schooling

Before we had children, even before we were married, my husband and I had many discussions about our future children's education. Nothing seemed as important. Home schooling them was an option that we talked about a lot. My husband was, and still is, quite taken with the idea. Before having children, and before my kids were school age, I thought about it quite seriously. I read some great homeschooling blogs and some good friends who had fantastic kids home schooled. But then I realized that it just wasn't for me. My boys thrived in group settings and I knew that I would soon grow resentful of devoting all my time to them, time that I could be writing, doing my own work.

Well now, thanks our province's teacher's strike, it looks like I have little choice. (Yes, I could send them to day camps, but we don't have the money to do that. And I'm at home with our youngest this semester, it just makes sense to keep them close.)

Our homeschooling is quite basic. I have them do math and reading every morning, and am trying to figure out how to keep up their French beyond just having my eldest read French books to my middle. I've also been reading Farmer Boy to them for the first time. I had read Little House in the Big Woods as a child and adored the television series, but hadn't read the series.

We are only a four chapters in to the book, but I'm fascinated with the school scenes. The antagonism of the older boys and Mr. Ritchie to the school teacher was a little shocking. It reminded me of the opening of Elizabeth Gilbert's great article The Last American Man:

Briefly, the history of America goes like this: There was a frontier, and then there was no longer a frontier. It all happened rather quickly. There were Indians, then explorers, then settlers, then towns, then cities. Nobody was really paying attention until the moment the wilderness was officially tamed, at which point everybody suddenly wanted it back.

Within the general spasm of nostalgia that ensued (Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, Frederic Remington's cowboy paintings), there came a very specific cultural panic, a panic rooted in the question, What will become of our boys?

Problem was, while the classic European coming-of-age story generally featured a provincial boy who moved to the city and transformed into a refined gentleman, the American tradition had evolved into the utter opposite. The American boy came of age by leaving civilization and striking out toward the hills. There he shed his cosmopolitan manners and transformed into a robust man. Not a gentleman, mind you, but a man. Without the wilderness as proving ground, what would become of our boys?

Why, they might become effete, pampered, decadent. Christ save us, they might become Europeans.

For obvious reasons, this is a terror that has never entirely left us.

The idea that being classically educated is somehow unmanly, that being masculine (which in this patriarchal society is highly revered) means having a disdain for education. That somehow being a brute, using brawn over brains, was admirable.

And, of course, it reminds me of the current situation between the government and the teachers. The joy the Minister of Education and our Premier seem to have bullying the teachers. They aren't using physical force, but they are pressing intense pressure on them financially (no strike pay for the teachers) and trying to turn public support against them. It's working, unfortunately. The bullies have the media on their side, and the public, many who have the American mentality towards education, are quick to find fault with the teachers.

It sickens me and saddens me.

I want to live in a place that values education, ideas, and inspiration. A place that creativity and creative though is celebrated, not disdained. How can we live in a strong society if we don't value the people and the institution that teach and mould the next generation. They spend thirteen years of their lives in public education. Don't we want to give them the best?

I don't understand people who don't value education, and I especially don't understand people who value it only if they can pay for it while giving the finger to those who can't afford to.

In Farmer Boy the teacher stands up to the bullies with a bull whip, literally beating them out the door. I'm trying to think how this can be a metaphor, as physical violence is not the answer, but I can't. I feel beaten down by this strike, by our government's attitudes towards public education. How do we fight the more powerful? How do we bridge this gap?

on biases

Yesterday, when the David Gilmour "I don't teach women, or Chinese" thing exploded all over my social media feeds, I have to admit, I was enjoying it. The man was so clueless about his privilege, about his sexism, he was the talking embodiment of what's wrong with old white men (yes, old, Mr. Gilmour: 63 is not middle-aged). I found so much joy in watching him not understand why everyone was so mad. I mean, of course, he found absolutely nothing wrong with filling his course with "books he loved" that were only written by "guy-guys" and that he doesn't love any books written by women.

