With all the pictures being posted on Facebook of friend's children going to their first day of this grade and that, it is making me slightly nostalgic. The first day of school is an interesting one, because depending on the situation, there can be various emotions battling each other. For most, there is a thin line between excitement and fear, something that most people try to recapture as adults, but never quite grasp that feeling of the adolescent butterflies that we fear and welcome all at once.
My best first day of school was fourth grade. I was entering a new school and a revered school. I had finished second grade in June of 1978 and had taken a test to get into a prestigious private school called St. Ann's. Despite its moniker, it as not a religiously affiliated school. At the time, it was the best school in NY and in many eyes, the best in the country. It was far from a normal school and I looked forward to fitting into the school where not everyone had to fit in. My bets friend was going there and while that had a calming effect, it wasn't exactly as it seemed as there would be a huge change. Was I ready? Would I be eaten up and spit out? Would I be scared? Most of all, would I be able to handle it?
Not three full months after finishing second grade, I was entering a much more difficult school, so there was pressure. The fact that I was skipping third grade and entering fourth, made it all the more nerve-wracking. I remember walking in on the first day and seeing all these unfamiliar faces. I was the new guy. Most of the students knew each other, but as I soon found out that wasn't a big deal. What scared me the most was my schedule. Yes, unlike most schools, we had a schedule and it wasn't the same every day. Classes were on different floors and while most of my classes were on the fourth or fifth floors, I did have science on the 6th and Gym on the 12th, music on the 11th and art across the street. Yes, this was 1978 and we all walked unassisted from one building to the next.
My first class was language structures with Bob Swacker, a thick bearded man with small thin-rimmed glasses. Mr. Swacker explained that my skipping a grade would be a problem because I was expected to write in cursive and I hadn't learned. So now, on top of being a year younger and starting a new school, I had to teach myself how to write in script. Something, I fully admit, I still haven't mastered. Penmanship aside, I loved the class. This was followed by Global History, also with Mr. Swacker within the same classroom. There was some sort of break between the first two classes, maybe a homeroom of some type, I don't remember, but then it was off to gym. The weather was nice, so the gym class wasn't held inside, but at a park, about a four minute walk from the school. Most of us ran. Upon return, I went to my locker, grabbed my books and it was off to math class. Then there was something I hadn't experienced before. A free period. They called it study hall, but the reality was, I was free to roam the school at my leisure. By then, I had made some friends and they showed me where things were. After lunch, I headed off to science, music and English (not to be confused with language structures). Then it was back home, where my mouth went a mile a minute as I explained my day to my mother and father.
They sat in great confusion and puzzlement as phrases came from an eight year old's mouth that made them question the money they were spending, that they didn't have, to send me to this school or reputed prestige.
"There are 12 floors and we walk to the park by ourselves." It should be noted this was a big ordeal the following year, with the much publicized disappearance of Etan Patz. "We have 'free' periods." "We share the school with kids from Kindergarten to 12th grade. The 12 graders even have a room where they can all hang out and smoke, inside the school." "My English teacher invented a bicycle you sit down and put your feet out to ride. It's like a lounge chair with wheels."
And then came the one comment that would floor my parents and change my life and view of education in many ways, even today. "Mom, Dad, there are no grades." As someone whose only fear was being able to compete on an intellectual level, the idea that I wouldn't be graded, in comparison to other students was a weight lifted that you could not imagine. What we did receive were well documented and incredibly descriptive evaluations detailing all of our strengths and weaknesses. Sometimes they came with no weaknesses at all, but for the most part, they always had just enough to keep us working our hardest. It was the greatest thing that ever happened to me and it changed me. It made me realize the work was the important part and not the rote memory. That the performance and actual use of intelligence was more important than merely having it. When I left St. Ann's and returned to the public school system, it hurt me, because I was not expected to use what I had learned, just basically regurgitate it. This to me wasn't learning, it was institutionalizing.
As I look back on that day, I remember the best part about it. It wasn't a single teacher or friend that I met. It wasn't anything I wore, nothing I read or anything I heard. It wasn't any sense of pride or feeling of accomplishment that touched me. It was the most simple and at the same time, most complex feeling I'd ever felt. It was the knowledge I would not be judged on one test, one paper or project, but on where I ended up and how I got there. Each of my five years in St. Ann's was a unique journey, with no A, B or C to change the path I was on. There was no feeling of grandeur from a 92 or feeling of despair from a 79. Those 13 points wouldn't define what type of student I was or who I had become. It was a paragraph, maybe two at the end of each semester, which stated what we excelled at and what we needed to improve upon. Imagine if every kid were to be judged on what they can do and what they need to work harder on and they never were told that they are 17 points from being perfect or seven points from being satisfactory. It was then I gained an appreciation for education and knowledge, but it was then, I know now, that I began a life of cynicism in how we judge ourselves and others. That day was nothing but optimism and the sometimes false pretense that we can achieve anything we put our mind to, as long as we're constantly told we can and that no letter or number will ever define us.
