2000 Words on Why I Am Not a World Famous Artist, Musician, or Athelete
My view of the debate between private and public schools has always been colored by the fact that I attended only private Catholic schools, from kindergarten right through college. When I was growing up as a DC resident, if your parents could somehow afford any alternative to the public schools, they would always take it. I was so sure that public schools were a ticket to nowhere, that I was shocked to find that large numbers of my classmates in college (including almost all of my friends) had been to public school and had managed to come out without a drug problem, a criminal record, or an unwanted pregnancy. For most of my life, I assumed I would send my kids to private schools because public schools in my mind had a sort of hopelessness about them. However, my daughter now attends a public school, and her sister will go with her next fall.
I don’t know if they will always be in public school, but I have already found a way in which our local public school is far superior to the private schools I attended: the music, art, and physical education teachers are actually trained professionals who are trying to teach children things about music, art, and PE. I had always assumed that music, art, and PE were taught by failed musicians, artists, and losers who had no other way to earn a paycheck so they gave up and became teachers. Angry teachers. Teachers who hated teaching and children.
When my daughter arrived home from her first day of school this fall, she could not have been any happier with her music teacher. She talked about him from the moment she got off the bus until she finally fell asleep. Every Wednesday after that, she would arrive home with another story of how funny her music teacher was, what silly thing he had done that day to help teach them a song or a concept about music. The school year is almost over, and she still loves to tell what happened in music class because she finds her teacher so much fun. He throws himself into his work, making faces, marching around, throwing things, and basically doing whatever it takes to get the kids to participate. As I have previously mentioned, life at my house is one long floor show, and in the back of my mind I have always worried that some embittered crackpot music teacher was going to ruin everything and turn my children against music.
My first music teacher was Sister Annette Cecile, who was as old as the hills when I was in kindergarten, and still she lasted right on past my eighth grade graduation. She would only teach the little kids however, so for the next seven years, I had probably seven different music teachers. All of them eventually broke down in tears in front of the class or disappeared for a long vacation because something about dealing with us made them start to twitch all over. I know kids can be obnoxious, but usually I remember being puzzled by the crying. I never understood why what seemed like the regular amount of bad behavior was so much worse to the music teachers. Probably it had something to do with the fact that while the kids were acting up, they were also not learning or even attempting to learn anything. However, in this instance I blame the teachers. Why should a bunch of six graders have to sit in chairs once a week and sing “The Streets of Laredo” – just because it’s in the music book? Every one of those music teachers had a closet full of instruments, and if they had just passed them out and let us play along, I’m sure they would have found us much more willing to participate.
When I was in high school, every freshman had a trimester of chorale, which was a nun sitting at a piano and urging, begging, and finally attempting to threaten us into singing. It never worked. She played the piano and called out our names to sing solo, and every time she was met with absolute silence. That probably explains why everyone only got three months of chorale during their high school career. After finally working our way through chorale, we were rewarded with three months of “String Experience.” Somehow the nuns had decided that every student could learn to play the violin (or viola or cello) in one trimester, so they kept a huge closet full of instruments so that every freshman girl could get her turn. Once again, we were treated to a nun sitting at the piano as we attempted to play along on our instruments. She was a very happy tone-deaf nun who always shouted “Wonderful girls!” over the screeching of the strings. The only time I saw her upset was at final exam time, when each of us had to play a song (and not a song like “Twinkle, Twinkle” – a song that used every string and finger pattern that she had attempted to teach us). None of us could play it, and she was flabbergasted at how we could have failed to master our instrument when we had the opportunity to play it for forty minutes once a week for three months.
I was equally astonished when my daughter came home from her first day of art class telling me all about Piet Mondrian. Actually, she was calling him Pia Pondrian, but even if she had provided me with the correct pronunciation and spelling, I would have had no idea what she was saying or who she was talking about. Finally, she got out a ruler and some red, yellow, and blue crayons and created a Mondrian prototype for me. Later in the fall she drew a mountain landscape so that she could show me what was in the foreground, the midground, and the background. During the winter they were working on Sumi-e paintings, which Aislinn also had to demonstrate before I knew what she was talking about.
