I Hate School
I hated school as a kid. I think this was why homeschooling appealed to me so much early on in my journey. I loved reading and writing and learning, mind you. I just hated school. The actual building. And the school bus, and the playground.
I am, by nature, an extremely sensitive person. My feelings get hurt easily, and I have learned to thicken my skin a little bit. But I am also extremely sensitive to sounds and smells, to other people's emotions and actions; my senses are keen. And this is what I hated so much about school.
The bus ride was noisy and smelly. Kids screaming and laughing and pushing each other around. Kids teasing and kids getting hurt; fights and tears and taunts. The bus smelled of dirty kids and leftover lunch and sour milk. It reeked of the exhaust fumes and dirt and scum on the floor. The seats smelled of vinyl and were not comfortable. The windows never seemed to line up quite right with the seats and sometimes I was unlucky to sit near a window that didn't open enough to let in a bit of fresh air. Most days, I arrived at my destination exhausted from taking it all in, and sick to my stomach from the smells.
The classroom was no better. Desks smelled funny to me as did glue and crayons. Not offensive, but weird. The smell of books and paper mixed with the kid next to me and pencil shavings. One year, my teacher had an incontinence problem, and I was afraid and repulsed to be near her, so I never asked her for help. The noises weren't as bad, as we were expected to behave ourselves, But there was always a trouble maker or two that horrified me with their language and spit balls and disrespect for the teacher. I got into the habit of sneaking a favorite book into school and reading in class, partly out of sheer boredom and partly to get inside my head where I found tranquility. I got caught eventually, and that was the end of that.
The food was barely edible. I still refuse to buy or eat canned peas or instant potatoes. My mother made me eat the hot lunch instead of bringing my own; she thought it would be better for me. She didn't believe me when I told her how awful the food was until she worked at my school filling in for the principal's secretary. One lunch, and she was convinced. I brought my own thereafter. But even eating my homemade lunch could not block out the noise and ruckus. I sat in silence, watching the crazy antics of my peers, repelled but strangely fascinated by them.
The playground offered fresh air, at least, if I was able to breathe it in peace. Some games were fun, of course, but I was always afraid. Afraid of the bigger, meaner kids. Afraid of the kids who teased me. I would lean as close to the wall of the school or a tree as I could to avoid them, and I still remember the feel of the bricks and the tree trunks as they pulled and roughed up my stockings. The asphalt where we bounced balls was hot and hard and I skinned my knees often.
Walking back to class in a line, which always seemed unnatural to me, the hallway was in uproar with everyone talking and laughing. I felt the walls close in on me, and I tried to block it all out. I clearly remember the girl in front of me swinging her lunch box so hard and high, she hit me in the face and I had to spend quite a while in the nurse's office waiting for my nose to stop bleeding. I was a regular in her office; she was kind and it was a quiet place.
My senses were under constant assault and I was sickly most of the time (no wonder). I actually welcomed sickness because it meant I could stay home where it was quiet and I could read to my heart's content. I even pretended to be sick a lot so I could just stay home, and since I always had dark circles under my eyes, my mom either believed me or just felt sorry for me. I missed 30 days one school year, but was able to pass up to the next grade with no problem.
But I never told a soul. I never was able to articulate what I was going through. I suppose I figured everyone was like that, since I never talked about it. I never told my parents or brothers. I just crawled inside of myself, where it was safe and peaceful. It was the only coping mechanism that I knew, and thus I was a very quiet and thoughtful child. I didn't have many friends, just a couple of faithful girls that liked me no matter what.
School felt like a prison.
So when it came time to think about education for my own kids, homeschooling seemed a Godsend. I realize now that not all kids are as sensitive as I was; some of my own kids are, but some aren't. I wonder about kids in school today, and how many of them are suffering in silence as I did, not able to tell anyone. I wonder how many parents, if only they knew their child felt this way, would be swayed to homeschool.
I am so thankful to be able to have my kids with me every day. So thankful they do not have to ride a bus or sit in a classroom or navigate the playground. So thankful to hear them playing outside in the safety of home. Thankful to be able to offer them solitude when they need it, nourishing foods that they like, plenty of books to lose themselves in, and kisses for their boo-boos. In some ways, I suppose, homeschooling has been very healing for me. Not that I live vicariously through my kids (at least I try not to), but, rather, seeing a different way of educating, a healthier way, and being a part of it.
