I’ve been home schooled my whole life. I’ve been home schooled so long, I type “home school” as one word, and I get the angry red lines flashing under it in Microsoft Word. People all over the world have strong opinions on home schooling, from religious groups that only home school to countries like Germany, where it is outlawed (I had the pleasure of living in Germany during 6th grade. The neighbors looked on with wonder). For me personally it’s definitely had its ups and downs. Here I will outline the four stages of home schooling as one ages and progresses down the scholastic journey:
Stage One: A is for Apple. I had so much potential. It was the summer after kindergarten, and I lay on my bed in my room in Guam, reading a biography on George Washington. The teachers were enthralled by my mental prowess as I counted backwards and forwards between 1 and 500 while my peers struggled to reach 10. They had suggested I skip ahead into 2nd grade, though I was merely 5 years old. My parents refused, and I had to settle for GATE, an advanced student club whose acronym meaning I don’t remember. We studied Greek mythology and wrote stories for some Reading Rainbow contest. My dad was in the Air Force and had just received orders to Washington, D.C. Instead of subjecting me to the shoddy school system in the nation’s capital, my parents decided I would be home schooled. It was something of a novel idea at the time, and I wasn’t really sure what to think of it.
Stage Two: 64 + 36 = 100. I just turned 9 years old. I was in love with life, carefree as can be and the most popular boy in my neighborhood on Bolling AFB, Washington, D.C. I was a bear in cub scouts, working through 3rd grade, and active in my church and local home school group. In the morning I would wake up, struggle at the table for hours trying to figure out my math problems, finish my school after lunch, and in the afternoon play every sport imaginable in the field behind my house with my friends. Pokemon cards were all the rage, and on weekends I would go to the park and trade cards with all the naughty kids that would try to steal my Charizard when they thought I wasn’t looking. Every year I had the placement test required by the state to make sure that I was actually learning at home and not just slacking off playing Nintendo 64. I got done with each timed portion 20 minutes early and would write stories in the back of my notebook. I barely lost my grade’s annual spelling bee to a boy whose biased father/judge decided it was ok for him to spell “mircowaves,” but not me.
Stage Three: Spell “Equilibrium”. I thought I had finally grown up at the end of the ‘03/’04 school year. I was living in a suburb of Salt Lake City, Utah and was 13 years old. I had two best friends that were brothers living a few doors down from my house. We were obsessed with basketball, playing 21 at least 250 days of the year. We traded basketball cards and went to the Utah Jazz games. We rode bikes and scooters and camped and jumped on the trampoline and had snowball fights against the other neighborhood urchins. We always won. When people said our names, they ran it together like we were one person, “Bendalnbrisn.” On nights when our parents weren’t home, we would lie in the bed of a truck and throw mayonnaise packets at passing cars. I just got my results from the annual state placement test and was in the 97th percentile for my grade nationwide. I wrote a sales pitch as a requirement for a Boy Scout merit badge and performed it for my troop to raucous laughter and applause. I was elected patrol leader. I impressed my friends with my knowledge of the world, random facts, and strategic aptitude in capture the flag.
Stage Four: Write a Ten Page Essay On The Underlying Meaning of “Obscure Boring Title.” I just received my ACT results in the mail. I rush to my room to open the packet. I got a 26. I apply for scholarships, though as I read through the applications I know I’m not getting anything. I’m a white male with middle class parents that got a 26 on my ACT. I have no fellow graduating class so I have no impressive comparisons. I’ve never taken AP classes, never been a member of the Honor Society, never played varsity sports, never been involved with any school clubs, never wrote for the school paper, and never did anything impressive in any way, shape, or form. I’m Mr. Average. I write half-hearted essays to send in, though it’s hard to concentrate or get “in the zone” when I know the scholarship committee will choose someone that’s actually done something. I didn’t have many friends anymore. When I moved to Colorado Springs, Colorado, and started high school, I learned people’s friends didn’t consist strictly of those who live on your street anymore. Teens had cars and were involved in so many activities and had friends from their school that lived miles away. What are best friends? I don’t remember. Sure, I developed a few casual relationships with people I knew, but I was always put on the back burner for someone else, and nobody ever initiated contact with me. I had two girlfriends throughout high school who both quickly realized I wasn’t good enough for them, or perhaps I was a bit too quirky and unorthodox. I sat at home day after day and entertained myself via the internet and video games. I just received my envelope from my college of choice’s scholarship committee. I win absolutely nothing. I had so much potential.
Personally, I think Twitter can be fun so long as its not taken seriously. Take for instance Chris Cain of the band We Are Scientists. He posts his IDEAS4AMERICA, which include: remote control asphalt and jelly mattresses. He also enjoys posting complete and total nonsense, once boasting that he won $50 dollars in a bar bet by naming every single breed of canine. If you already have a Twitter account, you should definitely begin “following”(Eh, creeeepy) Cain, regardless if you’re a fan of WAS or not. Although I don’t understand why you wouldn’t be. We Are Scientists are better than a jelly mattress (Yeah, that good.). In the meantime, I’ll refrain from divulging the candid details of my life. You people just aren’t worthy.
