“Exactly!” Cora says, pointing to Daniel.
“Seems from what you say and what I’ve seen, it’s about doing things, not sitting, taking in, spitting it back out over and over, wearing down, getting exhausted.”
“You know who talked in the groups about being exhausted the most?” Cora asks, looking at me.
“The teachers!” Daniel says. “I was really blown away by their reaction. I thought they’d defend being workaholics based on all the college degrees they have.”
“The teachers felt it was too much to do lesson planning that would be fresh and appeal to a variety of interests, then share information in an upbeat way, then develop tests or assignments that would show what students remembered, then grade all that work while paying attention to individual detail, and then start all over again in a week or two.”
“One teacher came out and said, ‘Teachers are doing all the work and we’re treating students like infants,’” Daniel says, looking amazed.
Maybe that’s one reason teachers like Chelsea’s favorite, her English teacher, don’t last long at Hilltop.
“The teachers concluded that they wanted out of the director role and into having more time to get to know kids and what they wanted to learn.”
“And is that working now, teachers really knowing students and helping them individually?” I ask, a little skeptical, even after everything I saw today.
“Yes,” Cora immediately answers. “With four teachers in a class of forty—two subject teachers, one special needs teacher that floats to another classroom at times, and a computer specialist that also floats—plus 180 days of required school, two hours each day, we really get to know each other well! If I want to know something about the human body, for instance, I’ll go to my ninth grade science teacher to get some perspective, because she was an ER nurse before she decided to switch to work with less drama. It doesn’t matter that she’s not my teacher anymore, she makes herself available.”
Daniel starts to stand but then sits back down, his back stretched to the limit of upright. “I’m a traditionalist when it comes to school,” he says. “Just give me the content I need for SATs so I can get into a good college. The teachers ask me questions that challenge my traditional approach, but they also accept me for who I am and don’t make me feel weird for wanting that. No making me feel threatened.”
“One more thing about the planning groups, Sean,” Cora says, “there was one super academic teacher who really influenced the thinking of many people involved in this process, young and old.” She takes out a piece of paper—unlined typing paper, which I find interesting. When I point to it with a quizzical look, she says, “I don’t like being boxed in with lines. Anyway, the guy I’m talking about drew a circle on a whiteboard and put a tiny dot in the circle.” Cora draws it. “He said the dot represents what subject matter he could cover in a year in the circle of what is known about human biology. He asked why he should decide which dot is learned. His perspective was, it doesn’t matter where anyone starts in the circle. Also, what if people are curious about things outside the circle—all the as yet unknown things about human biology?”
“This is where I start getting lost,” Daniel says, pushing his chair back from the table. “Like, what did they mean when they summed it all up by saying young people just need to ‘learn to learn’ and specific content wasn’t so important? I disagree! You have to know answers to questions on the tests.”
He is so rattled he spills the last of his ice cream on Cora’s drawing.
I’m with Daniel in feeling lost.
“I think they meant focus on skills,” Cora says. “Like communication, critical thinking, collaboration with others—the stuff employers say they are looking for in employees these days.”
Daniel starts bouncing his leg up and down. “Well, I already know what I want to learn: to be a successful business person. And I don’t want to waste time on things that won’t help me do well in college.”
Cora softens her voice. “I think they believe learning those skills are the best preparation for college.”
“I don’t know. The way they’re evaluating our progress now seems a lot harder than the way grades used to be done. Colleges look at grades and test scores when they’re deciding who to give money to.” Daniel’s voice is getting quieter and quieter, like he’s giving up the argument.
I wouldn’t be able to argue against Cora either.
Cora tries the soft approach again, saying, “Colleges are different, I think, and I want to go to one that lets me direct myself.”
These guys are my age, but I never think about college or how to learn or what I’m interested in or any of this stuff they’re talking about. “Did you guys think about these things before the planning groups or did you learn how to think about schools in the groups?” I look to Daniel to respond, but he is looking off into space.
“Before, I felt things about what was not working for me in school but I thought it was just something wrong with me,” Cora says. “The planning groups were very supportive to the students in them and they helped us say what was on our minds.” She stands up and, as if she’s doing show-and-tell, gestures to her treasured item, the shirt she’s wearing. “The adults gave all us kids in the groups these T-shirts.” On the front it reads, Free Range Kids.
Daniel shuts down in every way except his bouncing leg, and even Cora can’t get him engaged anymore.
Cora and Chelsea get the idea to have a debate about whether I should transfer to Stone Creek next year. I will ask questions or express concerns, and one team, Cora and Chelsea, will answer in favor of transferring, while the other team, Daniel and Jake, will be against me transferring. Crazy, but I’m willing to play.
We gather together at the park on Saturday, and Cora tells me to start things off when I’m ready. I take a deep breath, and then dive in.
SEAN: I don’t feel confident I can actually work on my own.
CORA: You’ll see how others come to it.
JAKE: Maybe nobody else shares your interests. You’ll be a loner.
SEAN: I don’t like looking dumb.
CORA: It’s exciting to not know and discover new ideas. It’s like a treasure hunt if you really care about your questions.
