Sample articles featured in Life Learning Magazine

written in tandem with my children, Erica and Jon Gotow

Walking a Tightrope:

Choosing Balance in a World of Opportunity

Parenting a teenager is often like walking a tightrope.  There are good days and bad; moments of great ease and agility, followed by tragic falls to the net below.  As parents we guide and support.  We pick up the pieces and help our children find balance again.  But sometimes they surprise us:  Sometimes their balance is better than our own.

Having been unschooled until high school, my daughter, Erica was eager to take on the world. Academically she had long ago past me and finding helpful resources was becoming more difficult.  Thus, in the fall of 2004, Erica chose to enter high school as a 13-year-old freshman.  Conquering even the toughest AP and honors classes, she was soon encouraged to attend the South West Virginia Governor’s School – a school for the gifted in math and science. Attending the Governor’s school was a great honor, and our family rejoiced as she received a two-year scholarship.  Unfortunately, along with earning college credit for advanced coursework, came a 90-minute twice-daily commute.  

Each morning, Erica and I met in the garage at 6AM.   I drove the first leg of the trip, approximately 20 miles to a rival high school, where Erica would catch a bus and continue on.  Academically, she was thriving.  She was given the opportunity to dissect a sheep, collect data from a creek, and attend a statewide science fair. She took advanced calculus, participated in math olympiads, and received the Outstanding Junior Mathematician Award. But the price she was paying was high.  Erica was exhausted.  By January of her junior year, I hardly saw my child. Homework, papers, test, and AP exams had taken over her life.

In retrospect, perhaps I should have intervened.  No doubt it’s our job as a parents to notice when our children are going astray. But as an unschooling mother, I had always emphasized personal choice and self-directed learning. How could I now contradict myself?  How could I preach about embracing opportunities while asking Erica to go after less than her academic best?

When our children are young, parenting struggles abound, but holding their hand on a tightrope goes without saying.  With teenagers however, knowing when to hold on and when to let go is often the greatest challenge.  I worried that pulling Erica out of the South West Virginia Governor’s School would decrease her chances for college. Yet family values, community service, and extra curricular activities had been as much a part of our makeshift curriculum as academics had ever been. Clearly, Erica had lost her way, and the balanced life she’d once cherished had all but vanished, or so I’d thought.

On the morning of April 16, 2007 as the last of the snowflakes fell, Erica and I robotically completed our daily routines.  Little did we know, that by 9AM our lives would forever change. The massacre on Virginia Tech’s campus occurred only a mile from our home.  Thirty-three dead: Our family and friends devastated: Our community shocked.  

As Erica returned from the Governor’s School that morning, she found herself literally and metaphorically trapped. Physically unable to get home, she was placed in lock down with the students of a rival high school. Metaphorically, however, she was also trapped:  No longer a well-rounded self-directed learner, but a public school student caught in the academic rat race.

 Erica knew she needed to do something, both for her grieving community and for herself. Thus, with the spirit of a true unschooler, she relinquished her scholarship and withdrew from the Governor’s School just prior to the start of her senior year.  Today, Erica is once again a balanced teen.  Still headed for college, but with a much better appreciation for the limited role of academic-only success.

Unschooling at any age is far from easy and encouraging the self-directed learner requires endless faith. While young children struggle with math or reading, young adults face larger issues.  Allowing Erica to choose school at the age of 13 was far from easy, but holding her back would clearly conflict with a firmly established self-directed learning approach.  Perhaps if I had considered the future, I would have left a contingency clause: Telling my children they are free to self-direct their education in anyway they chose, but only within the box I select. Alas, I left no such contingency. Walking the line between parental intervention and child self-direction is never easy.  Though we hold safety nets for our children, I often wonder why there are no such nets for adults.

In the end, I have learned to trust my children; and that perhaps the greatest joy, in parenting a self-directed learner, comes not through academic success, but through watching your child become a successful adult.  It is my hope that in allowing others to read Erica’s inspirational essay, they too might take heart and know that their children are listening, learning and modeling, even when it seems they are not.

