Months ago, when COVID-19 was still a whisper, I was interviewed by a local San Francisco news station about my homeschooling plan for kids ages 2-7. The segment was long, the questions many. How much school do kids “need”? How can working families pull it off? What’s your advice for those just getting started?
Six months later, the pandemic roars. Our nation’s priorities have been thrown into a sack, shaken, spilled onto the floor. Tried-and-true expert strategies are hardly applicable, let alone sustainable. How do we move forward now that our methods of wellness – daily yoga, HIIT at the gym – are deemed unwell? When our social infrastructures – Sunday morning brunch, concerts in the park – dissolve? How should we proceed when our indoctrinated school system – a teacher stands and speaks, a group of children sit and listen – is now disputed for safety, efficacy?
I have few answers, but I know the importance of the question. It is no longer: What is happening? It is only: What happens now?
Welcome. This is your gap year.
Do you know how gap years began? The practice was first adopted commonly in the ’60s when the younger generation sought relief and respite from the severity of their parents’ wars. By 1969, the first gap year organization was founded in Massachusetts with the intentions of delaying academics to instead teach young people self confidence and community activism. In rapid succession, gap year companies, trips, and programs began cropping up throughout the world, touting lofty purposes like greater contributions, increased self-awareness, and developing new cultural perspectives.
Now – nearly six decades later – our young seek much the same: relief and respite from the severity of war. Today, it seems, a battle rages for everything – opioids and bullying to shifting economies and climate change (there is even, per the documentary namesake of 2009, a War On Kids). We need only scan headlines to witness the immediate shrapnel.
I’m hesitant to paint a pandemic in rosy terms such as “relief” or “respite,” and yet, the reality is this: we have been handed a year of turmoil. Norms are toppling, status quos are being called to question.
What happens now?
Back in March, Other Goose welcomed over 10,000 quarantined families while schools closed nationwide. Overnight, the questions poured in from families of kids ages 2-7: Where are the worksheets? Can I see the scope and sequence for a 3-year-old? I want to ensure my toddler stays ahead in phonics.
As the daughter of two retired public school teachers, I understand the root of the question. The traditional school model many of us know is based in compliance, uniformity. Blending in, staying on track, never falling behind. Common core or bust! I knew how much agency the child lost in the process.
But I didn’t realize how much agency the parent lost, too.
Over and over, I spoke with caregivers who needed reassurance that our all-in-one plan would keep their child ahead of the pack. But when pressed for which “pack” they were referring to, for what standards they’d like to see their children stand for, the answers were the same: Well, you’re the expert! Whatever is essential these days!
And so: I watched parents bend over backwards to juggle their own daily conference calls with their child’s Zoom classroom schedule, and I witnessed burnout across the board. One parent asked if we could recommend a Skype math tutor for her 2-year-old. Another asked what sort of STEAM programs were available for babies. Time and time again, questions fired off, laced with the deepest fear a parent knows: Help! I’m not enough for my kid.
I have spent the better part of the summer continuing to field these questions, even more so in recent weeks as an increased number of school shutdowns and remote learning options have been announced. And while I can’t say what’s best for each and every child, I do know what’s best for each and every parent: Reclaim your agency.
Try on the wild idea that you might know more about educating your child than an institution does. Think about what your family values. Think about what makes your kid light up. Then: guide your child toward both.
If you can’t muster up the confidence to call this exploration of undiscovered passion an actual “education,” then call it something else: call it a gap year.
Maybe your 9-year-old will discover the joy of sewing – and stumble into his own bespoke bow tie line. Maybe your 8-year-old will embark on a great CEO adventure after designing a cup for her grandfather with Parkinson’s. Maybe your 11-year-old’s local lemonade will sell for millions at Whole Foods. If nothing else: your teen’s failed attempts at baking sourdough at home will make for a far more heartfelt admissions essay than the C+ sheet cake recipe from Home Ec.
What will happen is this: your entire family will tilt toward discovery. You’ll spend less time fretting with your kid’s school over tech issues and Zoom schedules and more time igniting wonder in your child’s soul. You’ll educate in the way that worked for generations prior: one of apprenticeship, of practice, of trade. Your child will gain independence. He’ll make his own lunch. She’ll wash her own socks.
(Yes, even the littles.)
Your child will learn from you.
You will learn from your child.
You’ll invite your kids into your daily life, whether through accounting spreadsheets or blueprint renderings or sauteed garlic. You’ll find your own answer to the wise question posed from columnist Bethany Mandel in The Atlantic, “If an out-of-work restaurant chef is now home with his kids, will they gain more if he helps them do busywork problems in math, or if he teaches them how to cook?”
Yes, you’ll still have time to yourself. Yes, your kids will get the basics covered one way or another. Yes, your child can take ownership over their own education with a few hours/day and a library card.
Yes, it can feel tricky with littles. (That’s what this is for.)
No, it is not feasible for everyone, logistically-speaking. Neither is remote learning, or business-as-usual, or co-ops, or pandemic pods.
But it’s an option for some, nonetheless. And it’s one worth considering.
You will, perhaps, get what you wanted all along: a child that begins to value Alma Thomas over taco day, activism over athleticism. You’ll get the choice to switch out Laura Ingalls Wilder for James Baldwin. You can ban Dr. Seuss; you can veto letter grades. Toss the uniform, and the uniformity. You can educate as an act of resistance, and you can raise children to think critically about their role as an advocate for the world around them.
If our future generations have indeed inherited a faulty system, if goodwill is hard to find, if our kids feel lonely and unsafe and ill-equipped, perhaps it’s time to offer them a gap in the war.
What happens now?
It’s up to us.