I am, by nature, an extremely sensitive person. My feelings get hurt easily, and I have learned to thicken my skin a little bit. But I am also extremely sensitive to sounds and smells, to other people's emotions and actions; my senses are keen. And this is what I hated so much about school.
The bus ride was noisy and smelly. Kids screaming and laughing and pushing each other around. Kids teasing and kids getting hurt; fights and tears and taunts. The bus smelled of dirty kids and leftover lunch and sour milk. It reeked of the exhaust fumes and dirt and scum on the floor. The seats smelled of vinyl and were not comfortable. The windows never seemed to line up quite right with the seats and sometimes I was unlucky to sit near a window that didn't open enough to let in a bit of fresh air. Most days, I arrived at my destination exhausted from taking it all in, and sick to my stomach from the smells.
The classroom was no better. Desks smelled funny to me as did glue and crayons. Not offensive, but weird. The smell of books and paper mixed with the kid next to me and pencil shavings. One year, my teacher had an incontinence problem, and I was afraid and repulsed to be near her, so I never asked her for help. The noises weren't as bad, as we were expected to behave ourselves, But there was always a trouble maker or two that horrified me with their language and spit balls and disrespect for the teacher. I got into the habit of sneaking a favorite book into school and reading in class, partly out of sheer boredom and partly to get inside my head where I found tranquility. I got caught eventually, and that was the end of that.
The food was barely edible. I still refuse to buy or eat canned peas or instant potatoes. My mother made me eat the hot lunch instead of bringing my own; she thought it would be better for me. She didn't believe me when I told her how awful the food was until she worked at my school filling in for the principal's secretary. One lunch, and she was convinced. I brought my own thereafter. But even eating my homemade lunch could not block out the noise and ruckus. I sat in silence, watching the crazy antics of my peers, repelled but strangely fascinated by them.
The playground offered fresh air, at least, if I was able to breathe it in peace. Some games were fun, of course, but I was always afraid. Afraid of the bigger, meaner kids. Afraid of the kids who teased me. I would lean as close to the wall of the school or a tree as I could to avoid them, and I still remember the feel of the bricks and the tree trunks as they pulled and roughed up my stockings. The asphalt where we bounced balls was hot and hard and I skinned my knees often.
Walking back to class in a line, which always seemed unnatural to me, the hallway was in uproar with everyone talking and laughing. I felt the walls close in on me, and I tried to block it all out. I clearly remember the girl in front of me swinging her lunch box so hard and high, she hit me in the face and I had to spend quite a while in the nurse's office waiting for my nose to stop bleeding. I was a regular in her office; she was kind and it was a quiet place.
My senses were under constant assault and I was sickly most of the time (no wonder). I actually welcomed sickness because it meant I could stay home where it was quiet and I could read to my heart's content. I even pretended to be sick a lot so I could just stay home, and since I always had dark circles under my eyes, my mom either believed me or just felt sorry for me. I missed 30 days one school year, but was able to pass up to the next grade with no problem.
But I never told a soul. I never was able to articulate what I was going through. I suppose I figured everyone was like that, since I never talked about it. I never told my parents or brothers. I just crawled inside of myself, where it was safe and peaceful. It was the only coping mechanism that I knew, and thus I was a very quiet and thoughtful child. I didn't have many friends, just a couple of faithful girls that liked me no matter what.
School felt like a prison.
So when it came time to think about education for my own kids, homeschooling seemed a Godsend. I realize now that not all kids are as sensitive as I was; some of my own kids are, but some aren't. I wonder about kids in school today, and how many of them are suffering in silence as I did, not able to tell anyone. I wonder how many parents, if only they knew their child felt this way, would be swayed to homeschool.
I am so thankful to be able to have my kids with me every day. So thankful they do not have to ride a bus or sit in a classroom or navigate the playground. So thankful to hear them playing outside in the safety of home. Thankful to be able to offer them solitude when they need it, nourishing foods that they like, plenty of books to lose themselves in, and kisses for their boo-boos. In some ways, I suppose, homeschooling has been very healing for me. Not that I live vicariously through my kids (at least I try not to), but, rather, seeing a different way of educating, a healthier way, and being a part of it.
Comments
Post a Comment