On Education & Flower-Drawing

Let's talk about why I will never send my children to school in India if I ever choose to work there (a possibility given the field I'm in and the direction I hope to take). But let's not address the usual issues one might find of concern - let's instead finally reveal the traumas of my time as a 1st grader at The Woodlands School in Patna, Bihar, in 1990.

Boy, does my family have stories about this one. It is one of the few times in my life where I was so inexplicably unreasonable and unable to adapt. I'm practically a chameleon and always have been - throw me anywhere and I'm pretty much able to adjust to things. In fact, I prefer that kind of existence. I like shifting - it suits my nature. The Woodlands School did not.

I was a real nerd even in kindergarten. I know everyone loves school at that age, but I REALLY loved it. I loved my friends, my teachers, my art projects, my picture-day outfits, my cafeteria, my locker, you name it. I didn't take issue with anything. The only real tragedy was that I was such a weakling, and was often absent due to sickness. School inspired me to become a story book writer/illustrator when I grew up. School was safe and school was home.

When the family moved to India for a year for my father's sabbatical, my adventurous side got the best of me. I was a precocious child. I knew that an Indian school was not going to be the same as my perfect, privileged little kingdom of public education on Long Island, but the thought of moving away for a year to another country gave me this awesome prickly feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Myself and my younger sister (the poor thing had only experienced nursery school so far and didn't know any better) were placed in a simple public school for less than 1 year. I was in the first "standard" (grade), and she in whatever comes before that. I don't know what went through our young minds at that time, but I do remember every detail vividly once it all began.

I could deal with the benches and rows of little brown children in starched white shirts, pleated red skirts/shorts, and patent-leather shoes. I could deal with calling the teacher "Ma'am" or "Miss." I didn't mind that there was no cafeteria and that I didn't know the principal. I got used to sitting in place and watching a rotation of subject teachers come and go instead of moving around ourselves. I even learned to love the cool pencil boxes and especially sharp, steel sharpeners.

What I didn't understand:
- Expecting to know the times table up until 12 when I could barely add
- Why we were given coloring books to color as "art" instead of being given time to create our own
- Where we were supposed to eat lunch

Most of all, I didn't understand the people and I was spoiled by the after-school special that was my social scene back home. In New York, when the new kid from Israel, Ofair, had first arrived, he was properly introduced to the class and we took turns introducing ourselves. Sure, Ofair was a little odd but we were expected to be nice to him and make him feel a part of the class. In turn, Ofair offered to us his harmless and slightly whimsical personality.

In India, I was met by blank stares and giggles from boys who thought my nails were too long. The teachers made no effort to integrate me into the class. Maybe it was because I was Indian, too. But while I didn't expect anyone to make me feel "special" like American teachers did, I certainly didn't expect them to make me fit into the mold of this bland, sad group of repressed 1st graders. While the atmosphere wasn't warm or uninviting, it wasn't exactly welcoming either. I didn't know how to fit in and what to offer.

Every morning for what seemed like an eternity, I had a mental breakdown. I awoke with tears in my eyes and refused to go to school. I took forever in the bathroom, held onto doorways, tried to sweet-talk my driver into turning back home, and could not choke up any words when necessary once there. After some time, my parents, baffled by this sudden change in attitude towards school, finally pulled me out and got me a tutor.

Yeah, so I was an Indian-school-first-standard drop-out. Never again. I know there were good schools in India (maybe not Patna though...) back then, and there are more now. My niece attends a very modern, somewhat new-age, earthy private school in New Delhi but that's just not me.

American education supposedly sucks, but I was lucky to have attended one of the best school districts in the country. Nothing comes close to some of the experiences you have as a regular ol' public school kid here - to the diversity you take for granted, to the individuality that is encouraged, to the appreciation of childhood, to the early dreams and goals we are told we can achieve. Nowhere could I stand before an easel, palette and brush in one hand and pages of a handwritten plot in the other, at the age of 6 so confidently and envision myself as the next great best-selling story book author/illustrator. Nowhere else could I have such a fluid intellectual curiosity and profound enthusiasm for education. It almost makes me cry how much I can appreciate my schooling with so few regrets.

Some cousins of mine attend a posh private school in India. When they moved back to India from, of all places, Minnesota, the younger one expressed frustration with her new school. She told me that they were asked to draw flowers in her art class. When she drew one, her teacher "corrected" her design. Luckily, my cousin is a spunky one and asked why she couldn't draw any kind of flower since there are so many kinds. Her question apparently went unanswered and she came to me upset by the apparent lack of democracy in flower-drawing.

I know this is not representative of all Indian schools, and possibly not many at all these days. I also remind myself constantly how priviliged I was such at such a tender age, and that few people are lucky enough to have had the same experiences. I just hope to give my own kids tablets of blank pages to draw in and construct some dreams. And that will be right here, where I was able to do so.