Erica’s Essay:
We lifted the last of the gleaming black bags onto the pile, nine trash bags threatening to burst with old candy wrappers, slimy coke cans, and receipts that read “thank you for shopping at the Virginia Tech Bookstore.”  What had started out as picking up a few empty cans at the duck pond on Virginia Tech’s campus, ended in a full day of community service.

Unschooled until high school, extracurricular activities and community service were in no way extracurricular.  They were as much a part of our curriculum as was English, math, and science.  My brothers and I were taught that knowledge is an enabler; a catalyst not valued unless used.  Knowledge of a cure alone will not save lives, just as thinking about pollution will not clean a pond.  I’ve harbored this notion for as long as I can remember.  However, under the pressure to learn, to take the most rigorous classes and achieve top grades, these lessons were pushed into dormancy as I entered Blacksburg High School in fall of 2004.  Eager to explore all that high school had to offer, I ran headlong into every AP class, gifted program, and academic opportunity that came my way.  Though I excelled in the track that I had put myself in, something was missing.

On the morning of April 16, 2007, I was attending the South West Virginia Governor’s School, as I had been every morning for months.  At 10:30AM, I boarded the bus for my high school and awaited the long journey back.  Yet as I sat working out Calculus problems, struggling to avoid the slipping of my pencil as the bus bounced, I realized that we were on the wrong road.  We were headed towards Christiansburg High School, a rival school in the adjacent town.  Clueless as to the tragedy occurring only miles from my home, I was ushered out of the bus and placed in lock-down with the students of Christiansburg High.   The hours passed slowly as I waited for information and to finally be reunited with my family.

Once safely home, I turned on the TV and sat spellbound, I found myself watching a community pull itself together, offering out every form of support and condolence possible. Individuals stood with their arms wide open; their businesses ready to contribute. Our entire community was grieving.  I wanted to help, to do something, anything. But what could a sixteen year old have to contribute?

My grandfather, a Virginia Tech physics professor, mentioned that the physics department intended to fold a thousand paper cranes as a gift for each of the wounded students.  The cranes would be hung in their hospital rooms as a symbol of hope.  I was eager to be involved.

For hours my grandfather and I sat hunched over on the living room floor, folding small squares of optimistic paper, more than three hundred in all.  I finished the last of the folds and tossed the light black bird aside.  Three hundred paper cranes, a huge assortment of colors and patterns, all lying motionless in a large cardboard box on our floor.  

After the Virginia Tech Massacre I was left feeling helpless. But by becoming involved, I found myself empowered. Our cranes were delivered to the area hospitals, along with thousands more made by other individuals.  Hung in long chains, they filled each patient’s room.  Extra cranes were sent to the Virginia Tech student’s center where they can still be found today under a sign which reads: “Take as many as you need.  We are Virginia Tech: We will prevail.”

Through this experience, I realized what I had been missing; being a part of my community.  I had been absorbing masses of information yet hadn’t been using it.  Homework, AP exams, and research; there had to be more.  I needed to get involved.  I needed time.  I needed a change.  While many doors had opened through my attendance at the South West Virginia Governor’s School, an equal number had closed.  Three hours a day spent in commute and a schedule full of AP and dual enrollment classes, suddenly felt constricting.  After numerous discussions with my parents and school counselors, I made the difficult decision to restructure my life, just before the start of my senior year.   

As fall comes to a close, I am happy to say that I have once again found myself dragging wet trash bags around Virginia Tech’s campus.  Community trail maintenance, Habitat for Humanity, food drives, recycling and clean-up projects, and walking dogs at the local shelter, I’ve found what I was missing. Extracurricular activities and community service are no longer extracurricular, but once again, a part of my total learning experience.

In the Blink of an Eye

The decision had not come easy…how could the time have come so fast?  How could it be August 27th already?  Where had the summer gone?  Better yet, where had Jon’s childhood gone?  

Allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Ann.  I am a homeschooling / unschooling mom.  Or should I say I was a homeschooing / unschooling mom?  For the last nine years my mornings have been a blur of coffee, cereal, and education. Projects, discussions, and creations have cluttered our tables and floor. On a working equestrian farm, my children have discovered, learned, and participated in all that life offered.  Armed with microscopes, computers, and an endless supply books, they had quickly become self-directed young scholars. But sadly, for us those days have come and gone.

It is August 27th, the first day of school: The first of one hundred eighty days that I will watch my oldest son walk out into the darkness alone.  Left behind both figuratively and emotionally I stand against the windowpane, hoping its presence will mask my tears. Have I done the right thing? Who am I now?  Who will my child become?  My heart races with anger and fear.  I am afraid to let go.  I am afraid that I have failed him.

Newly divorced and relocated to the suburbs of Blacksburg VA, I know my options are few. Clearly, I will need to find work, further my own education, and step up to the plate as a single mom, but deep in my heart I know there is more. The truth is, my son has outgrown me: a fact that has come to haunt me, even as it brings me great joy.  I know I should be happy; train myself to view this simple fact a sign of my success.  After all, that was the goal, was it not? Don’t we all wish to raise our children to be better than ourselves?  To provide them with the tools to go farther than we have gone?  If only I had known that this day would come so fast. 

 
The truth is I have long harbored the secret that I can no longer keep up with Jon, nor can I continue to hold him back.  He is a math and science whiz, who unfortunately exceeded my expertise in these areas somewhere around the 6th grade.  Though we have hired tutors, enrolled in community college classes, summer school, and a correspondence high school, it is not enough.  Jon needs more from me now, a lot more. He needs me to love him enough to let him go.

Yet as I stand in the window at 6:35AM on this cool August morning, courage escapes me.  I want nothing more than to protect him:  To rush back to the early days of leisurely learning; the days of crashing Lego bricks and muddy jeans.  I cannot help but wonder how school will change him.  How it will change us as a family. I worry about keeping a schedule.  I worry about homework and test.  I worry about the negative influence school will inevitably bring.  I worry about drugs and violence, loud music and girls.   Jon is a great kid, I tell myself over and over again as the clock stubbornly refuses to move.  He is strong, confident, and outspoken.  He’s also a black belt in Karate, I remind myself, a fact I find oddly reassuring.

As the bus lumbers near, I watch Jon muster his courage.  Here too, he has clearly surpassed me, for as the tears stream down my cheeks, he holds his head high, greets the bus driver cheerfully, and clamors aboard.  At 6:40AM the doors close with a defiant hiss.  At 6:40AM our new lives begin.

My name is Ann… I was, am, and will always be a homeschooler…it just so happens that my children are no longer home.  Unschooling has taught me nothing if not to utilize all available resources and to provide my children with the best possible opportunities regardless of their form.  For nine years the opportunities Jon had at home far exceeded any he could have received from a public or private school.  But as he pushed the limits of his environment, I sadly realized that to continue to give him the best, I had to let go.

As unschooling parents, we will all face this dilemma eventually.  Though some of our journeys last longer than others, each will inevitably end.  Our children will grow: They will graduate, relocate, enter the workforce, and marry. As I write this today, four years have passed. Jon is a senior in high school. As expected, both school and time have changed him.  For starters, he currently stands over 6 feet tall. A far cry from the 4’11” child I sent out the door.  He is a National Merit Scholar and has received several full tuition offers to top colleges and universities.  He is a distance runner and has lettered in cross-country.  He won the 2005 team spirit award.  He is co-captain of the track team, vice president of literary magazine, and president of the computer science club. As feared, high school has introduced new music, loud music, annoying music.   And of course, there are girls, but happily, drugs and violence have not arrived.  Attending a public high school has changed Jon tremendously. He has grown in to a remarkable young man.  But he is still my son.  And for all his public accomplishments, he remains an unschooler at heart.