Do I believe that today?
My best first day of school was fourth grade. I was entering a new school and a revered school. I had finished second grade in June of 1978 and had taken a test to get into a prestigious private school called St. Ann's. Despite its moniker, it as not a religiously affiliated school. At the time, it was the best school in NY and in many eyes, the best in the country. It was far from a normal school and I looked forward to fitting into the school where not everyone had to fit in. My bets friend was going there and while that had a calming effect, it wasn't exactly as it seemed as there would be a huge change. Was I ready? Would I be eaten up and spit out? Would I be scared? Most of all, would I be able to handle it?
Not three full months after finishing second grade, I was entering a much more difficult school, so there was pressure. The fact that I was skipping third grade and entering fourth, made it all the more nerve-wracking. I remember walking in on the first day and seeing all these unfamiliar faces. I was the new guy. Most of the students knew each other, but as I soon found out that wasn't a big deal. What scared me the most was my schedule. Yes, unlike most schools, we had a schedule and it wasn't the same every day. Classes were on different floors and while most of my classes were on the fourth or fifth floors, I did have science on the 6th and Gym on the 12th, music on the 11th and art across the street. Yes, this was 1978 and we all walked unassisted from one building to the next.
My first class was language structures with Bob Swacker, a thick bearded man with small thin-rimmed glasses. Mr. Swacker explained that my skipping a grade would be a problem because I was expected to write in cursive and I hadn't learned. So now, on top of being a year younger and starting a new school, I had to teach myself how to write in script. Something, I fully admit, I still haven't mastered. Penmanship aside, I loved the class. This was followed by Global History, also with Mr. Swacker within the same classroom. There was some sort of break between the first two classes, maybe a homeroom of some type, I don't remember, but then it was off to gym. The weather was nice, so the gym class wasn't held inside, but at a park, about a four minute walk from the school. Most of us ran. Upon return, I went to my locker, grabbed my books and it was off to math class. Then there was something I hadn't experienced before. A free period. They called it study hall, but the reality was, I was free to roam the school at my leisure. By then, I had made some friends and they showed me where things were. After lunch, I headed off to science, music and English (not to be confused with language structures). Then it was back home, where my mouth went a mile a minute as I explained my day to my mother and father.
They sat in great confusion and puzzlement as phrases came from an eight year old's mouth that made them question the money they were spending, that they didn't have, to send me to this school or reputed prestige.
"There are 12 floors and we walk to the park by ourselves." It should be noted this was a big ordeal the following year, with the much publicized disappearance of Etan Patz. "We have 'free' periods." "We share the school with kids from Kindergarten to 12th grade. The 12 graders even have a room where they can all hang out and smoke, inside the school." "My English teacher invented a bicycle you sit down and put your feet out to ride. It's like a lounge chair with wheels."
And then came the one comment that would floor my parents and change my life and view of education in many ways, even today. "Mom, Dad, there are no grades." As someone whose only fear was being able to compete on an intellectual level, the idea that I wouldn't be graded, in comparison to other students was a weight lifted that you could not imagine. What we did receive were well documented and incredibly descriptive evaluations detailing all of our strengths and weaknesses. Sometimes they came with no weaknesses at all, but for the most part, they always had just enough to keep us working our hardest. It was the greatest thing that ever happened to me and it changed me. It made me realize the work was the important part and not the rote memory. That the performance and actual use of intelligence was more important than merely having it. When I left St. Ann's and returned to the public school system, it hurt me, because I was not expected to use what I had learned, just basically regurgitate it. This to me wasn't learning, it was institutionalizing.
As I look back on that day, I remember the best part about it. It wasn't a single teacher or friend that I met. It wasn't anything I wore, nothing I read or anything I heard. It wasn't any sense of pride or feeling of accomplishment that touched me. It was the most simple and at the same time, most complex feeling I'd ever felt. It was the knowledge I would not be judged on one test, one paper or project, but on where I ended up and how I got there. Each of my five years in St. Ann's was a unique journey, with no A, B or C to change the path I was on. There was no feeling of grandeur from a 92 or feeling of despair from a 79. Those 13 points wouldn't define what type of student I was or who I had become. It was a paragraph, maybe two at the end of each semester, which stated what we excelled at and what we needed to improve upon. Imagine if every kid were to be judged on what they can do and what they need to work harder on and they never were told that they are 17 points from being perfect or seven points from being satisfactory. It was then I gained an appreciation for education and knowledge, but it was then, I know now, that I began a life of cynicism in how we judge ourselves and others. That day was nothing but optimism and the sometimes false pretense that we can achieve anything we put our mind to, as long as we're constantly told we can and that no letter or number will ever define us.
Do I believe that today?
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