Home (schooling)

By David Albert

Reading has become less and less a meditative activity for me as I age. My eyes are not what they used to be. I have no fewer than three pair of reading glasses, all scattered around the house, some in cases, some not. It is not unusual for me to be unable to find any of them. But when I do, and sit down to read, I am always fussing with them. No matter how much I have the glasses adjusted, they'll slide down my nose, or wiggle from side to side, or be covered with distracting finger marks, or an occasional scratch.

But reading is not meditative for another reason. If the book is any "good," my mind will constantly make connections between what I read and other parts of my experience. And, usually, I'll have three or four volumes going at the same time — as I write this, I am somewhat midway through a wonderful translation of a Tamil epic poem, The Cilappatikaram; a new history of the Haitian Revolution, Avengers of the New World;The Journal and Major Essays of John Woolman (for probably the tenth time); and a terrific book of political essays by Arundhati Roy. I am also wearing a set of earphones, and am listening to a 1960s recording of I Pagliacci, in preparation for a series of opera performance in which I am singing at the end of next month. Sometimes I read for details, sometimes for inspiration, sometimes because I feel under some external obligation, sometimes to feed my head with background information, and sometimes just to escape, though this has become rarer and rarer, even on airplanes. Almost never meditative, though. However, writing sometimes takes on this quality for me now. Garbage in, garbage out? What does that say about that which mediates between them?

My wife goes to Safeco Field to sell hotdogs at Mariners' games to raise money for my younger daughter Meera's gymnastics club. Oh, goody! If I have the evening off, which means I am not at an orchestral or opera rehearsal, got through my jazzercise class, am not ferrying said daughter from place to place, or am not at a meeting or study group organized by my Friends Meeting, chances are I'll take over the family room. I'll turn on the television and tune in to the baseball game and turn off the sound; set up a music stand with a chair in front and take out my violin; put the phone at one end of the couch; open a book I'm reading "for pleasure" next to it; scatter the papers and what-not I am using in preparation for my next book; open the laptop to an essay I am working on for one of my magazine columns, and another file which contains the beginnings of a letter to a friend. I may also have an operatic score nearby. The Internet and e-mail connection is in another room, ready for me when I "take a break." I never do this when my wife is around; it would drive her even more nuts than I do already. (She is very kind!) I'm in my "elements."

The fact is I cannot remember a time that I wasn't like this. No, I did not and do not have ADHD, even if all my teachers had "ADTD" (Attention Deficit Teaching Disorder — defined as the inability to focus on any one individual less than 59 inches high for more than 90 seconds at a time, or feelings of anxiety or anger that manifest themselves when required to do so). I spent 12 years in school fidgeting, allowing my "Globally Gifted Attentions" (GGA) to be applied to whatever was at hand. Yes, I could keep the teachers away by volunteering right answers at selected intervals, enough to keep their more limited attentions focused on the middle of the classroom rather than on the far righthand corner (something good about having a last name that begins with A is that I was often out of the teacher's line of sight). I'd scribble, and count the number of people who walked up and down the hallway. I would time kids' trips to the bathroom. Sometimes I'd hide a library book in my lap. No music, though, which I deeply regret. I compensated in any way I could for the larger lack of material. More than anything else, I would have just liked someone to talk to, and who would have had something to share back. More than anything else, in this sea of seven-year-olds, I was lonely. And I'm now 55 years old, and I'm still angry about it! (And bemused by the fact that there is still a charge in it for me.)

Over the years, in helping my daughters pursue their educational journeys, I have learned the language of learning disabilities, and the emotional ones, the initials of, and scoring algorithms for, the various intelligence tests, the proclivities and learning styles of assorted varieties of gifted children, the legal parlance of accommodation. They are, or at least can be, important elements in the armamentaria of parents of gifted kids as we go out and assist them in wrestling with the world.

But sometimes what we are dealing with is in fact a little simpler, a little more "elemental." Doesn't make it any easier, especially in institutional settings, which is why we've helped our kids fly the coop, right? It is good just to be able to articulate it. At bottom, what is it that we really want for our gifted kids? Perhaps, not much more, really, than that they be treated with kindness, and with a healthy dose of respect. A little kindness, for everyone, goes a long way. Respect for the fact that they are both gifted and children, and not necessarily in that order, and that, besides being gifted and children, they are lots of other things, too. We'd like them to experience other people, adults and children, who they feel are worth listening to, folks who command enough natural respect from our kids because the kids know that they possess something worth learning. Folks with interesting hobbies, or occupations, or skills, or just unusual ways of seeing the world. We'd like our kids to meet up with other people who understand fun, and are willing to share it! And who appreciate that fun can mean different things for different people. And we want them to have the company of people who honor and respect their uniqueness, and that of everyone else, whether gifted or not. And, with them, and with us, we want our kids to have the opportunity to go out and explore the world!

The truth is that our children are not going to be children forever, and that, except in very rarified circles, no one applies the term "gifted" to adults. At least they don't where I live. "Genius" perhaps, but almost always referring to a set of accomplishments, not to particular mental proclivities. "Gifted children" fade away and, with any luck, and lots of nurturing and kindness and respect, become ardent birdwatchers and knowledgeable gardeners, mathematical wizards, dependable postmen, creative architects. Formidable ballet dancers, moving folksingers, good cooks. Caring nurses, crafty detectives, talented inventors, trusted auto mechanics. Stamp collectors and weavers, poets and knitters. Loving fathers. Tenacious mothers. People who continue their knowledge quests on through their entire lives, and help open up the possibility of such quests for others with less in the way of opportunity. We all join the varied and universal pageant, and if we have been fortunate, we find a place in it that we can truly and comfortably call "home."

(And the older I get, the more I become convinced that "schooling" has very little to do with it.)

David H. Albert is a homeschooling father, speaker, and featured columnist for Home Education Magazine and The Link Homeschooling Journal. He is also author of several homeschooling books, including And The Skylark Sings with Me and Homeschooling and the Voyage of of Self-Discovery. His newly released book is called  Have Fun. Learn Stuff. Grow. Homeschooling and the Curriculum of Love. He has offered Gifted Homeschoolers Forum members a $2.00 discount on signed copies -- just go to his web site at www.skylarksings.com, order a copy, and write "GHF" on the comment line.