Ah, how quickly childhood ends. Gone are the evenings spent wasting time in the backyard, throwing a ball around, or riding bikes. The weather may finally be warming up, but it's into the house the children go. They are seven years old now, practically grown. There is homework to be done.
But what if the mother says, "Forget you homework—we are staying outside,"? And what if the teacher says, "Forget you mother—the child must be at her desk during recess, regardless of the sunshine, and the friends and fun, and make up for your irresponsible folly,"?
Well, then the mother writes a letter, of course. Well no, first the mother consults all the parents she can muster and seeks counsel. Homework is good for them, some mothers say. Homework is evil, some other mothers say. Homework helps form good habits, some teacher-mothers say. Homework is useless, some other teacher-mothers say—now go and read a book.
So the mother rages and rants and then calms down. And does what any writerly-hippie-political-mother would do: She creates a manifesto.
To the teachers that either of my daughters might have today, this year or for the next twelve years:
The Homework Manifesto
Does homework have a place in a young student’s life? Maybe. I can’t make the argument that it does. But I can tell you that success in school is not based on whether or not my seven-year-old spends ten or twenty or 5 minutes each night on repetitive, basic activities that she does mainly out of fear that not completing them will result in punitive action from her teacher.
Success in school is based on a love of learning. It is based on the desire to know, to discover, to search and to try. And each of these desires, these successes, are only possible if a child has the encouragement and the support and the trust to explore learning.
I don’t want to spend the time together at home with my daughters writing six words in alphabetical order three times. I want to spend our time together on the couch reading the book about Mummies that they chose from the library. Or stacking rocks in the garden. Or baking cookies.
The habits that my daughters will eventually bring with them to university will be habits they learned in school, I’m sure, but the more important habits will have been learned at home, and they will have nothing to do with opening a textbook each night.
My daughters will bring with them the model of a home filled with books and readers and the understanding that books and readers are important. They will bring with them confidence that we have instilled in them by allowing them to live in a democracy and express their rights and opinions. They will bring with them an expectation to think critically and creatively about the people and ideas they encounter.
I will always be my child’s most fervent advocate, even as my time as her primary influence wanes. The role I play in my child’s life will change, but it will not change my desire to see that she is treated in a fair and just way and that her time is not wasted on the institutionalization of her soul.
There is a reason I have an existential crisis each September, just as there is a reason I have quit my job to be with my children, joined the Parent Council, and am indulging in the very selfish act of Doing What I Want. My job is to raise a strong, courageous, kind, questioning person—not a good corporate soldier.
Homework be damned; we're going outside.
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