The Mouse that Roared- The Fury of an Apparent Nonentity

I suppose I should be happy, all things considered, that only one of my students has failed a class of mine this semester. My students' grades scatter pretty predictably and evenly on the scale from excellent to poor, which seems to imply that I'm challenging them, but not impossibly. Whatever satisfaction I derive from this, however, is getting lost in what may be an irrational surge of anger and indignation, but is no less potent for that.

The student who failed the class (Spanish I) wasn't really a surprise, to him or to me. He has detested me personally almost since we met, and this has been intensified by a couple of incidents in which I unnecessarily (in his view) got him in trouble. In addition to this, he never really wanted to be in the class in the first place, and routinely refused to put in even the most elementary effort. Once, when he was the only one in class not taking notes, I asked him why, and he told me that he "hates writing." This was fairly typical, and certainly indicative.

However, though unsurprising, the fact that he actually failed the class was unpleasant, and caused the predictable (if you know me) loss of confidence and period of intense, almost masochistic self-examination for what possible flaw in me or my methods could have caused the problem. It was in the midst of this that I went to break the news to his mother, accompanied by my boss, Julia.

I don't want this to be read as bashing Julia. She is an amazing lady. Her official title is "High School Department Head," but it ought to be "The glue that holds this place together, and has for years in the face of significant adversity." If you're looking for a hero in the story of my work here, she's right up there at the top of the list, and I don't want what I'm about to say to detract from that.

The first thing the student's mother asked me was "can you fix it?" Translated, this means that the woman (also a generally kind and reasonable person) was asking me to fudge my numbers so that her son would get a passing grade he hadn't even tried to earn. This is what the woman's long experience at Whitman had led her to expect; she could work behind the scenes to make up for her child's shortcomings, and even his deliberate and sustained disrespect and rebellion. As I will demonstrate shortly, she was right.

I plucked up what little was left of my courage to tell her that I certainly could tweak the grade, but that I chose not to due to the student's consistent and unapologetic disdain for me and everything I had to teach. In a case of a student who was legitimately struggling in the class, my answer might have been different, I said. I would like you, dear reader, to pause a moment and imagine how difficult this was for me to do under the circumstances, wilting under the accusatory stare of a mother defending her child, with my boss in the room and the crushing weight of my inexperience and related insecurities clouding my judgment. But I did it. I stuck to my guns, for all the good it did. Here is what happened next.

I immediately disappeared from the conversation, as the two women put their heads together. In under 5 minutes they had hammered out a plan. Whitman policy requires a student who is failing a class at the end of a semester to drop said class. Now, it seemed that the young man had always wanted to study Latin. If he could find a way to do an effective independent study program in Latin for two hours per class day for the remainder of the year, the school could justify giving him a high school foreign-language credit to put on his transcript.

I was (and remain) appalled and dumbfounded. So, a kid has deliberately personally antagonized a teacher, misapplied his formidable native intelligence into destructive pranks rather than academic performance, failed a class simply because he didn't feel like passing it, and we're going to REWARD him? We're going to give him a chance to study what he wants rather than what's required? We're going to wipe the slate clean and let no record of his unacceptable showing even remain in documentary form? Are we an educational institution or manufactory of meaningless diplomas unrelated to any actual knowledge or performance? Considering that no faculty member knows Latin, how can we possibly ensure that he studies anything at all when we can't check his progress? And (perhaps most importantly of all) would the same accommodations be made for somebody whose parents don't have the clout that this one's do?

My whole experience with Whitman Academy leads me to doubt the last point. I should say here that Whitman Academy is, in many ways, an absolutely heroic achievement. It provides a desperately needed- indeed, all but irreplaceable- option for parents who can't or don't want to homeschool their children, and can't afford the exorbitant rates of Amman's other English-language schools. The place is, in some ways, held together with spit, chewing gum, and a lot of prayers, and its impact and value can hardly be overstated.

However, the fact that the school's creators and main participants form such a tightly knit group leads to things like what I described above (which is far from being an isolated experience, although it's my worst one so far). There's an active and thriving network of relationships, connections, and favors owed and paid behind the school's impartial and dignified facade, and it leads people not only to hope, but even to expect, that their children will not be permitted to fail a class, or even do poorly (I base that assertion on two similar, previous incidents) regardless of effort, aptitude, or behavior.

Whitman is in the final analysis a homeschool which has outgrown the home. It was founded with seven children from two families. Now, there are nearly 100 students, and the original two rooms in somebody's house have grown to 12 classrooms in an apartment building entirely dedicated to the purpose. There's even a school board. The problem is that many of the parents who remember the school's roots are apt to dig in their heels and oppose any change, no matter how necessary or well-advised. For example, a policy new to this year prohibits parents from simply going to a classroom and removing their children from it. They have to go to the office first, and sign out their kids. This sounds very reasonable and familiar to any parent who has had children in an American school of any significant size, but is complained about, or simply ignored, by long-standing Whitman parents to a pathetic degree.

In another totally inexplicable absurdity, Whitman Academy's teachers are prohibited by official policy not just from contributing to school board meetings, but even from knowing what goes on in them. This means that decisions like the school schedule (number and placement of instruction days, etc) and curriculum requirements must by rule be made with no input from teachers at all. Now I don't claim I know any better on these topics than any of the members of the board, but this doesn't apply equally to all teachers, and several decisions made this year have led to consequences that are as regrettable as they were avoidable by a 5-minute conversation with any of 4 or 5 people whose experience would have told them the results.

Do we (teachers), or do we not, perform a valuable function? Is our opinion important or isn't it? Ought our needs, desires, and preferences to be considered or ought they not? The verbal answer to these questions is always yes, but the demonstrated one typically isn't, and it's frustrating both on a practical and a personal level.

All of these problems don't change the fact that I believe in what I'm doing, and have no desire to stop. This place means something to me, something important, and I love it. But I don't think that means (as some seem to) that we have arrived, or that no further improvement is necessary from our current level of achievement. As I hope I have made clear, I disagree. Strongly.

Otherwise, things are going well, if stressful. Right now it's the run-up to the school play, in which more than half of all high school students have roles, and which Brittany is directing. I try to help out where I can, though I have no official role. I'm also in charge of the yearbook, which has some important deadlines coming up. Both of us have a lot of stress at the moment, exacerbated by a lack of what most teachers in the states would consider basic teaching necessities (several classes don't have textbooks of any sort, and for a couple of her history classes Brittany had to provide her own).

Prayer requests: I could use a roommate. Living alone is fun in that I never have to clean anything unless I need to use it, but the place is awful empty and lonely, more so because (seperate request) I'm still generally short on male friends my own age. And speaking of age, my decrepit old laptop is finally starting to show its. It would be really nice if the thing could just hang on until this school year is over. The longer it lasts, of course, the longer I can wait to buy another one.

Praises: Found a new way of doing lesson plans which makes it a lot easier to actually get them done. Also, some incredibly encouraging developments in the money department mean that my situation in that regard is ever so much better. Thanks to all who were involved in that, and if you would like to be, by all means drop me an email.

Finally, I'm sorry to everybody I missed seeing while I was home. There just didn't seem to be enough hours in the time I was there. I'll probably be home again during the summer. We'll see.