wasn’t for me. Sure, I followed the
homeschool crowd and took up the piano, but in the sixth grade I begged my dad
to let me play the drums. Being raised
for so long in a conservative home, I was ready to rock out. Dad bought me a pair of sticks and a drum
pad, and in the fall I signed up for band at the local middle school. Every day I walked in with my Beatles t-shirt
(one of many) and played “Mission Impossible,” “Copa Cabana,” “Mr. Sandman,”
etc. Playing the drums made me feel
almost “cool,” though being homeschooled set me apart. But playing the drums also taught me
something much more important than the music, itself. It taught me that boys, and more importantly
hormones, were all around me.
As much as I
tried to deny it growing up, I was falling in love with boys. Lots of boys.
Any boys. It’s a heartbreaking, exhilarating time of
life, and horribly confusing. I started
going to band for the music—the “street cred,” if you will—and continued going
for that sweaty, heart-stopping moment when the boy of my dreams said
“hey.” Each day he patted my back, or
poked me, or told me a joke, and I nearly died.
Certainly he had several girlfriends, but I figured we had plenty of
time to sort all that out before we got married. And though he was my “one and only,” I still found the need to drool over a few
teen magazines before bed each night and hang posters on every square inch of
my walls. Beautiful teenage boys surrounded me at all times, and I don’t really
remember much because I think my brain stopped working at some point and
started back up a few years later.
The biggest
stigma that goes along with being homeschooled is that of social introversion. As a homeschooler, it was assumed that I had
no friends, lived in the woods with my twelve brothers and sisters, and
stitched doilies all day. I have one
sister, and there is one apple tree in our back yard, but that’s it. Growing up, I had plenty of friends for
sleepovers, birthday parties, group date nights, and the occasional
“par-tay.” After school I went to ballet
class with all of my friends, and danced until dark. I danced because I loved dancing. I wanted to be the very best and go on to
bigger and better things, but dancing played a small role in why I took
ballet. Class didn’t start until 5:30,
but we all showed up at about 3:30 to talk about boys, school, movies, make-up,
who had started “Aunt Flow,” who kissed whom, and on and on. We wore our leotards and tights proudly to
the grocery store around the corner, where we bought take-out Chinese food,
bacon burgers, and french fries. Then,
until class, we’d do cartwheels on the front lawn, whistle at the firemen from
down the block, and live in our made-up world of just how fabulous we
were. On any given day, one girl would
be your best friend, and the next she was your enemy. Generally this depended on who dated whom,
who wore what, who got the solo, who’s parents let them watch the latest rated-R
zombie flick, who got their bellybutton pierced, and most importantly: bra
size. But these girls, loved or hated,
were my friends and, like a flock of geese, we went everywhere together,
loudly.
Some of the
important things about homeschooling are that you discover the world outside of books. I could read Lewis and Clark’s journals about
their travels to find the Northwest Passage, but words on a page hold only so
much meaning. As a homeschooler, I could
jump in the car and actually go see
the things about which I read. I read
Washington State History, and then I saw
Washington State History. I read about
the Kings of Scotland and then I actually visited
their castles and was able to see where great battles took place. I didn’t read
science so much as I got out and saw it.
I potted plants at the National Park Service and learned about herbs and
noxious weeds. I stood on the beaches of
La Push and peered out at the gray whales feeding offshore. I had jars of tadpole eggs that I monitored
each day and recorded any changes in my little notebook. During my health unit, I actually met with a
local midwife and flipped through her photo albums as she told me amazing
stories of the births she had attended. I
attended arts festivals, wooden boat festivals, tulip festivals, and holiday
festivals, all while my friends sat behind their desks.
I wrote about
everything I saw as a homeschooler. Each
Friday, I had an essay due on any given topic.
Sometimes this might be on Hamlet and the symbolism of “Poor Yorick,” or
other times it could be a short story based on history. The over-arching theme of each year changed,
too, from the Pioneers to the Renaissance period, to Ancient Rome. This meant that although I still kept up with
all the normal subjects, all of my projects, art, writing, and field trips
would be based on the theme of the year.
During the Renaissance period, I had to learn to oil paint, re-create
frescos, and study all the patrons of writing and art, while memorizing
monologues from Shakespeare. In order to
learn more, my family took a trip to Ashland, Oregon to attend the Shakespeare
Festival.
Out of all the
subjects I studied, I loved languages the best.
To clarify: I loved French.
However, Mom said that in order to be a true scholar, one must know
Latin. To me—and the rest of the world—Latin
is a dead language. No one is even sure
of how to pronounce the words. But Mom
tried her best. We had Latin class every
week with other homeschooled kids, and studied translations out of “Ecce
Romani” and the Cambridge Latin course. We
kids couldn’t stand Latin, but that didn’t matter to “the mothers.” We were forced to join the “Junior Classical
League,” which meant attending conventions with other school-aged kids from all
over the Northwest. Some parts of the
Latin convention were okay, I guess.
There was a gladiator battle, and a game show called “Certamen.” But we didn’t really stand a chance in either
of these arenas. Our “school” had five
students—everyone else seemed to have about sixty or so. But every year Mom would drive us to the JCL
to compete. I have to say, there were
plenty of greasy, hygienically-challenged nerds that attended, but they went to
public school. We were still fighting to
be “normal.”
In high school,
I dated boys, went to proms, and even ended up with a royalty crown. I worked for the radio, hung out with
friends, went to concerts, and sang in the school choir.
In a nutshell: I
was a homeschooler. At home I studied
French, Latin, penmanship, classic literature, Saxon math, hands-on science,
English, ancient history, Modern American history, European history, piano,
drums, writing, and speeches. I
participated in baseball, ballet, soccer, Girl Scouts, Key Club, Light Opera,
and Community Theater. I published two
poems and I achieved high scores on my placement tests. The school board presented me with a cake
that said “Congratulations National Merit Commended Scholar.” I had boyfriends and was “dumped.” And some I dumped myself. I made good choices and a few bad
choices. I applied for colleges and
traveled the world. And while my friends
sat behind their desks—waiting for roll call, waiting for their papers to be
passed back, waiting for the last person in class to finish—I was reading, and
learning to cook, and going out for a run.
I don’t pretend
to know why homeschooling has a bad reputation.
I am a product of homeschool. I’m
not damaged, closed minded, molested, fundamentalist, or the least bit crazy. I am not a stereotype, label, or stigma. I write, I read, I enjoy my friends, my
family, my husband, my daughter. I have
goals and I will meet them. And I still
love sports.
It is you who have a problem with me
As a homeschooler, I don’t have a
problem with myself.
I am a homeschooler.
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