A parable of education
I was working at the YMCA’s daycare centre. It was summertime, so the kids were there all day. My boss was not happy with the programme for 4- and 5-year-olds, so she asked me to spend some time with those classes and just observe what was going on.
Patrick was the youngest of the 4-year-olds. He was skinny, pale, and freckled, with a large bush of orange hair and enormous blue eyes. He looked like a little clown. He was usually off in his own world somewhere, oblivious to everyone else. His mum dropped him off quite early, and when the teacher arrived he was already deep into a box of Legos and far away on Planet X. The teacher would greet him, “Good morning, Patrick!” and Patrick, as if awaking from a dream, would turn briefly from his toys and reply, “Hi, honey!” Everyone found this amusing, but when Patrick’s mum found out she sat him down and explained that his teacher had a name—Mrs. Johnson—and he should call her by her name. The next morning, greeted by the teacher, Patrick replied, “Hi, Johnson!”
On swimming day the 4s and 5s had the pool together. There was some sort of holdup with the snacks, though, so while the teacher of the 5-year-olds sorted out the problem, the teacher of the 4-year-old class had both groups sitting in a circle, waiting. She began talking about colours in a syrupy, sing-songy voice. She had a few sheets of coloured construction paper. “Yesterday we learned our colours, didn’t we?” she began. “Georgia, do you remember the colour you learned?” She continued around the circle in this way, and finally got to Patrick, who was way off on Planet X as usual, returning only when he heard his name at the end of the teacher’s question. “Do you remember the colour you learned, Patrick?” Startled out of his reveries, he looked up to find everyone staring at him expectantly. He knew he had been asked a question; he knew everyone was waiting for him to answer; but he had no idea what the question was. He bent his head and began balling his fists up inside his striped t-shirt.
A helpful and sympathetic girl from the 5-year-old class asked, “Is it on his shirt?” Patrick’s eyes went to his shirt, searching desperately for the answer. “No,” the teacher said, “it isn’t on his shirt. But it is on his shoes.”
Patrick was wearing red sneakers. His eyes leapt from his shirt to his shoes. Everyone waited, hardly breathing. Suddenly, Patrick had the answer. His body relaxed. He lifted his head up, smiled, and answered triumphantly, “Dogshit!”
And he was right.