What the hippies who didn't shave their armpits taught us about trailblazing
On homeschooling, embracing our weird, and that one time I led a coup in preschool
Readers,
Here in the southwest, kids are already making their way back to school. And as my Facebook feed turns into a gallery of kindergartners and their crooked grins wearing backpacks the size of their bodies, and awkward high schoolers starting to resent their mothers who insist they hold a sign reading “first day of 11th grade,” I’m reminded about my own schooling experience as a child.
I’m an 80’s baby, child of the 90’s and card-holding member of the millennial generation who was, in fact, homeschooled until the time I went to college. Shocker, I know.
Being homeschooled was not something I talked about unless asked about. It wasn’t that I was particularly ashamed of it, it’s just that people thought it was so weird, which ultimately meant they thought I was so weird.
“But you’re… uh… normal,” they’d respond upon finding out about my lot in life, as if I had just shared I was the illegitimate child of Hitler’s forgotten grandson. “Thanks?” I’d nervously respond through one - maybe two - hearty chuckles. I’m certain nervous laughter masks how weird I feel.
I used to think it was funny. In fact, I heard that response so much that I eventually started beating them to the punch-line by saying things like, “I’m actually homeschooled, but as you can see I don’t own any denim jumpers, so I’m totally normal.”
Homeschooling is way more mainstream now than it used to be. My parents had heard whispers of this weird trend (most certainly from the hippies in our small town who didn’t shave their armpits) and started to do some research. It was totally overwhelming and incredibly courageous on their part.
It was the year prior to me starting kindergarten that we’d become prairie people, and by that, I of course mean we started homeschooling. I was so excited to start school - home or not, I was up for the adventure because up until this point, I had established quite the reputation.
Leading a coup in preschool
I had gone to preschool and had a thriving social life there. My teacher, Miss Mary, operated her school out of her home. I remember my best friend in preschool better than I remember what I had for dinner last night. Her name was Kristin. She liked a boy named Glen and I liked Paul. We were 3 going on 15, and I have no idea why this is true for some little girls, but we were - without a doubt - already thinking about our weddings.
Miss Mary had one rule: do not go past the gate. I’m sure she had other rules too, but this was the most important of them all. The gate was an outdoor fence, which assumedly surrounded her property. I don’t recall why we couldn’t pass the gate, but my adult hindsight tells me it was likely the cars… or rattlesnakes; probably both.
One day, for reasons I do not recall, children in mass quantities passed the gate, myself included. It must have been an honest misunderstanding, or poor lapse in judgement because I wasn’t really one for rebellion at this point in my life. Perhaps I’ve suppressed this memory because the truth of my blatant disregard for authority is too painful to admit? Anything’s possible, I suppose.
This is the part of the story, however, where my reputation precedes me. Me and a couple other children were sentenced to sit on the dreaded piano bench, which was the unfortunate fate that awaited anyone who broke the rules at Miss Mary’s. Can you imagine my horror, a child who had never been punished at preschool?
And yet there I sat… on that pitiful wooden bench that I shared with at least two others. I was disgusted with the injustice of the situation. “Those other kids passed the gate too, so why are we the only ones sitting here?,” I whined. My accomplices sympathized with my dejected little heart. We moaned about for what felt like an eternity, while dangling our tiny legs over the bench, unable to reach the floor beneath us.
I’m only able to revisit glimpses of this memory, but as I’ve reflected on this situation over the years, one thing remains clear: I must have been the ring leader (or at least one of the few) for having influenced an entire class of 3 and 4 year olds to break the ONE forbidden rule. I had successfully unsuccessfully led a coup against Miss Mary’s regime and it was obvious who the culprits were.
I’ve always been a bit of a rule-breaker.
Not enough to ruffle any significant feathers, but just enough to feel a bit dangerous. I suppose this is how my mother felt, choosing to homeschool 4 crazy blonde kids back in 1990, while constantly feeling like she had to explain herself to the skeptical onlookers who thought for sure we were churning our own butter. So what if we were? We weren’t, I assure you.
How in the world did she do it? I guess you could say I got a little of my rebellious streak from my mother.
Until next time,
What I’m reading
I’ve been heavily into memoirs as of late. This one is so good I can hardly stand it.
Our small group just started this one by Tullian Tchividjian. We’re only one chapter in, but so far I’m loving the refreshing narrative of grace that’s so often overlooked in Christian non-fiction.
This week’s favorite Substack follow:
I cannot wait to make this soup from her most recent newsletter, which was shared to free subscribers.