Here is what I learned about art in grade school: if you act up during art class, Miss Bernice will hit you on the head with scissors. Ah, Miss Bernice, the tiny, angry import from Italy who ruled the art room at Blessed Sacrament School with an iron fist (well, iron scissors anyway, as I previously mentioned) for my entire eight years. Every year we did the same pictures: a brown, orange, and yellow fall scene made with construction paper; a snowy winter scene created by flicking white tempera paint from a toothbrush; and finally, the grand finale - cherry blossom pictures made with pink tempera paint and sponges. My mother has told me that Miss Bernice wanted everyone’s pictures to look the same, and she could always tell what we had been forced to add to our pictures. I was so busy attempting to understand what Miss Bernice was saying and trying to stay out of her way, that none of the actual art part of art class sticks out in my mind. In those days, if anyone had asked my opinion of whether there was enough art in the schools, I’m sure I would have said there was too much art in the schools. I would have proposed that surely one class per year to churn out cherry blossom pictures for Catholic Schools Week would suffice.
In high school, I had an art teacher who probably could have taught me something about art, but in my four years of high school I had exactly one trimester of art - three months out of four years. I know other students had more art, but somehow I think those of us that were shoved into honors chemistry and extra Latin were discouraged from attempting anything creative. I think art was kept as a sort of consolation prize for the girls that the nuns thought probably were not going to get by on their smarts. Looking back, that philosophy is almost as upsetting as the glowering face of Miss Bernice as she stormed across the room to put an end to excessive paste application.
But the true crazies lurk in the gymnasium. My daughter is not too fond of her PE teachers, because they yell a lot. I’m sure some of the yelling is necessary, and some of it probably isn’t, because I have seen her teachers and they do look a little mean. However, they have been teaching her things that have improved not only her coordination and flexibility, but her confidence in what she is able to do, whether it is climbing or jumping rope. When I can get her to talk about any aspect of PE other than her teachers’ mean faces, she always describes a new game they have taught her or a new skill they are working on.
My grade school PE experience can be summed up in two words: murder ball. I don’t even know if murder ball is a real game, and I’m sure that someone complained about the name, because eventually it became known as “Greek Dodge Ball” (but I don’t think the Greeks will want to claim it either). My PE teacher's name was Ms. Body, and she was a tan, forty or fifty-something lady who would arrive to the gym late in a sweatsuit and keds, pass out the four-square balls, and then retire to the stage of the gym to smoke while we played yet another round of murder ball. Once a year she would open up the closet where the other PE equipment was kept, and we would have relay races and play jump rope or shoot baskets. Twice a week for the rest of the year, it was murder ball.
When I started high school, I missed murder ball, because my PE teacher was one of the craziest people I have ever encountered (in fact, she deserves 1500 words of her own, so I will keep this part short). She had escaped from eastern Europe right before the iron curtain fell, but I think it may have delivered a glancing blow as she ducked underneath it (actually, the story was that she lost her mind in a car accident). We had to take notebooks to every gym class so that we could record the rules for whatever sport we were working on – rules that she was obviously making up off the top of her head. We had to take ridiculous tests, like the cartwheel off the balance beam test, the forwards and backwards jumprope tricks test, and the ten free throws in a row test (ask most professional basketball players if they’d pass that one). Whenever we played individual sports, like table tennis (her personal favorite) whoever won a match would get an A and whoever lost would get an F. As freshmen we were very upset by this policy, but we soon realized that she had no idea who any of us were or what our names were, so she would just assign everyone a letter grade in a random manner at the end of each trimester.
Looking back, those twelve years in private schools provided me with an excellent academic education. However, those twelve years cured me (for a long time) of any interest in pursuing art or music on my own, just because it might be enjoyable (while my experiences in PE were bizarre, giving up all physical activity never seemed a possibility). All of the joy in those pursuits was removed by teachers in private schools who could not be removed. As long as they were willing to come to work and not beat (excessively) on the children, they were invited back year after year. When I took a painting class about 10 years ago, I found some drawings that I had done as a kid. They were not award winning, but they weren’t bad, and I suddenly remembered that I had really enjoyed art as a kid. I had sat on my bed to color and draw just because it was fun, not because I had too. Hopefully, my kids will always feel that way too about art and music, and hopefully no crazy teacher will change their minds.
