An American institution

Yesterday Edith joined the ranks of American public schoolchildren. Some Americans get misty-eyed when the flag rises over a baseball game; others get goosebumps on hearing the strains of "God Bless America." Elite liberal academics supposedly are cynical about it all, detached and critical and forever ironic.

So let me say here and now, as an American cultural historian, that my country's system of public education brings out the unapologetic, goose-bumpy, misty-eyed patriot in me.

 I know there are serious problems with American schools. Most unforgiveable is the fact that the quality of a child's education depends on how much adults in his or her neighborhood are able to pay in taxes, a grossly unfair scheme. There are crowded, underfunded schools across the country. There are violent schools where kids aren't safe, and there are students whose predominant experience of school is alienation or boredom. There are teachers who aren't adequately trained for their jobs or who lack the talent to teach effectively. And almost all teachers are underpaid for what they do.

Nevertheless. I find the premise of the American public school system amazing and on balance, the reality is impressive. As a country we commit to educating any child who walks in the door, no matter the background he comes from, the language he speaks, or the medical conditions or disabilities he brings with him. Last winter when we were registering Edith for kindergarten in Princeton (before we knew we were moving), I watched the school administrators engage cheerfully and competently with parents who came in speaking three different languages--Spanish, Korean, and Chinese--in the hour that I was there. We have friends whose children live with extraordinary physical and mental challenges, and we have seen how the educational system makes room for them and figures out how best to serve them. We have friends and relatives who work in that system meeting incredible and often unexpected needs in the children they teach and care for, every day.

Even in dealing with less urgently needy children, the teachers and administrators I know exhibit incredible energy, creativity, compassion, and dedication to a daunting job. I look at Edith's kindergarten teacher, in a well-supplied classroom with a skilled principal and multiple support staff, and I still marvel at all she will do to mold twenty-five young children into responsible, functioning members of society. I know that some parents wring their hands when they think of schools overlooking their children's individuality, teaching to a common denominator, treating all students as part of an undifferentiated group. Certainly I don't want my daughters to get lost in the shuffle, or to be taught by people who fail to appreciate the most important elements of who they are. However, I think one of the great things about school is precisely that it teaches a child she is one among many, that it is imperative to figure out how to operate as part of a broader civic community and to contribute to it. And if that process is painful at times, in the end she may discover it is deeply rewarding.

At one point in graduate school we were grappling with the question of assimilation. How exactly have different immigrant populations come to feel part of the American body politic? What is the process? I was musing on this question to my mother, wondering about our Scandinavian ancestors on the plains in the Midwest, removed from urban culture, not speaking English. Mom said without hesitation that her grandmother and great-grandmother's generation came to feel part of America by attending public school. They learned not only the language but poetry, narratives, and cultural customs that allowed them to claim their place in society. Yes, I know the question of assimilation is deeply fraught. Much of my professional work involves examining cross-cultural encounters and deciding how to understand and evaluate them.

Be that as it may. At the end of the day I believe wholeheartedly in a free, public school system. I believe in its fundamental educational and civic mission. I believe in its centrality to who we are as a country and what we can achieve as a society. And I'm ridiculously excited that my oldest child is now a part of it.

As for Edith, she's just excited to ride the schoolbus.

It should be apparent that everyone chose their own outfits this morning. When a storm started brewing over all things sartorial, I let go of my first-day perfectionism and decided that sending Edith off in good spirits was more important than making sure she wore clean, wrinkle-free, matching clothes and functional shoes (never mind a cute new outfit). Alice meanwhile was hopeful that "Alice ride Mommy's lap schoolbus."

Headed to the bus stop. As you can tell from these pictures, I'm still trying to figure out how to photograph in the intense Colorado sunlight.

She never looked back. 


As for us, we held it together until we got in the car and turned on NPR. They were interviewing tearful mothers on the street in Boston as they said goodbye to their college freshmen. We laughed with the freshman apologizing for his mother's three-day crying jag...and then we choked up, casting sheepish glances at each other.

Waiting for sister's return at the end of the day. About five seconds after the bus left in the morning, Alice started asking, "Edith all done schoolbus?" It may or may not be coincidental that she sank her teeth into Edith's shoulder upon their reunion.

Unlike my first day of public school, when I was dismayed to run out of fingers and toes on which to keep track of the things I wanted to tell my parents, we had to pull details out of Edith. At first she put off our battery of questions by explaining that she needed a break, "until my head perks up a bit." Fair enough. But eventually we resumed interrogation and so pieced together a recap:

The day started a bit boring but then got fun. She can't remember what it was that was boring--or fun. Edith's kindergarten is like Ramona Quimby's kindergarten: they have two boys with the same name, whom they have to call Dylan P. and Dylan G.* It's like Ramona Quimby's first grade, too: they are making art projects to display in the classroom for Open House night. The most surprising rule is that you can't play tag on the playground equipment; you have to go to the open field. The most disappointing rule is that you can't climb on top of the monkey bars. (E: "Bother. As Pooh would say.") Edith could recall which animal was associated with each letter of the alphabet on the classroom wall. The class listened to three stories, all of them about the first day of school. One described someone feeling nervous on the first day of kindergarten...and it turned out to be the teacher! Edith's teacher told the class that she always gets nervous on the first day of school. Edith drew us a picture of a house with a horse and the six-headed Scylla inside--only three of the heads were tucked underneath where you couldn't see them. She forgot her lunchbox in the cafeteria.

Most important, she liked it.

*Note: That's nothing compared to Mommy's class. In a seminar of 20 I have two Roberts, two Jameses, two Chrises, two Maxes, and two Wills, which I think must be some kind of newbie hazing. But at least I don't have to label their cubbies.