In the midst of my cackling and being snippy on twitter ("I'm going down the hall," I wrote and retweeted others like a crazy person), I was supposed to be going over my notes for my class that afternoon. I stopped as I reviewed the names of the poems I was teaching that day: all white. Yes, there were men and women (mostly women), and there were straight and queer (mostly straight) writers, but all white.

My stomach turned as flipped back over the previous three classes I taught. All white except two: Vikram Seth and Claude McKay. I flipped forward--a bit more diversity coming up: Natalie Diaz, Dionne Brand, Aimee Nezhukumatathil, anonymous Afghani women, Fred Wah, Rita Wong, Sachiko Murakami, LeRoi Jones (Amari Baraka). That's not many. That's not enough.

I'm frustrated with myself. I like to think of myself as not a racist, as an ally. But my bias is obvious: I favour white women. I mostly read white women poets. This has to change.

I'm in a very privileged position in exposing a dynamic, interesting group of young writers to "advanced forms and techniques of poetry"--I get to introduce writers they may haven't read yet. It's my duty to reflect a larger world to them than what's on their shelves and what's on mine.

morning rain

The last morning of summer vacations and I woke to rain. Hobbled upstairs to close the skylight in the boys' bathroom and couldn't get back to sleep.

I may as well fess up--I'm feeling fairly anxious about these next few months. A lot of changes in my family's lives, many of which are thanks to me. My eldest starts grade two tomorrow, my middle starts Kindergarten on Friday. I'm teaching my first full real class at a university on Wednesday, and consequently, my youngest has full-day childcare three days a week, something my other two never had.

I had a teaching anxiety dream the other night which remembering seems ridiculous. My classroom was a field that had been hayed. I couldn't get my computer to show the powerpoint presentation I created, and the class was spread out--it was a huge field after all. I had to shout and no one listened and most of the the students were the characters from Freaks & Geeks. Looking back, it's so silly, but it was anxiety ridden regardless.

I have a huge list of thing that need to be done today, but I'm hoping the house stays quiet for a long time so I can't start on them for a while. I can hear my eldest reading upstairs. He loves Roald Dahl and devours them at an incredible rate. I never read Dahl as a child and only just read my first Dahl, The Fantastic Mr. Fox this past week to the boys. It really was fantastic.

I feel this is turning into a ramble, so I'll stop.

a beginning

Today was my first full day at the CSRS, the first day that I felt in my position as Artist-in-Residence (AiR). I had hoped to have started the day with a little blogging but with my bum knee (long story short: camping, slipping, pain, swelling, ripped ligaments, knee brace, hobbling) I was slow in unpacking books, setting up my space. Just as I was to open to blogger, I heard the sweet bell that rings the community to Coffee Talk, an hour long discussion period for members of the community (and this could mean you, too, all are welcome) to come together for an hour every day. Sometimes the discussions are open, sometimes they are about a set subject, and other times, like today, they centre around visiting guests or a specific presentation.

I found my first Coffee Talk interesting. Patricia Vickers and Glyn Ramkeesoon introduced us to their methodology in working with people overcoming trauma, specifically the work they do in BC's Indigenous communities. (You can see their site here. Conversation was rich and I had many questions, but unfortunately I missed the opportunity to ask any, as I had to duck out a few minutes before the end as I was meeting a student to chat about the upcoming course I'm teaching. Yes, you read that right, I'm teaching a class at UVic this fall--Advanced Forms and Techniques in Poetry. I'm very excited and have been prepping this course pretty much the second after it was confirmed that I'd be teaching it. It's a big class in scope and size. I haven't decided whether or not I'll be blogging about the class at all or not. I guess we'll see.

My first full day as AiR felt too short. Six hours was not enough to do all I wanted to do, but oh what a gift it was to have the time and space to get things done. I can't tell you how excited I am to be part of the community at the CSRS and to start creating there.