Another year of schooling has begun, and this year will be different.
At the end of August the DoDDS Superintendent confirmed a decision made earlier
this Summer by the Middle School principal that she would not place Chris
in her school this term. The reasons are outlined here.
You can imagine our indignation, especially when we found out the school principal
was certified in Special Education. The DoDDS decision was insufferably cold
and irritatingly legal.
British school was suggested, but we laughed. Too well we remember the
teacher conferences, the parent notes, the anxious look on Chris's face in
the morning or his frustration when he returned home -- all these while attending
a US school. No, this year we decided on a different approach. This year,
Chris attends Mr. Hooper's class.
Without the 7 A.M. bus rush, our days start less frenetically. There is a helpful home
schooling group here that organizes swim lessons, trips, and library study. I am learning to be
flexible and patient especially if the lesson material doesn't stick
to Chris on the first try. Chris is learning to work without as much supervision, though
at times he comes to a grinding halt and there is nothing to do but take a 'bunny break'.
We keep to our schedule as best we can, and adapt our day as needed. This arrangement was
particularly useful when my mother came to visit in October. >
After more than a year of maintaining our relationship by long-distance
telephony, my mum ventured over the Atlantic in search of the grandchildren
she missed. She needed a break after a long spell of professional and personal
commitments. She'd had, she said as we drove home from Gatwick Airport,
a lot on her mind. I listened and thought how life back in America
had changed, and why she needed a break. Eventually she drifted into a lag-induced nap.
Rather than making a whirlwind, 'gotta-see-everything' tour, Mom settled
for the rural Suffolk experience. Bury-St. Edmunds remained a favorite haunt.
There were renovations to the cathedral she'd not seen, plus a farm show
by the Abbey Gate. The beautiful Abbey Gardens were in full Fall regalia.
She visited the Carpet Bag Shop on St. John's Street to procure a colorful
new handbag.
Mom saw her grandson riding for the first time. Genuinely impressed
when Chris coaxed a canter from his obstreperous mount, she recounted a
long ago riding lesson when her own horse proved so stubborn she melted
into tears. Mom was quite pleased with Chris that afternoon.
Part of her itinerary included a trip to pretty, little Lavenham with
Judy and Elena for a Girls Day Out while Chris and I stayed home for our
schooling. On another she, Chris, and I went to the American Cemetery in
Cambridge and poked around the city proper for an hour or so. >
We felt a trip north was in order, as well. Unbelievable as it seemed,
there was one place within driving distance we hadn't yet been. The city of
Norwich (pronounced NAR-ich) is in county Norfolk, which is north of Suffolk
and consequently a place no self-respecting southerner goes. "Normal for Norfolk",
meaning anything abnormal or unlovely, is a kindless term still heard in these
parts. These two counties combined with county Essex constitute what is known
as East Anglia.
Norwich itself has an incredibly rich past both in historical and financial
terms. The city played an important role for the Normans after the conquest
of 1066. Nearly a thousand years before, the area proved an important addition
for the colonial Romans. These can be partly attributed to the city's perch
on the high ground overlooking The Broads and several rivers leading to the
North Sea.
The Castle and its museums provided potent examples of Norwich's brutal past
from Norman England to its use as a prison in the 19th century. Today Norwich is a vibrant
city that most foreign visitors ignore, and that suits the locals fine. Norwich is one of
only a handful of cities in England with a week long, year-round market. Most other towns
such as Bury or Stowmarket have market only once or twice a week. Our trip was too brief.
We'll need to visit the city again to see its acclaimed cathedral and stroll its
hilly, winding streets and alleys. >
After the completion of our week-long Monopoly game (Judy won), mom
felt she was ready for home. By the time I'd returned from Gatwick Airport
and a heartfelt good-bye, I was already mulling over the coming week's teaching.
I won't say it absorbs all my time, but it has created some new priorities
... sort of like a new job.
"You're so lucky," some parents tell me when
I reveal my new avocation. I wonder. For years, a publicly funded education was
the cornerstone of American culture. To take my son's education out of the hands
of professionals and be personally responsible for his academic future seems more
like an act of rebellion. I know a few parents who put their children
on the school bus with apprehension now. They say they would follow a different
path if they could but, oddly enough, they choose not to.
My hopes to teach Business Writing at the local college have stalled. Instead,
I teach a Sixth grade class of one. It is an unexpected challenge made more convoluted by
a child with special needs. At times I nag myself by wondering if I am doing my best, but I
am encouraged by the experience thus far.
I tell myself I am better suited to this task than some. All my life,
whether I willed it or not, I have been a teacher of some sort. Does
this suggest a career shift? I don't really know, so I must have a little bit of faith.
That's the best I can do right now.
Until our next time together ... Happy
Guy Fawkes Day!
