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A fellow teacher (I teach for fun but he teaches at the college level), spoke, yesterday, of his discouragement with the education process in these United States.  This process has evolved over a period of years (or should I say "devolved"), to a system in which there is little evidence of brainy-ism learning.  We are watered down by many elements, it would seem.  The quality of our students' efforts has been supplanted with false agendas.

Now all of this languaage is dressing for my sense that parents don't care about excellency in their children's learning.  Or, could it be that there is so much out there competing for our children's attention?  Is sociality the key that shouldn't have been turned?  Are teachers dedicated enough to get through all the hoops and jumps they have to go through, to pull the mind of the student from wherever it is hidden.

Just what is the deal, here?  I'm terrible in math, but with a good teacher, a book, plenty of practice time, and the kind of thinking that is crucial to being the steward of the world, even I can pass algebra.  What does it matter?  Where is passing algebra an important achievement?

I learned to read at an early age; not a child prodigy or anything, but the key was given to me by my parents and teachers...the key to love of reading, dependance on reading, appreciation for those who could transmit not just words, but ideas through their reading.

Dad always included us kids in his bedtime stories.  He used the device of tone inflection to catch our interest and vanity to keep interest.  We were the heroes, we were the action figures, and my dad who really should have been an actor or on stage with his wondrous way of weaving a tale, it all came together on the tails of the teacher's efforts.  I'm sure I read Dick and Jane, but it was clear to me from the first that if I wanted more complex and interesting tales, I would and should make them up myself.  I don't even consider myself very imaginative, but there must be a store of the stuff somewhere inside.

It was both a safe haven (reading at the piano instead of practicing), and a secret (hiding under the covers of my bed, throwing caution to the wind, usually with a book that was "too old" for me.  The Agony and the Ecstasy at age 11?  I was too young to be intimidated or daunted by fat books

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Posted via email from Margaret's posterous