DANIEL: But it’s scary to feel like you’re hanging out there on your own.
CORA: Others will help you.
DANIEL: It’s not good for teachers to realize how little you know. They write college recommendations.
CHELSEA: Maybe how much you grow is as important as what they think you should know.
SEAN: Okay, I gotta admit I’m not all that driven by learning things. Where does fun come in? How about meeting girls? Oops, don’t mean to be gender rigid. So, what do I say … heartmates? That sounds truly stupid.
CORA: I can honestly say that we try to get away from judging others at this school.
DANIEL: I don’t always feel comfortable here. Not having to do with sexuality, but just in general.
CHELSEA: What about school makes you feel uncomfortable, Daniel?
DANIEL: Everyone pushing at me all the time: What do you think about this or that? What are your interests? What is your gut telling you? Sometimes it’s too much, like just leave me alone.
CORA: I agree, Daniel, sometimes it’s overwhelming. But that’s just a part of life and part of what we need to learn. Like, who am I on the inside, regardless of black and white stereotypes out there in the world. That’s what I’m preoccupied with.
SEAN: Okay, let’s get back to the “fun” part of my question. Where’s that?
JAKE: I definitely enjoy coming to school every day. Maybe it’s because work on the farm is so hard, and it’s nice to use your brain muscles some. The fun comes from people I’ve grown up with who know me well and who I don’t have to explain things to. So I can just relax and laugh a lot. And while we do a lot of work in classes, the teachers aren’t breathing down your neck and pressuring you.
CHELSEA: See
ms like who you are on the inside is in synch with who you are on the outside, Jake.
CORA: Yeah, I’m definitely not there yet, but I do expect school to help me figure out “me” related to the big-picture “out there.”
DANIEL: Sometimes I think of school like a stage where I can try out being different people. Everyone calls me Mr. Mayor, and I get that it’s kind of a slam against my friendly, on-the-surface ways and liking to know what everyone is up to, but that’s okay. It seems like fun to me. It feels comfortable when I know how people will relate to me. Also, I think that role will serve me well in the business world.
SEAN: Here’s another concern I have: the obsession with declaring “interests.” My main interest is surfing, and there’s no ocean here.
DANIEL: Yeah, like there are only a few small businesses around here. Who will I learn from?
CORA: That’s a starting point for both of you to figure out. Like, maybe it’s not the size of the business, Daniel, but practices like entrepreneurship, which people are good at in both small businesses and large corporations.
CHELSEA: And I don’t know, Sean, it seems in addition to surfing you also like biking, cross-country skiing, hiking … all these outdoor adventure activities. They seem to represent “fun,” which is a big part of you.
JAKE: I want to ask you a question, Sean: What do your parents think about you transferring to Stone Creek?
SEAN: They haven’t said much yet. They’re “thinking about it.”
DANIEL: Sounds like you need to build a case and sell it to them if that’s what you want.
JAKE: I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t want to go against my dad. It’s a big responsibility of a parent to know their kid well enough to help guide them to make good decisions.
SEAN: I’m caught between wanting it to be my decision and worrying that I’ll make a bad decision.
DANIEL: I can see why, Sean. It could be a bad decision because you are all set to get into college, graduating from a fancy private school like Hilltop.
CHELSEA: But Sean’s miserable at Hilltop.
JAKE: Change is hard.
CORA: But change is a lot easier when you do it with other people, like close friends.
DANIEL: You can make close friends anywhere you go. That’s easy.
CORA: Really deep friends? Who will support you no matter what?
SEAN: I’m not sure how to do that no matter where I am.
A few days after our “debate,” Chelsea volunteers to drive me out to Jake’s to hear about a problem Chief had with a group called the Hardee’s Eight. Jake’s dad is a central character in the group, and Jake keeps up with their activities through dinner table conversations with his dad.
Chelsea drops me off at Jake’s, right next door from her house, and tells me to call her for a ride home when we’re through talking.
Jake’s in the middle of his farm work.
“Hope you don’t mind, Sean, following me around while I do my afternoon farm chores,” he says when I walk up.
“No problem.” I’m glad I wore my hiking boots. I took a cue from Jake, who always wears his work boots.
The first chore is to walk the fences to make sure there are no breaks. Rounding up lost cows is apparently a pain. Jake counts the cows to make sure all are accounted for—particularly the calves, who he says tend to be more adventurous explorers and sometimes get caught in brambles and such.
“The whole controversy started around two things,” Jake says as we walk. “One was those planning groups, which were made up largely of professional people in the city and did not include regular folks out in the county who had not been big successes in school. There’s always been this divide in the community, with about four out of five students coming from families not considered big economic players. Apparently, Chief, being new to the area, didn’t realize this until it was all over. And nobody had realized the groups would be able to make real changes, since groups had been put together in years past to advise the schools but were never listened to. The changes the teachers came up with, based on ideas from the groups, were considered far-out and radical to my dad and his friends.”
I’m a little distracted by watching the cows, waiting for one to gore me like I’ve seen in bullfights. I’m reassured a bit when Jake walks over to one of the calves and scratches its head. The mama cow barely glances at him, but she stares at me like she knows I’m a stranger.
