Tell it to me straight
BACK TO school sales, first day traffic jams, fresh notebooks, and curriculum nights when parents squeeze themselves into miniature chairs to hear about first grade. Some things never change. What does change, to my ear, is the lingo educators use - language that seems to grow more circumspect each year. I already knew that my children were unique, but I understand now that each learns differently to develop and extend emergent skills. I had always characterized my children's behavior as good, decent, or atrocious. Their teachers never use these words, but speak about challenges, ownership, and community.
I like this sensitivity to language. Just as we've banned corporal punishment from the classroom, we've banned verbal abuse. No self-respecting teacher screams, "You idiots - what were you thinking?" And it's certainly beyond the pale to call students' questions stupid, or tell them to shut the hell up when they talk in class. Careful word choice creates an atmosphere of respect in the classroom, and even outside, where students unconsciously emulate their instructors. In the heat of battle on the playground, one child screams at another, "That's not OK!" In the midst of a tantrum over ice cream I refused to purchase, my 6-year-old sobs to me, "I'm very disappointed with you." Children learn a vocabulary of courtesy, as they would any other language, by ear.
Sometimes, however, I sense a nervousness on the part of educators - an unwillingness to speak directly. In the delicate patois of the classroom, I strain to figure out what's going on. A sensitive teacher will ask to speak to me for a moment after school, and begin with a preamble about my daughter's many strengths. Only after long discussion of her temperament and spirited character, do I begin to realize that something happened that day. There's been an incident, but I can't figure out what it was. In the past, a teacher might have begun, "Your daughter got into a fight today." Now I have to press for details of the case. I brace myself and interrupt, "Just tell me - what did she do?" If teachers tread carefully in conversation, elementary school report cards read like runes. Gradually she is developing greater sensitivity to others' personal space . . . An emergent reader, he has made great strides with books that interest him. I appreciate the emphasis on the positive and the emergent, but really - how is my kid doing?
Perhaps schools fear lawsuits. What I see as circumlocutions might well serve a legal purpose: educational fine print - the clauses necessary to qualify and mediate every interaction in the partnership between school and home. Tell me my child is evil or stupid, and that could be actionable. Tell me my child is special, and that's the path to communication, teamwork, and extra support. The trouble is that specialness is so widespread. As Dash says in the
I admit, sometimes I long for straight talk and concrete details, less developmental context, and more specific information about what teachers expect and whether they are getting it. But while I mock educational euphemisms, I find I can't resist them. Scheduling an appointment for my son's eye exam, I heard a nurse say, "OK. He failed his initial screening?"
"He did not fail!" I retorted, indignant. "He just didn't do as well as he could have . . ." I trailed off, and finished the mantra silently: And with support, he'll see just fine. Yes, as we used to say in the old days: My child needed glasses.
Allegra Goodman is a guest columnist whose books include "The Family Markowitz." Her first novel for younger readers, "The Other Side of the Island," will be published this month. 