I picked up the pencil and, on the far side of the circle, drew one eye. The proctor looked pleased. My mother beamed. Then I put the tip of the pencil on the outside edge of the circle and drew what appeared to be a triangle. The proctor fidgeted. My mother remained calm. Then I finished by placing the pencil back inside the circle, and, near the edge, drawing half of a smile. I put the pencil down and looked up at my mom. She was pleased.
The proctor was not.
I had drawn a face. In profile. The proctor explained to my mother that wasn’t the intent of the test. The test was to see if I could place two eyes, a nose, and a mouth within the circle in an arrangement that would best represent a face. She picked up the pencil and asked me to erase what I had drawn. My mother extended her hand to gently intercept the pencil. She explained to the proctor that her instructions never specified the face had to be forward facing. The proctor said if I wasn’t able to complete the test as it was intended, she would not recommend me for the first grade.
Whatever transpired in the room after that is still a bit fuzzy. All I remember was my test being taped to our refrigerator at home, and, in very short order, starting the first grade.
School is nothing if not the push and pull between conformity and individuality.
In the classroom I’m always asking my students to both fit a mold (everyone must be present, engaged, and participating) and to be themselves (bring in your own experiences, express your individual opinions). Everyone gets the same paper assignment (same page requirement, structure, citation guidelines) but I want them all to be creative and distinctive within that (pick a unique topic, bring in your own point of view).
And now that our oldest is in school, I see the push and pull between conformity and individuality coming strongly into play. But, much like my first grade entrance exam, I also see the push and pull between parental involvement and independent growth.
Lowery came home recently with a homework assignment: an outline of a turkey with instructions to “disguise it” so it wouldn’t get eaten on Thanksgiving. I didn’t give this assignment much thought. It was buried within the abundance of papers that come home every day, and, so, I glossed over it.
Jim, however, did not. He always carefully reads each piece of paper and makes notes of deadlines in our family calendar. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this Turkey Project was heavy on his mind.
The night before the Turkey Project was due, we had to attend an unexpected work-related event. As I gave dinner instructions to the babysitter, Jim told Lowery she would need to complete her Turkey Project. He explained that she had to disguise the turkey, and he left her with her bucket of markers, glitter and stickers. She nodded with the confidence only a five-year-old can possess, and off we went.
That evening, we got home in time to put the kids to bed. We read to them, giggled with them, talked to them about how their evening had gone, and tucked them both in with a kiss. Back downstairs I heard Jim let out a groan. When I walked in to see why, he was holding up her Turkey Project. It was the turkey completely colored over in brown marker.
I let out a laugh and clapped. “That’s awesome!” I exclaimed. He looked pained.
“She can’t turn this in,” he said.
“Why not? It’s hilarious. And clever.”
“No, no. This isn’t the intent of the project. Kids are meant to disguise the turkey.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a tough concept for a kindergartener to understand. She clearly took it to mean ‘hide’ and that’s what she did,” I said, still laughing as I admired it.
The next morning, as we rushed around to get the kids ready, Jim asked to talk with me alone in the kitchen.
“I can’t let her turn in that turkey,” he whispered, pulling at the knot in his tie.
“Sure you can,” I said.
“No, seriously. We failed as parents on this.”
“Excuse me!?”
“Meg, this was supposed to be a family project and we let her do it on her own. She’s going to get laughed at.”
“Laughed at why? And by whom?”
“I just know how this is going to go. Parents are going to have helped their kids, and they are going to be over-the-top masterpieces. And hers is, well, a blob of brown.”
“Hey now. She hid the damn turkey. You can’t eat what you can’t see! Besides, we don’t parent for other parents.”
“Meg, just let me ask the teacher for another turkey.”
“There’s no need. She did the assignment and it’s great.”
At that point Lowery walked into the kitchen. “Are you talking about me?” she asked. It was time for school.
That evening, when I arrived home after teaching my class, Jim seemed more relaxed. The kids were in good moods as we put them to bed. Back downstairs I asked, “Good day?”
He smiled and held up a piece of paper. On it was a turkey, colored to look like a purple unicorn, complete with drawn on horn and tail.
“What’s going on here?” I said, my smile fading.
“Well, the teacher forgot to send home another Turkey in her folder—”
“You asked for another one? I thought we agreed—”
“And so I just took the brown blobby one, held it up to the light, and traced the outline of the turkey. Then I made a photocopy of it so it would match the others.”
“This is insane, Jim.”
“No, you don’t understand. When I got to school today I saw what the other kids were turning in. One turkey was disguised as Superman, with a cape glued on it.”
“Okay, well that was clearly a parent…”
“Another was a snowman made out of cotton balls.”
“Yeah...okay....I get it, but—”
“One had a beaded necklace glued to it. I think it was Elizabeth Taylor.”
I looked back down at the purple unicorn. How meticulously Jim had traced the turkey outline through the original dark brown blob. I looked in admiration at the twisty horn he had drawn, and the thoughtful way Lowery had colored various shades of purple on each of the turkey’s feathers. I sighed and smiled up at him without any more to add.
A few days later, Jim and I met for lunch. Having not spoken about the turkey again since he proudly handed it over to the teacher, I couldn’t disguise my concern any longer.
“Can we talk about the turkey?”
“Sure…”
“What the hell was that all about?”
That turkey was the first time—aside from ‘who is going to change the next diaper’—that Jim and I were at odds about a parenting choice. We spent that lunch break hashing out what exactly had happened. Why I was so reluctant to get involved. Why he was so obsessed with being involved. Why he took charge before we had agreed on a plan. Why I was resistant to push conformity. On and on it went until by the end of the lunch a strange thing happened: we completely switched sides of the argument.
“I think you’re right,” Jim said, shoulders slumped. “I basically did the assignment just so she matched the other kids. I didn’t let her own it.”
“Nope. I’m an idiot,” I sighed. “It was intended to be a family project and I’m just sensitive to those mandatory parental involvement assignments. It undervalues all the ways we are involved. I was obviously projecting.”
“No, I was projecting.”
“No, you were being an exceptional father.”
“Nope. You were the one modeling good parenting.”
So, like any good argument, we both left still on opposite sides of the issue. And more confused than ever. Now, on the verge of Thanksgiving, where we will be eating an undisguised turkey, we find ourselves still at odds over what the right thing was to do. And desperate for a judgment call.
As if we think this one assignment sets the tone for our child’s entire education.
That day in the testing room, when I was in kindergarten, my mom let me be who I was and rejected any awareness or pressure of conformity. And she stayed right next to me so she could fight for my independence when needed.
In one artistic exercise when I was five years old, I learned what my goal was, and what the goal of my parents was. Maybe the Turkey Project was a lesson for Lowery, too. But what exactly did she learn? Does she know to strive for distinction within the conformity? And does she know her parents are there to step in only in defense of that?
Here’s hoping.
I take heart knowing a new folder filled with assignments is surely on its way. Another chance to show her what we’re made of. Another opportunity for us to figure out where exactly our place is in our child’s education. And in her life.
Whatever our place may be, I know sometimes we will need to make our efforts abundantly clear.
And other times, keep them expertly disguised.
megmyersmorgan.com
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