This weekend brings a much-anticipated event: our second gathering of educators at a conference entitled The Fruitful Garden. Sponsored by the Classical Consortium (CiRCE, Classical Academic Press, Memoria Press, IEW, Center for Lit, and Professor Carol), our focus will be the Seven Liberal Arts, exploring them per se and treasuring their impact within our Western heritage and in our daily lives.
Hank and I are immeasurably blessed to have entered this world of impassioned educators, both those who labor in brick-and-mortar institutions and those who teach in home schools and co-ops. Not many years ago, I had no idea this world existed.
My journey began in the mid 1990s, back when I was fully immersed in my daily duties teaching Music History at SMU, Dallas. Gradually I was becoming aware of specific students whose academic work was formally stellar and exceptionally interesting. After reading their papers or listening to in-class discussions, I would shake my head in wonder, thinking, “Where did this student go to high school?”
Keep in mind that I worked with the cream of the crop (music majors). Yet, I’d been a professor long enough to see, and mourn, the rapid decline of this country’s educational system. What had passed as the normal (rigorous) academic standard back in my day was long gone. The levels of writing and academic polish in my freshman classes seemed more dismal with each passing year—the grand exception being international students who hailed from countries where standards had not fallen or yet been skewed by progressive educational theories.
So it was a joy to discover these young adults who still could punctuate, use fine vocabulary, formulate a topic into a well-written essay, and engage in nuanced discussions. But where did they learn this, I wondered?
At the conclusion of class one day, after handing back yet another fine paper to a sophomore named Allison, I asked her where she gone to high school. A dynamic violinist, she was surprisingly demure and spoke little in class. It took me half a semester to associate her quiet visage with such vibrant written work.
At my question she looked down and said quietly, “I was homeschooled.” I didn’t fully hear her. “What?” A bit louder, she repeated, “I was homeschooled.”
I looked at her in wonder and said one of the stupidest things ever to come out my mouth. “Really? Gosh, you don’t look sick.”
In my defense, a “homeschooled” child in my time (the 1950s) was one with a chronic disease or one who had been hit by a bus and lay in traction. Public-school teachers would come regularly to instruct such students. I knew nothing else to associate with “homeschooling.”
A big smile spread across Allison’s face. As I hastened to apologize, laughter spilled out of her mouth. “You don’t know what homeschooling is, do you, Dr. Reynolds?” The only answer I knew to give was, “No.”
We sat for the next half-hour in semi-darkness in the empty classroom. She gave me a succinct summary of her homeschooling. When she finished, my mouth dropped. I said incredulously, “Your mother did all this?”
Well, she laughed as she went to explain, yes, her mother had, but Allison also had tutors and, if I recall correctly, worked within a co-op.
I was incredulous. So I asked another question. “Is this legal??”
She had plenty to say about that, starting with the fact that homeschooling had not been legal in all states, and many a family had had to buck the system, risking everything including incarceration.
That day became a turning point for me: Wake up, Carol. Apparently, out there, beyond the Ivy Tower, people were not sitting idly by and watching helplessly the further disintegration of education. They were doing something about it.
From that semi-darkened classroom, a progression began which leads me to my work today. And this weekend’s conference will be yet another point of light in the journey. See you soon!
