Childhood's End: Growing
Up Too Fast
Something is lost when little red wagons and mud pies make
way for worksheets and tests.
by M. Jones
She waltzes into
my room on winged feet -- all 3 feet and a bit of her, with a pixie
cut and huge brown eyes. She is Katy (not her real name), and she is
in the first grade. As everyone else settles down, Katy twirls in a
dizzying display of excess energy. She is wearing her favorite outfit
-- a rainbow poncho and a tiara with pink feathers. The rest of the
class sits on the rug, crisscross applesauce. They stare up at me expectantly.
Katy is trying to lie across my lap and peer up into my face. She slithers
down, bounces up again, and moves to her desk to see what treasures
might be in her backpack. Her bottom has never touched her chair. I
invite her back to the group and sit her right next to me -- her favorite
place in the room.
A little young, I tell myself on the first day. Not ready for first
grade and the rigors of state standards. I'm new to the school so I
do not know her history. Perhaps she's just young for her age. I can't
help thinking someone dropped the ball here. She's a kindergartner dressed
in first-grade clothing.
When I check her file in the office, I am dumbfounded by an inch-thick
IEP folder. This is not good news. An Individualized Education Program
usually signals some serious area of concern. The plan spells out goals
for the student and how the teacher will monitor and assess the accomplishment
of those goals. Benchmarks are set. Meetings are held. I've never had
a first grader with an IEP. Most students come equipped with a slim
folder holding their vaccination records and birth certificate. What
could possibly be wrong with this girl that warrants this level of scrutiny?
The answer: nothing. She has an older brother with a learning
disability and anxious parents who want to make sure Katy doesn't "fall
through the cracks." I keep reading, looking for a diagnosis, some
indication that there is something wrong with this sprite. But the only
thing I see is that she "doesn't know her entire alphabet."
She can't write all her numbers to thirty. She's "inattentive"
during instruction.
There is nothing wrong with Katy except that she
is a kindergartner deprived of kindergarten. Ten years ago she
would have been in the dress-up corner in front of the mirror, draping
feather boas across her thin shoulders. But on this particular day,
she's a first grader with an IEP and goals that are unattainable for
someone at her stage of development. She will go to special classes
three times a week to make up for her "deficits." She will
continue to smile boldly, but soon she will start to wonder what is
wrong with her. She will leave our classroom three times a week and
trudge, not dance, down to room 15. She will start to feel the weight
of those goals. The benchmarks will pinch just a bit.
Katy is not my first kindergartner. In the past five years, as expectations
have continued to expand at each grade level, teachers have scrambled
to help students feel successful. A good proportion of my class is not
at grade level. They are taking multiple-choice tests and filling in
bubbles with the anxiety of their older siblings. We throw around terms
like "algebra" and "response to literature" to six-year-olds
who are barely decoding words. We push and cajole and yes, sometimes
secretly curse the child with her head in the clouds. We are accountable.
We are observed. Our jobs may depend on the ability of our students
to understand the subtle distinction between strategies like "predict"
and "infer."
There is no kindergarten. It has gone the way of the little red wagon
and mud pies. The time when children learned how to go to school, how
to use a tricycle, or wait their turn on the swing is gone. These were
important skills -- vital to success in the grades to come. We do not
have time to teach them now. We have worksheets that need completing.
We have take-home books to copy and homework packets to staple. We have
accountability.
I look down at Katy while she copies the words from the whiteboard.
Every now and then, she holds up her paper for me to see, and smiles.
I love how the light dances off the rhinestones on her tiara. And I
wonder how long it will be before someone tells her that she can't wear
hats in class and she can't dance in the hallways. I will miss the pink
feathers and rainbow poncho. But while she is mine, I will dance around
the rules just a little and find places for her to stand, not sit. I
will teach her what I can to the best of my ability. I will hold off,
as long as I can, the weight of the file that dogs her footsteps. And
I'll look for a rainbow poncho of my own to remind me that the Katys
of this world just might be on the brink of extinction.
Dispatches: Childhood's End
Credit: Indigo Flores
M. Jones is a pseudonym for an elementary school teacher in northern
California.
This article was also published in Edutopia Magazine, April 2008
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