"So, How's He Doing?"

By Deborah Markus, from Secular Homeschooling, Issue #3, Summer 2008

My ten-year-old son and I were just finishing lunch at the library's little café, after a homeschool gathering in their children's activity room, when we were joined by some people we knew. The man was a professional, credentialed tutor; the twelve-year-old was his — charge? More than just a student, certainly. The tutor doesn't just teach him; he takes care of him all day. It's a little awkward, sometimes, when he comes to park days and other community homeschooling gatherings — not because he's a man (we have several primary homeschooling parents who are fathers) or because he's a teacher, but because it's hard to explain to him that our group isn't like school.

The boy was in school until quite recently. His siblings still attend. I don't know all the details, but it sounds like it might have been an expulsion. At any rate, he plays it tough. He's not a bully — he doesn't get the chance to be, in this group — but he doesn't know how to relate to our kids in any way other than by attempting a constant schoolish jockeying for position. He seems baffled by the fact that our kids are polite, but unimpressed — and a little baffled themselves. None of the rules he's used to apply here. The kids play with all ages and both genders, grouping by interests rather than rigidly-defined roles. Toys, games, and sports equipment are of interest based on what they can do and what can be done with them, rather than how much they cost or what exact brand they are.

The tutor likes us and likes our group. As a former nanny, I can vouch that paid employees can feel deep affection and genuine concern for the welfare of their young charges; and this man understands that the boy he teaches needs more than just instruction. He needs friends. He needs a group. So far as I can see, his parents have more money than time, and have their son's physical, intellectual, and legal requirements covered — but they seem to be leaving it up to the paid help to get his emotional needs met. I respect this tutor for going above and beyond the call of duty, and would like to offer him whatever assistance I can. But in spite of the fact that his charge is being homeschooled, both of them are still very much a part of the school system.

Today, the tutor is telling me about the projects they're working on. They used the library's computer to research life over a hundred years ago, and the boy is going to write a report about life before computers, skateboards, and even cars.

I nod and smile. I'm a little tired. It's been tougher than usual this month to combine homeschooling and working.

"So," the tutor says, nodding toward my son. "How's he doing?"

"Fine," I say, thinking he was referring to a brief illness my son had been getting over the last time we'd met.

"I mean, how's he doing in school? With schooling, I mean?"

I stare at him. I'm tired; more than that, I'm going through one of those insecure patches pretty much every homeschooler has now and then. I've been bouncing back and forth between embracing unschooling and signing up for a virtual education for my son. I'm sure that, as usual, the truth lies somewhere in-between, and as usual I'll find what works for both of us, though it may not look like anyone else's idea of homeschooling. But I keep worrying that this constant modifying and tailoring and researching on my part isn't flexibility and willingness to let our homeschool evolve and fit more comfortably; rather, it's just plain flakiness, and I'm setting my son up for a life of aimless drifting.

I have no idea how to answer this man's question.

Does he mean, how would my son perform on a standardized test? I really don't know. Like I said, we're still feeling our way. I don't use a boxed curriculum. I'm beginning to think about something a little more structured, but for now, I'm just basing his education on my own ideas about learning and what I consider of value.

For instance: I got very good grades in school, but I don't remember a single thing I learned there. Literally. I knew how to read before I went to school, and my parents bought me cheap math and language arts workbooks because I enjoyed them so much. I remember those, not the work I did at school. And I practically lived at the library, lugging home both fiction and nonfiction on whatever interested me that week. I could spit back information for tests, but although I was considered a good student, the only knowledge that has stayed with me is what I sought out on my own.

So I feel strongly about teaching my son mostly with a lot of help from good, interesting books and — although I'm too insecure to do without a certain basic structure of math, language arts, and history — letting my son's education be interest-led.

Which means that he's actually learning a great deal; but there are gaps.

Some version of this has had time to go through my mind, but none of it has helped me find an answer. The tutor is still looking at me expectantly, obviously a little surprised by my silence.

"Well?" he asks. "You must know how he's doing. I mean, you're his teacher."

That last word means something so different to me than it does to him that, again, I'm at a loss. I can't think of a thing to tell him that will make any sense to him in this context.

We play music! I want to say. We listen to it, and we play our own! My son made me take him to see a local production of The Tempest four weekends in a row, because he liked it so much, and then he begged me to find Ariel and ask her to please give him magic lessons! He writes the most amazing stories, and he can type them up himself — he can type fifty words a minute, sometimes more! We live in the city, but he still goes out and finds beautiful insects, and he learns what they're called and what their life stages are! We're learning French! He's reading about how clocks work because he wants to see if he can make one out of his Legos!

Am I scared that I'm screwing up?

Of course. I'm a homeschooler.

And what about my son?

How is he doing?

I try to put his education on the desk this man is offering me, and it just won't fit. The closest I can come to something like an assessment is four words:

I like our life.

I'm tired, I worry — I even panic sometimes — but still, this is what I want.

I like what my son is doing.

So does he.

That's a pass or fail test.

"Great," I say to the man. "He's doing just great."

More about Issue #3