Confessions of a Reluctant Confessor

By The Bitter Homeschooler, from Secular Homeschooling, Issue #10, January/February 2010

I'm about to tell you something rather personal and a little boring — at least to me. It won't sound related to homeschooling at first, but I hope you'll bear with me.

I'm a vegetarian.

I've always had some leanings toward vegetarianism. Maybe it started when I worked at a women's bookstore and bought groovy cookbooks with my employee's discount and made meatless meals because it was cheaper. Or maybe it was when I started buying chickens right from the farmer and they still had feet and I realized that if I couldn't deal with that, maybe I shouldn't be dealing with meat.

Matters came to a head when my son was four years old and told me he didn't feel comfortable eating meat. "It's a phase," everyone said. He's almost twelve now. He's still veggie. If this is a phase, so is life.

My husband — hey, wake up! Don't you want to hear the thrilling details about how he can't seem to stay healthy on a vegetarian diet, plus he has severe adult-onset food allergies that we have to work around, so every meal is a challenge and occasionally I wake up, think about planning the meals for the day ahead, and either burst into tears or threaten to crawl back into bed?

Really? You're not enthralled?

Neither am I. I could have stopped at "I'm a vegetarian." I should have stopped there. I should never have even started there, unless you asked or it was necessary for you to know. (If you want to bake me something for my birthday, leave out the bacon. You probably would have figured that out yourself.)

The point is: what I eat, and how, and why, is a work in progress. It's evolving even as we speak. In 20 years, I might be vegan. I might be eating buffalo. I might be being eaten by worms. Things are bound to keep shifting; and exactly because my dinners have changed so radically from my '70s suburban childhood neon orange macaroni-and-cheese roots, I'm in no position to judge anyone else's food life.

Which is why I don't bring up my own unless I have to. Because vegetarians, like other groups I can think of, tend to make other people feel judged just by existing. We provoke two kinds of response: hostility and monologues.

Hey! Just like homeschoolers!

You know that moment. You've just dropped the H-bomb — the lady behind you in line asked why the kids aren't in school, and you still haven't come up with a lie you're comfortable with. You fantasize about saying that they were expelled for impersonating officers of the law, conducting a search of their classmates' desks, and confiscating all the good stuff. Hey, if you're going to get "the look," you might as well have fun earning it, right?

But back to real life. You say, "We homeschool," and brace for impact. You never know what it's going to be. Some people are really nice about it. Some people are jerks. Depending on how long you're in line, you might hear several of your favorite "expert" analyses of homeschooling. You might crack and start saying all those smart-aleck answers that race through your head. "No, it's not legal at all. We're on the lam. Well, I can tell you — we're leaving town tonight anyway. We're just here to pick up supplies." (At the pet store?)

Much depends on where you live. In my area, I get something even worse (in a way) than flat-out hostility. As soon as a certain kind of people hear that I homeschool, they fall all over themselves explaining why they don't.

They thought about it. They always wanted to. But they can't, because they work. They can't because they work at home. They can't because they're looking for work. They can't because they're in school themselves. They can't because they're not patient enough. They can't because they're not smart enough. They can't because they need time to themselves. They can't because their spouse won't let them. They can't because their mom won't let them. They can't because their cat won't let them. They can't because their kids won't let them. Their kids are too smart ("I wouldn't know where to start teaching them"). Their kids aren't smart enough ("I wouldn't know where to start teaching them"). Their kids love sports too much. Their kids love being with other kids too much. Their kids are totally antisocial, and homeschooling would let them stay that way. Their kids are too weird. Their kids aren't weird enough and obviously need the cultural diversity only a school environment can give them.

And I just stand there gaping, not even able to nod my head in case I should look as if I'm agreeing with the idea that, for instance, of course anyone who needs five seconds of alone time a day should never ever consider homeschooling. (Just to go off on a much-needed tangent: I'm such a loner, I actually used to worry that I was clinically agoraphobic. Then I realized I was fine with going outside. I just didn't want to. Given any choice in the matter, I'd rather be at home with my books and my chocolate and my nobody else around.)

