Dispatch #7: The Fifth Grade

This is not a child this is an animal

I’m sitting here in my quiet house, waiting for Patrick to return home from picking up Bean and Ginger from school. Patrick gets the first Friday of every month off, and though he usually drops everyone off, it is I who usually schleps them all home. It takes multiple rides, since I get Ginger at 2:30 all days but Tuesday, when I get her at 1:30, and then at about 4, we leave to retrieve Mickey, and then we loop back to the library, which is near school. Bean has been walking there three to four days a week with his friends. On Tuesdays I give him cash to get Boba beforehand, and at the library they do math homework, play a few rounds of chess and/or Magic, The Gathering, and read comic books. I love that he is out with his friends, being independent, but I also hate the extra driving and the extra car seat buckling-and-unbuckling shenanigans. Sometimes I feel like my entire day, starting at 5:15 am when I go exercise, is spent cruising up and down Eagle Rock Boulevard in my Honda Odyssey. My whole life is on Eagle Rock Boulevard!

Yesterday we got a form notice that Bean is performing below grade level (fifth). I’ve seen this district form before because half of it is about behavior: listening to others, respecting other people’s opinions and space, having an organized desk, following directions, etc. When a child is below grade level for one of these, the description gets checked. The rightside column was checks all the way down. I felt like the teacher, if she could have, would have written: THIS IS NOT A CHILD THIS IS AN ANIMAL.

I wasn’t surprised to receive this report because we had recently received a personal letter from the teacher about “Dixon’s challenges.” He’s been yelling out shit in class, he isn’t listening, he took twice as long to finish a math test than everyone else, and even then, he failed it, and this was material he understood. The teacher sensed he’d been having some social struggles with a couple of kids, and she was correct.

Whenever I receive this sort of communication I always have the same physical reaction: my heart starts pounding, my stomach grows a pit, and I feel hot and strangled. A stress response. All these emotions and reactions swirl around: He is trying his best. He is not a typical child. Why can’t he be though? He’s had so much OT and therapy and still this?! This poor overworked and underpaid teacher does not need this bullshit. How can I help her? How can I help him? Will anything anyone says or does help him? Why do I care so much about school? Is school killing his spirit? Is spirit just code for “privileged white boy doesn’t behave and we wan’t a better word for it”? Why doesn’t he care more? Why do I want him to be different? Why can’t the teacher see that he is the most brilliant little wacky guy on the planet? How will he ever survive in the real world? Will he end up a lowlife? What if he tries heroin someday and next thing you know he’s stealing shit from my garage to pay for his drug habit? Should we put him on medication now? I don’t want to, but why don’t I want to? What am I doing wrong?

And on and on and on. I don’t want to be angry at Bean, but, wow, I am. The dragon lady comes out. She is not nice.

This time, when I got the district form, it was even worse, because not only were all the behavior issues checked, it also said he was below grade level in writing (WRITING?!) and math. This felt inaccurate, but perhaps his classwork isn’t as good as his homework, which I oversee.

I have always comforted myself knowing that although my oldest child is not the most well behaved kid, he is doing well academically. He will be fine! He’s smart! And, hey that’s why he’s so bad—he’s too smart for his own good! Maybe that’s true, but let’s be honest, it’s also family mythmaking. I’ve ossified my child into a role so that reality is comprehensible. For me, for him, for us.

(When I watched that Bill Gates documentary and I listened to the family talk about how Bill and his mom would argue—about his bad table manners, about his messy room, about his chewed up pencils—I felt such relief. That’s us! I thought. My son is just a smart kid who isn’t made for this world! It’s going to be FINE, Edan. But Bill Gates probably wasn’t performing below grade level…not in math at least!!! Also, why do we (I) have this vision of our kids as either Bill Gates, or a vagrant. No healthy middle ground!)

Everyone hated Zoom school but there were two benefits. One, Bean didn’t have the added stresses of the classroom. He didn’t have to regulate as much, and though he hated learning online, it was easier for him to doodle and spin on his desk chair and do the work he had to do—and he did it. The teacher didn’t have to discipline him, and I believe this meant there was still room to enjoy him and see him fully. Second, I knew everything that was going on! I heard their conversations about the class charter they devised, and about 9/11, and about Junipero Serra, and about powers of ten. I heard Bean converse with his classmates in the breakout rooms. I know, I know: Mom doesn’t need to be in the breakout room. But I appreciated being able to see what other fourth graders are like and how the teacher spoke to them.

From a year of Zoom, I learned that many fourth graders are far more motivated and mature. (Frankly, a few of the girls in that class could be senators, right now, at age 10.) They were a lot more tech savvy, too—they loved to make slideshows and send memes. I also saw that Bean retains an innocence, and that it’s obvious in the classroom; he still plays intense pretend games and loves Santa Claus. At the same time, he was more wordly about politics and historical movements than many of his peers. He was at once young for his age and old. Perhaps we all are.

Now that Bean’s in fifth grade, I don’t really know what’s going on behind the chain link fence except what I can glean from homework assignments and reports from Bean. Is he behind academically? Does he really not know writing conventions? How worried do I need to be?

Sigh. Parenting is such a dance between offering support and unconditional love, while also expressing to them clear expectations. I don’t want my kids to feel like they have to improve or perform—for me or anyone else. I want to empower them, though, to do their best. But, gah, what does that even mean?

Since beginning this letter and reaching this paragraph, Patrick brought the kids home. Ginger began eating a parade of snacks while Bean explained to me why he didn’t want to do his homework on a Friday. Fine with me. Then he told me about his latest social challenges: one friend, let’s call him Tom, has been excluding him from playground games, and for the past two weeks it’s caused Bean a lot of heartache. Today, he told me, Tom excluded another friend, let’s call her Gwen. Bean said he told Tom he wouldn’t play if Tom left out Gwen, and then Bean went to find Gwen, who was crying. He comforted her, and then a yard duty person helped them.

I was so proud of him. Who cares about a knowledge of writing conventions? The child has a moral compass, and a big heart. He knows how to be a friend.

(But, seriously, will he someday steal my stuff to buy heroin? *Shrug emoji*)

Fun stuff:

-The rich bitch in me loves this shampoo and conditioner. It’s too expensive and the guy who runs this company seems insane—I’m going to need a deep dive 5,000 word profile on him, stat, Taffy Brodesser-Akner!—but the hair stuff smells so so so good. There is something in the conditioner that reminds me of my mother’s old henna, back when she used to dye her hair in the kitchen sink.

-This quick Persian fish recipe was indeed quick and delicious. We made it with trout.

-Mickey and I love to watch this machine destroying a Provo, Utah school bus and feel absolute wonder.

-If you’re in LA: I’m doing an event with Claire Vaye Watkins next Tuesday night, October 4th at Skylight Books. Her latest novel, I Love You But I’ve Chosen Darkness, is an autofiction burn-it-all down story of motherhood, rage, the desert, family trauma, and more. Come hear us discuss the novel and writing. I’d love to see you.

-If you’re new to the newsletter, hi, hello! Paid subscribers will get a missive from me in two weeks when I’m in Temecula writing fiction in my cactus leggings, eating microwaveable enchiladas and praying to the novel gods.

xoxo
Edan