I don’t know if they will always be in public school, but I have already found a way in which our local public school is far superior to the private schools I attended: the music, art, and physical education teachers are actually trained professionals who are trying to teach children things about music, art, and PE. I had always assumed that music, art, and PE were taught by failed musicians, artists, and losers who had no other way to earn a paycheck so they gave up and became teachers. Angry teachers. Teachers who hated teaching and children.
When my daughter arrived home from her first day of school this fall, she could not have been any happier with her music teacher. She talked about him from the moment she got off the bus until she finally fell asleep. Every Wednesday after that, she would arrive home with another story of how funny her music teacher was, what silly thing he had done that day to help teach them a song or a concept about music. The school year is almost over, and she still loves to tell what happened in music class because she finds her teacher so much fun. He throws himself into his work, making faces, marching around, throwing things, and basically doing whatever it takes to get the kids to participate. As I have previously mentioned, life at my house is one long floor show, and in the back of my mind I have always worried that some embittered crackpot music teacher was going to ruin everything and turn my children against music.
My first music teacher was Sister Annette Cecile, who was as old as the hills when I was in kindergarten, and still she lasted right on past my eighth grade graduation. She would only teach the little kids however, so for the next seven years, I had probably seven different music teachers. All of them eventually broke down in tears in front of the class or disappeared for a long vacation because something about dealing with us made them start to twitch all over. I know kids can be obnoxious, but usually I remember being puzzled by the crying. I never understood why what seemed like the regular amount of bad behavior was so much worse to the music teachers. Probably it had something to do with the fact that while the kids were acting up, they were also not learning or even attempting to learn anything. However, in this instance I blame the teachers. Why should a bunch of six graders have to sit in chairs once a week and sing “The Streets of Laredo” – just because it’s in the music book? Every one of those music teachers had a closet full of instruments, and if they had just passed them out and let us play along, I’m sure they would have found us much more willing to participate.
When I was in high school, every freshman had a trimester of chorale, which was a nun sitting at a piano and urging, begging, and finally attempting to threaten us into singing. It never worked. She played the piano and called out our names to sing solo, and every time she was met with absolute silence. That probably explains why everyone only got three months of chorale during their high school career. After finally working our way through chorale, we were rewarded with three months of “String Experience.” Somehow the nuns had decided that every student could learn to play the violin (or viola or cello) in one trimester, so they kept a huge closet full of instruments so that every freshman girl could get her turn. Once again, we were treated to a nun sitting at the piano as we attempted to play along on our instruments. She was a very happy tone-deaf nun who always shouted “Wonderful girls!” over the screeching of the strings. The only time I saw her upset was at final exam time, when each of us had to play a song (and not a song like “Twinkle, Twinkle” – a song that used every string and finger pattern that she had attempted to teach us). None of us could play it, and she was flabbergasted at how we could have failed to master our instrument when we had the opportunity to play it for forty minutes once a week for three months.
I was equally astonished when my daughter came home from her first day of art class telling me all about Piet Mondrian. Actually, she was calling him Pia Pondrian, but even if she had provided me with the correct pronunciation and spelling, I would have had no idea what she was saying or who she was talking about. Finally, she got out a ruler and some red, yellow, and blue crayons and created a Mondrian prototype for me. Later in the fall she drew a mountain landscape so that she could show me what was in the foreground, the midground, and the background. During the winter they were working on Sumi-e paintings, which Aislinn also had to demonstrate before I knew what she was talking about.
