I decided in kindergarten I didn't like school. Five years old, and I wanted less to do with it than I did with girls. Of course, at that age I didn't understand that many public schools unwittingly eat many of their young. But I learned.
I knew little more than I was bored and restless and inattentive, and saddled with a teacher that years later I realized was the matrix for Miss Wormwood from "Calvin and Hobbes." She insisted on naps even if we weren't tired, and if we didn't fall asleep she would whap us on our butts with her pointer.
Heck of a way to start your school days. A thin veneer of kindergarten, to the superficial eye, with undercurrents of boredom and fear. And all of five years old. I won't discuss the Big Yellow School Bus to and from Hell.
Things didn't get much better from first through sixth grade. After that, there was middle school, but that's a whole other Stephen King-generated Hell. There was an occasional teacher whom I liked, and others who had a spark of quasi-humanity that sputtered occasionally in them, but for the most part they appeared to have been grown in the same vat. (I have this image, probably from a horror film, of a monster, all eyeballs and teeth and claws and a dog biscuit for a brain, hauling itself out of a bubbling vat: "Arrgghhh! Where's the kids? Arrgghhh!")
I was always glad when I made it home: cookies and milk and cartoons awaited me. In college I asked one of my friends – raised 300 miles from me – what he did when he came home from school. His answer: "Well, I got some cookies and milk and watched cartoons." Did you like school? I asked him. His answer: "What are you, retarded? It was a kind of Hell." (Which raises the question: just how many Hells are there?)
Because I didn't like school, I figuratively escaped from it by daydreaming away most of my 12-year sentence. Since I still have my report cards, I know what my teachers wrote about me: "I hope Bobby continues trying to concentrate, as he is capable of doing such good work if he only keeps his mind on the matters at hand! He needs to spend time working accurately on his assignments." Another one reads, "Bob is not turning in his assignments. Those which are turned in are usually very brief and show little preparation."
All my comments have in common the unquestioned belief that everything was my fault, not the school's. Pin a kid to a chair for several hours a day, bore him with Dick and Jane and Pony and Spot, and then pretzel-logic the responsibility so the blame falls solely on him when he doesn't pay attention or do his homework. I will always be fuzzy on how many times I got in trouble for drawing pictures in class instead of listening to the teacher go "WAK WAK WAK" like the incomprehensible instructor in the Charlie Brown TV specials.
These days I would have been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder without Hyperactivity and drugged with the psychiatric drug du jour.
One thing that occurred to me years later is that every one of those comments was from a female teacher. In other words, since I wasn't acting like a nice little girl and instead was ignoring them, I got the comments. This is one reason, among a few more, why I believe women should not be allowed to teach little boys.
Why was there no Attention Deficit Disorder when I was a kid? Where has it been hiding for thousands of years? Even the ancient Greeks accurately described real diseases like diabetes; why is there nary a word from them about "hyperactive" kids? Maybe because ADD, which was diagnosed only in the last few decades, is a phantasm completely unhinged from reality?
Could the real problem be schools that bore some kids to near-insanity? And instead of blaming the problem on the schools, blame it on the kids, just the way my teachers blamed my boredom and inattention on me. Only these days, instead of hitting students, we dope them up.
I find it incomprehensible that there are four million to six million kids in the United States who are prescribed Ritalin, a drug chemically similar to cocaine. And it's not just for restless kids who jump around; it's also for inattentive kids who daydream. Sounds to me as if it's an inadvertent attempt to drug to sleep the imaginations of bright but bored kids. And imagination, Einstein said, is more important than knowledge.
Have boredom and imagination – normal things for kids – now become diseases, to be treated with brain-altering chemicals? Have schools now become Laboratories of Really Dumb Experiments, with children as the guinea pigs? Would I, an imaginative kid whose brain conjured up fantasies from robots hooked up to frog brains, to submarines made out of hot-water heaters, to air-to-tree (sigh) shoulder-held rocket launchers, been treated with Ritalin? Even at five, just because I wouldn't lie still and go to sleep?
I wonder what bitter harvest we will reap from these Ritalin-treated brains when the possessors are adults? (Kurt Cobain, diagnosed as hyperactive and raised as a Ritalin child, might be an example.) The public would throw a conniption-fit if the schools treated children with booze or marijuana every day; why is there not much more outcry over treating them with – as we called it in high school – speed?
Little kids raised with their brains full of speed. "It calms them down," the legal pushers claim. I've seen speed freaks stare at one of their hands for half an hour. Marijuana has the same effect. Some of the users were calm, all right. Sheesh.
I wonder what speed is doing to all the cells and neurons and synapses in their brains. I'll bet doctors, schools and the drug companies wonder, too, even as they try to con the public into thinking they really do know. I wouldn't be surprised if they were peering into a Magic 8-Ball. A dusty one.
It was these same speed freaks – and coke heads – who told me Ritalin is a street drug. They've told me if enough is ingested, the effects are better than sex. Long-term side effects? A few. Suicide, for one, and selling their babies to get their daily fix for another.
There are always at least two sides to every story. The side few know about is an impaired conscience is oftentimes a result of drug addiction, be it alcohol or Ritalin. The baby-sellers and school shooters such as Kip Kinkel, are examples.
All I can say: oh, good Lord, what is wrong with the schools and "doctors" prescribing this poison for kids? Who is going to take responsibility for the side effects? What's that I hear? There aren't going to be any? Really? Name one psychoactive drug that in the long run doesn't have side effects.
I can think of no one who has ever used marijuana or cocaine every day who contributed anything to themselves or society. Yet kids raised on an amphetamine are supposed to turn out just fine and be productive and happy people? I don't believe it.
The kids would be better off if they were allowed to some physical activity. That would calm them down. A playground is a lot cheaper than Ritalin, although not as profitable to drug companies. Playgrounds are no profit at all for drug companies.
And a more interesting curriculum wouldn't hurt, either. Especially for the smarter, more imaginative students. The one scene from Ferris Bueller's Day Off that is always clear in my memory is where all the kids are sprawled nearly unconscious on their desks as Mr. Excitement himself, Ben Stein, drones on in a monotone that would do Satan proud with its ability to warp souls. Doesn't high school ever change?
If I was a conspiracy buff I'd think there was a plot to destroy the brains of American children. And if I was an enemy of America, I'd be smiling, hoping for a generation of adults so drug-addled they lack both conscience and imagination.
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