Freshman, (Part 5: If You’re a Parent, It Probably is Your Fault):Why your 11 year old freshmen is Not a genius

I had quite a few students pass through my door while teaching. Some I really liked; some, not so much. And others, I just never understood. The one’s that I did not understand were, arguably, few and far between, but (perhaps because of this) were almost always unforgettable. One of the most difficult to forget (though I do indeed try) was a four foot tall 11 year old that I had the relative displeasure of teaching most of his four years at the school. Of course, what I found most difficult to define was if I disliked the boy more because he was a pompous, demeaning jackass, or because his parents’ attitude toward his behavior seemed to encourage as much. Even now, I’m just not sure.

I had plenty of run-ins with this kid during our first semester together, most of which I chalked up to immaturity; the rest I blame on ego. But it wasn’t until a parent-teacher conference—during which I would have to tell his mother that her son (the 11 year old genius) was only going to get a C in my class and, I thought quite obviously, deserved precisely that—that I would understand first-hand just where the boy was coming from. Not that I understood where he was coming from, mind you, but after meeting his mother his behavior made a lot more sense.

I should say that it was never lost on me that he was an 11 year old in high school; if nothing else, his physical stature served as a constant reminder. But it was also well understood that, in my opinion, based on his behavior—and what appeared to be his ability—he should not have been. He should not have skipped grades and been thrust into adolescence and been made to feel entitled to things that he had not earned. He should not; but he had. And so regardless of what I though he deserved, based entirely on what he had earned, when a kid has skipped 4 grades, certain expectations seem to apply, fairness notwithstanding. And that is what I did not understand when I walked into the conference with his mother.

“Why, exactly, is Beau being given a C?” his mother began, in a way that was at least marginally hostile. “Especially when the progress report that he brought home four weeks ago showed him getting an A? I mean, really … it’s photography, for god’s sake. How hard could it be?”

How hard, indeed.

A piece of advice for all you parents out there: 1) it is indeed a stupid question to ask why a grade that is four weeks old is no longer accurate, and 2) never imply the invalidity of a subject directly to the teacher who is responsible for teaching it. Number 1 is, like I said, stupid. And number 2; well, that’s also stupid, not to mention bad form, no matter how smart you think your child is. If you’re not happy with a grade, I find it best to find out why it is what it is before you start casting blame on the inadequacy of the grader or the simplicity of the subject. That won’t win you any friends and it certainly doesn’t help you make your case; besides, you’re kid may not be as smart as they tell you they are.

“Photography is actually quite involved.” I said, with as much calm as I could gather. “There’s chemistry, physics, optics; it also takes a good bit of discipline and patience. And Beau hasn’t shown much strength in any of those things yet. I think he can do better, be he’s going to have to try harder.”

Something else that I learned from parent-teacher conferences: it is not always easy to reason with a parent. In fact, at times it is harder than trying to reason with a child. Harder still is trying to reason with a parent whose kid thinks he is perfect (especially when the parent agrees).
“My little Beau is a brilliant young man,” she snipped. “He is far more developed than most of the kids in here. That’s why we’ve had him accelerated. And I don’t think this grade accurately reflects his ability or his work.”

Like I said, I never could figure out why “Little Beau” had been allowed to skip so many grades. His intellect, in my experience, was average, at the very best. His ego was most certainly over developed, but his raw intelligence never exceeded his age; in spite of the fact that he spent much of his time demeaning the adequacy of every teacher he came in contact with (a group I can certainly be counted a part of.) And the fact that he was not noticeably superior to any of the other students seemed to me unfair, given all of the other kids who had to put up with his excessive emotional immaturity. And I found that it got worse before it ever got better.

“Ma’am, I’m not going to speak to your son’s intelligence,” I said politely, though I very much would have enjoyed such a conversation. “I can only tell you what he is and is not doing in my class. And what he is not doing is what is earning him this C. And to be honest, his C is closer to a D than it is to anything else.”