Here is what I learned about art in grade school: if you act up during art class, Miss Bernice will hit you on the head with scissors. Ah, Miss Bernice, the tiny, angry import from Italy who ruled the art room at Blessed Sacrament School with an iron fist (well, iron scissors anyway, as I previously mentioned) for my entire eight years. Every year we did the same pictures: a brown, orange, and yellow fall scene made with construction paper; a snowy winter scene created by flicking white tempera paint from a toothbrush; and finally, the grand finale - cherry blossom pictures made with pink tempera paint and sponges. My mother has told me that Miss Bernice wanted everyone’s pictures to look the same, and she could always tell what we had been forced to add to our pictures. I was so busy attempting to understand what Miss Bernice was saying and trying to stay out of her way, that none of the actual art part of art class sticks out in my mind. In those days, if anyone had asked my opinion of whether there was enough art in the schools, I’m sure I would have said there was too much art in the schools. I would have proposed that surely one class per year to churn out cherry blossom pictures for Catholic Schools Week would suffice.
In high school, I had an art teacher who probably could have taught me something about art, but in my four years of high school I had exactly one trimester of art - three months out of four years. I know other students had more art, but somehow I think those of us that were shoved into honors chemistry and extra Latin were discouraged from attempting anything creative. I think art was kept as a sort of consolation prize for the girls that the nuns thought probably were not going to get by on their smarts. Looking back, that philosophy is almost as upsetting as the glowering face of Miss Bernice as she stormed across the room to put an end to excessive paste application.
But the true crazies lurk in the gymnasium. My daughter is not too fond of her PE teachers, because they yell a lot. I’m sure some of the yelling is necessary, and some of it probably isn’t, because I have seen her teachers and they do look a little mean. However, they have been teaching her things that have improved not only her coordination and flexibility, but her confidence in what she is able to do, whether it is climbing or jumping rope. When I can get her to talk about any aspect of PE other than her teachers’ mean faces, she always describes a new game they have taught her or a new skill they are working on.
My grade school PE experience can be summed up in two words: murder ball. I don’t even know if murder ball is a real game, and I’m sure that someone complained about the name, because eventually it became known as “Greek Dodge Ball” (but I don’t think the Greeks will want to claim it either). My PE teacher's name was Ms. Body, and she was a tan, forty or fifty-something lady who would arrive to the gym late in a sweatsuit and keds, pass out the four-square balls, and then retire to the stage of the gym to smoke while we played yet another round of murder ball. Once a year she would open up the closet where the other PE equipment was kept, and we would have relay races and play jump rope or shoot baskets. Twice a week for the rest of the year, it was murder ball.
When I started high school, I missed murder ball, because my PE teacher was one of the craziest people I have ever encountered (in fact, she deserves 1500 words of her own, so I will keep this part short). She had escaped from eastern Europe right before the iron curtain fell, but I think it may have delivered a glancing blow as she ducked underneath it (actually, the story was that she lost her mind in a car accident). We had to take notebooks to every gym class so that we could record the rules for whatever sport we were working on – rules that she was obviously making up off the top of her head. We had to take ridiculous tests, like the cartwheel off the balance beam test, the forwards and backwards jumprope tricks test, and the ten free throws in a row test (ask most professional basketball players if they’d pass that one). Whenever we played individual sports, like table tennis (her personal favorite) whoever won a match would get an A and whoever lost would get an F. As freshmen we were very upset by this policy, but we soon realized that she had no idea who any of us were or what our names were, so she would just assign everyone a letter grade in a random manner at the end of each trimester.
Looking back, those twelve years in private schools provided me with an excellent academic education. However, those twelve years cured me (for a long time) of any interest in pursuing art or music on my own, just because it might be enjoyable (while my experiences in PE were bizarre, giving up all physical activity never seemed a possibility). All of the joy in those pursuits was removed by teachers in private schools who could not be removed. As long as they were willing to come to work and not beat (excessively) on the children, they were invited back year after year. When I took a painting class about 10 years ago, I found some drawings that I had done as a kid. They were not award winning, but they weren’t bad, and I suddenly remembered that I had really enjoyed art as a kid. I had sat on my bed to color and draw just because it was fun, not because I had too. Hopefully, my kids will always feel that way too about art and music, and hopefully no crazy teacher will change their minds.
posted by Shannon at 11:15 PM
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