The following essay was written by Jon as a personal narrative for his college applications.  Reading it has taught me that the time and effort we put into our children is not lost.  It has taught me that unschooling provides a foundation so strong that no school can alter its course.  And above all else, it has taught me that our children are constantly learning, growing and changing: That they do remember, and that someday they will appreciate the freedoms that we’ve offered.  And that for better or worse, these days do end, often in the blink of an eye.

Jon ‘s Essay
My heart pounds as I close the door silently behind me. The first day of school has come too soon. Reciting the day's schedule in my head, I step alone into the cool morning haze. Barely visible over the mountains, the sun casts a harsh light over my familiar world. Adjusting my backpack, I take a few uneasy steps off our front porch. My legs feel heavy with the emotional strain of last night, but the early morning air gives me strength as I walk. At the foot of my driveway I turn and look back. The post-modern roof-line of my house juts up from the oak and pine and a single beacon of light shines from a kitchen window crying "home." I pick out my mom standing against a window frame, looking bleary-eyed and clutching a cup of coffee. I wave and try my best to mask my uncertainty with a few quick flicks of the wrist. Determined to maintain my composure, I turn back to the gravel road stretched out before me and the day ahead.

 I can make out the bus stop in the distance, an unremarkable street-corner sporting a brilliant new stop sign. My mind races faster with each footfall, and a thousand questions disrupt my thoughts: "Will the bus pick me up? What if I am the only one there? Are they expecting me?" Suddenly, the air seems cold. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I fiddle with a Xeroxed copy of my schedule. To most people, there would be nothing remarkable about today. It is August 27th, a Wednesday, and the first of the dreaded one hundred and eighty. But to me, it represents more.

 Walking fast but still not completely awake, I look into the woods beyond. I remember our farm in Ohio and the worn teak desk in the corner that I enthusiastically called "school" for nine years. My mind wanders to the summer days I spent reading beneath the shade of pear trees, self-motivated and self-inspired. I can still smell the warm, musty scent of aging pears and the stinging aroma of fresh cut grass. I think of the hours I spent exploring our farm, photographing everything I could coax before the lens of my camera. I remember the fort I built, each tree meticulously chosen and cut, the stone bridges and elaborate buildings painstakingly put together in my spare time. Walking down the street in silence, I recall the deafening crash of a thousand Lego bricks spilling out onto my bedroom floor, the result of sudden excitement too great to be contained. I also remember sitting in front of a welcoming purple computer, pouring my heart into project after project. I learned to program, build websites, and design 3D models - not because I had to, but because I wanted to.

 All that, I realize, is about to change. Standing nervous and alone beneath the glaring red of the stop sign, I think about what public school will be like. I will be a freshman at Blacksburg High, with teachers, homework, and a fixed schedule. Gone, I fear, are the long days of self-motivated learning. I try my best to reassure myself that high school too will have its benefits.

Focusing my attention on the bottom of the road, I watch for the yellow outline of the bus between the trees. I check my watch again and again, but the blazing green digits of "6:35" do not budge. Lashing out at a small clump of dirt absent-mindedly, I think to myself: "The next time my watch reads 6:35, I will be through with all of this." I find it oddly comforting. Just as I begin to feel more relaxed, the distant rumbling of an approaching bus cuts through the silence. Unsure of what to do, I watch it wind its way slowly up the street. It comes to a stop at an intersection and a few kids clamber on, yelling back and forth to each other excitedly. I am relieved to see its flashing orange lights come on as it draws near me. Glancing through its windows at row after row of crestfallen students,  I realize how much my approach to life has been shaped by my experiences. Public school will not destroy my love of learning; it cannot silence the person inside my head who sits beneath a pear tree. It will not change who I am, but give me the opportunity to grow. The door of the bus folds back with a pneumatic hiss and the driver greets me with a muttered “Good Morning.”