“Nothing much happened at first,” Jake goes on. “The Hardee’s guys—they’re named that because they eat breakfast together there most every day—got their revenge by spreading around their nickname for Chief: ‘Greaser,’ meaning he could talk a slick line but watch out for his ideas. The city people call him Mr. Shepherd, a few poking fun at the herding the sheep reference.”
Uh-oh, trouble. I see a calf on the wrong side of the fence. “Hey, Jake, check it out,” I say pointing.
“Good eye,” he says. “Let’s find the break in the fence so we can guide it back through.” He starts walking again. “Then comes the big hoo-ha: After changes started at the school, some kids were caught exploring online porn sites—at home, not at school, but they had learned about the sites from other kids at school.”
Laughing, I say, “I bet that didn’t go over well in a community filled with fundamentalist churches.”
“You got that right. Hey, I found the break!” He’s all business now. “Let me tell you how you can help. First, we walk real slow—no fast moves or the calf will get spooked and run who knows where. I’m going to leave this pile of fresh-cut grass I’ve been carrying on this side of the fence to attract the calf; it’ll probably attract other cows too, but that’s okay. We’ll go around behind the calf to head it in this direction, and when we do, make yourself big by extending both arms up and wide, keeping them that way. Then move very slow and quiet.”
Everything happens exactly as Jake said it would, and in no time we have the calf back where it belongs.
“Darn if it doesn’t work!” I exclaim as Jake sets to work on the fence break. “I love learning new skills. Now if I ever get stuck on a country road with a cow in the middle, I’ll know what to do. Except it would be a lot scarier by myself and with a full-grown, monster-size cow.”
“Back to the story,” Jake says, not hyped up. I realize this must be a common occurrence for him. “So with the porn thing, the school did the right thing by not evading all responsibility. Instead of claiming it wasn’t the school’s problem and insisting that teenagers have always traded sex information among themselves, Chief organized first period class meetings, with outside speakers and parent observers, to discuss the implications of porn sites—how they promote risky and illegal sexual behavior and demean women and young children as objects of the porn industry, and what the importance of moral values in society is. The Hardee’s group thought the important thing was the discussions on moral values. Chief made friends with some local ministers by asking them to focus on the issue in church, saying that was something they had more practice at than schools did. In general the controversy died down, but the tremendous initial uproar has left a suspicious bent about what goes on at Stone Creek.”
We make our way back to the barn, where we start shoveling out cow pies and putting in new hay for tonight. The night temperatures in the spring can still get down in the thirties, so the cows are more comfortable indoors.
Jake wipes his forehead. “Another thing that’s come up lately is transgender rights and the issue of bathroom access. The wife of one of the Hardee’s crowd, who’s a nurse, has been quietly organizing medical people to talk with their neighbors about the awful threats transgender people face. We’ll see where that goes.”
“Apparently Chief isn’t shying away from this subject either. One of the first things he told me and Chelsea about when we visited Stone Creek was his reaching out to one transgender student.”
“Really?” Jake smiles. “He’s pretty amazing. I hope he can last in this very traditional
community. Power over what goes on in schools is about the last thing people still have with the decline in small farms, the big recession a few years ago, and technology taking over so many people’s jobs.”
“It’s really impressive how you see things in a big way but also keep your focus on what you most care about, a small farm,” I say. “You’re pretty smart to see how what you want relates to everything else that could help or get in the way.”
“I feel lucky to be able to stay here and have work I want to do. Many kids graduate from high school and move away, never coming back except to visit, and I’ve heard a lot of them say how much they miss it. Some could start businesses here, but they say the place is too conservative for them to feel comfortable.”
“Hey, Chief,” I say, my mouth dry. “Thanks for meeting with us.”
My mom and dad exchange handshakes and introductions with Chief. I’m as nervous as I ever remember being. My parents and I look at Chief, expecting him to take charge.
He responds by making it clear authority rests with us. “My understanding, Sean, is you are considering transferring to Stone Creek in the fall. And your parents want to know more about the school to advise you about a possible move. Am I on target for what you-all want out of the meeting?”
We all nod.
“I hope none of you will perceive me as trying to sell you on Stone Creek. I will for sure get enthusiastic when I talk about our school, but by no means am I presuming to know what is best for you, Sean. One other warning is I talk a lot—and I mean a lot. So feel free to interrupt at any time. I’m used to it.” Chief chuckles. “Let’s start with each of you stating concerns or asking questions so the discussion will meet your needs.”
Everybody looks at me. I have to act mature if I want this discussion to go well, starting with talking first and with confidence. “If I do transfer here, this will be my third high school,” I say. “I worry that I’ve missed a lot the last two years and it will be hard to catch up. I’ve already met three other students here, though, and that is three more people who I consider friends than I would have back at Hilltop next year. I don’t exactly know how to say it; I just think Stone Creek would be good for me, and I would become involved in a way I haven’t at Hilltop. But I will definitely need help.”
School Tales Page 9