It would be easy for me to romanticize about the force of my argument at the time, but the truth is, no matter how logical or direct or stern it may seem written on paper, it was going to fall on completely deaf ears; or, at the very least, ears that had become expert at selective listening.
“If he comprehends the work,” I continued, “then he doesn’t study for the tests; and if he study’s then he just doesn’t understand the material. And then there is the issue of his projects, which, again, show a lack of understanding. I have a few of them here if you’d like to have a look.”
I pushed some photographic prints toward Beau’s mother. She ignored them and pressed on forcefully with her argument.

“You teach an elective, Mr. Riedel,” she said, as though I should have been ashamed of myself for such a thing. “My Beau is not going to get a C in an elective.”

The hell he isn’t, I thought. In fact, if that little bastard doesn’t pick it up, I’m going to give him the F he’s been gunning for. Of course, like I said, this is what I thought to myself. I did not share these thoughts with his mother. Instead, I chose to be more diplomatic.

“Look,” I said, holding back as best I could. “My class is still a class for credit. It is still a class that my students are required to work in. The fact that it’s an elective has no bearing on things aside from that fact that he has the right not to take it. But since he elected to enroll, there is nothing that should have given him the impression that he would be less responsible for doing the work than in any other class. I give an assignment to the class. If he chooses not to do it, I give him a poor grade; that’s the way the class works. And it is the same for every kid I teach.”

“Look Mr. Riedel, my son is on track for college by age 15,” she said in an angry tone. “Perhaps you were not aware of this,” I was aware. I am capable of simple addition. “but I’m not going to have some art teacher screwing up his GPA.”

And there it was. I was an “Art Teacher;” a simpleton, an idiot, for lack of a better word. I was an oaf and that was that. Sure it might seem a little much, but as a teacher you sometimes come to find that when the word “Art”—or the word “Elective” or “Shop” or many others—is appended to the word “Teacher”, especially in the context of a parent-teacher conference, you are not being complimented for either your intelligence or your ability. You are being indicted; sometimes you’re being scolded.
“Beau tells me that he doesn’t know why he is getting this C,” she went on, “and I believe him. So if you can’t explain this to me, then there is obviously a problem with the way you give out grades. And that is something that will certainly need to be resolved.”

At that point in the conversation it became clear to me that she was not listening to a word I said. I had explained myself—or so I thought—and her response was to all but call me stupid. I figured I at least owed her some kind of rebut; even if only for my own peace of mind.

“First of all: emotionally … your son’s a fifth grader. And unfortunately that affects his performance in my class. Second: I am not screwing up his GPA; he is. He does the work and he earns the grade. I do not hand them out. And while I can appreciate the concern for your son’s education, I think your anger is misdirected. I am happy to work with Beau, and I have told him as much; but I will not try to justify going easy on him just because I am an ‘art teacher’ and he is an 11 year old freshman.”

“Well,” she said, eying the guidance counselor, “I suppose we’ll have to revisit this. I’m not going to have my son’s GPA blown for photography. Maybe we’ll just have to transfer him out of this class.” they way she said it wasn’t angry as much as it was very matter of fact. She was looking for a solution and she intended to find one.

Shortly after this little meeting, as if they had been reading my mind, I was informed by some (who shall remain nameless) that it was not always reasonable, or even preferable, to grade elective courses the way you might grade, say, an “academic” class. In other words, I was told, in a very under-the-table sort of way, to ease up on my grading requirements because, “even though they were classes for credit, they were still ‘electives’ that would have little bearing on whether or not a kid got into college.” “Certainly” as was later added, “less important than a low GPA.” Great. Thanks for the support.

I wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about that conversation; or about my parent-teacher conference skills, for that matter. I was angry, and a little confused. But one thing had become painfully obvious: as long as the system allows parents to behave as though they are in charge of the major decisions facing educators—decisions that include what to teach, how to grade, and whether or not a kid ought to be moved up in spite of their raw ability—things will remain broken, good teachers will continue to defect, and students of all ages will continue to behave as though the world (and everyone in it) owes them something, whether they’ve earned it or not.

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