As I stare at the person who has decided to explain every detail of her decision not to homeschool, I feel a strange sense of guilt. Probably because I'm thinking, so loudly that telepathic aliens in other solar systems are picking it up loud and clear: "Did I ask?"

Yes, this is worse than hostility. Anyone who's hostile toward me and/or homeschooling is obviously an idiot and/or insane. I can write them off — literally, sometimes. ("Smile! You're blog fodder.") But I'll forget them in an hour, or laugh at them, or both.

On the other hand, the ones who feel the need, because I do homeschool, to apologize for the fact that they don't — those people can leave me writhing for a week. Because they're really nice. And I hate the fact that I can't just go about my homeschooling business without making them suffer some sort of verbal existential educational crisis.

There's just no nice way of saying that I really, really don't care if they homeschool or not. I'm happy to tell them a bit about homeschooling. I don't even mind being asked detailed questions by someone I can tell is never going to homeschool but who has decided to treat our conversation like some kind of anthropological field trip. I can always either stop talking or start making stuff up if I get bored with that.

But I'd like to be able to talk about my day as casually as people with kids in school talk about theirs. And I'd like to do it without prompting a confessional monologue.

And it's very strange and more than a little humbling to have been homeschooling for this long and still have no idea how to answer this kind of thing. What am I supposed to say when someone says the equivalent of "I'm sorry I don't homeschool?"

I'm not as mean as I sound. I do understand that this is prompted by the kindest intentions in the world. It reminds me of something comedian Mike Birbiglia said about when people ask him if he knows about some amazing new technological gadget. "Yeah, I heard about that," he always answers; which really means, "I haven't heard about it, but I like you."

The person who apologizes when I mention homeschooling wants to reassure me that, although there may be a lot of anti-homeschooling meanies out there, he or she isn't one of them. (Okay, let's go ahead and just say "she." I can't remember a single guy who's felt the need to explain and/or apologize for the fact that he doesn't homeschool.) She is, in fact, totally in favor of homeschooling. Thinks it's great. Was this close to trying it herself. No need for me to worry! Carry on homeschooling!

It would be really mean for me to point out that I'd been planning to do just that, regardless of her opinion on the subject.

Or maybe she really thinks that homeschooling is the educational ideal, and hearing me mention it is the emotional equivalent of meeting a personal trainer and becoming uncomfortably aware of how long it's been since she's attempted (let alone completed) a pushup.

I wonder if personal trainers get this kind of thing. "A trainer? Really? Oh, wow — exercise is important, isn't it? I'm going to start working out again. Except the gym is really far away. And I don't have the right clothes. And I don't have the time. Or money. Plus I think I might have a heart condition."

As well-intentioned as I know it is, this kind of monologue comes across as one symptom of a bad case of "It's all about me!" disease. Because if someone really wants to put me at my ease, it would be a lot quicker and less painful to say, on hearing the news that I homeschool, "Oh, great. How's that going?"

To which I can reply, "Terrific, thanks." If I feel like chatting on the subject, this leaves the door open for me to do so. But I'm pretty sure I'm not the only homeschooler who really wants to go out and have a conversation that isn't about homeschooling, for a change.

Instead, because I homeschool, that's all I ever get to hear about.

No wonder I'm so antisocial.

If you think of something clever to say in this kind of situation, can you let me know? All I've got is a vague "Yeah, well, it works for us" and a quick change of subject.

Better yet, can you think of something I can say while I'm announcing that I homeschool that won't prompt three pages of verbal autobiography in the first place?

I guess if I get desperate, I could just get into the habit of saying, "Hi. I homeschool, and I really don't give a ham what you think about it. Have a nice day!"

Somehow I don't think that will buy me the peace and quiet I'm longing for, though.

More about issue #10