Continuing the theme

I don't want anyone to get the wrong impression that this is an obsession of mine.  I really almost never think about it.

But in my inbox this morning was an ad for ballet lessons for homeschoolers in our local area.  Part of it went as follows:

Dress Code: 
A pink leotard is ideal but any color leotard or swimming costume is fine. Alternatively leggings with a fitted t' shirt will suffice. 

My immediate thought was, "what about the boys?  Is that what they wear in class, too?"

Well, obviously not.  Obviously the boys have simply been overlooked as possible ballet students, and the teacher has forgotten to mention the boys' uniform in her ad.

No harm done, no big deal, right?

Well, sort of.  But much like my previous post about casual sexism with homeschooling dads, these sorts of public writings both show and reinforce gender stereotypes of what is socially acceptable for boys and men to do.  This ad shows that the teacher's vision of her class didn't include boys.  And when parents read the ad those with boys will be less likely to consider signing their sons up.

Fortunately, we attend a ballet school (Rowe Dance) in which boys are very welcome.  About half of the students in Mulan's ballet class are boys, and the teacher also teaches separate boys-only ballet classes.

For this reason alone we would support attending Meaghan Rowe's classes, but on top of that she is a great teacher and also her classes are cheaper than this homeschooling one.

Casual sexism?

The AHE (Auckland Home Educators) conference is happening in a couple of weeks.

I know this because they've been advertising on a few of the Facebook homeschooling groups I am subscribed to.  One repeated ad went as follows:

So what DO Dads do? What role do they play? What’s their perspective? 

Don’t miss out on the “Dad’s Panel” at the AHE conference in two weeks time. A bunch of experienced homeschool fathers will share how they are involved in the home-schooling journey and respond to your questions. 

The panel includes [five names].

In all seriousness (to get an idea if it was worth me going to the conference), I replied to one of the more actively commented ads, asking whether any of the dads were the main homeschool parent.

My question was ignored, though the poster of the ad sent me a private message to say that she is friends with a homeschooling dad.  I guess this means that none of these conference panelists are the main homeschooling parent.  (I'd be very happy to be corrected if I am wrong.)

Let's put that aside for a moment.

Suppose there was a medical conference.  And suppose that at that medical conference there was a panel discussion called "Women's Panel", which asked the question of what role women play in hospitals.  Now, it would seem a little odd (at least to me) if all the panelists at that discussion were receptionists, cleaners and part-time junior staff.  Moreover, it would seem a little odd (at least to me) if, in reply to a question about whether any of the women there were doctors or nurses, one were privately messaged by someone saying that they are friends with a woman doctor.

But let's return to the topic of the homeschooling conference.  And at the risk of being boringly pedantic, I'll spell out my thoughts more directly.

As we know, in almost all of the homeschooling families the dad is the main money-earner while the mum is the main day-to-day educator.  That is, the dad is part of the essential support (like receptionists, cleaners and part-time junior staff in hospitals), without which the institution would probably very soon collapse.  But his role is not to be full-time involved in the core function of the institution (medicine for a hospital; education for a homeschooler).

With this in mind, it is understandable that, at a practically-focused homeschooling conference, the emphasis should rightly be on giving advice/information on how main-money-earning dads can also get involved, in a part-time way, in the educational side of things.  So, it makes sense that a majority of panelists on a "Dad's Panel" should be experienced "support staff", rather than main homeschooling parents themselves.

But is it right that all of the panelists are support staff, not main homeschooling parents?

I say no.

Firstly, there are some of us dads who are the main educators, and we may be interested in hearing the wisdom of other, more experienced, dads-as-main-educators.

But secondly, and more importantly, this is an issue of gender roles and casual sexism.  Just as in the early days of feminism (and sadly sometimes still today) we needed to go that extra distance to acknowledge and promote women's inclusion in male-dominated professions, so too do we now need to acknowledge and promote the possibility of men as full-time stay-at-home homeschooling parents.  Having one full-time homeschooling dad on the panel would raise the possibility in people's minds that such a thing is possible, and hopefully take that little step towards reducing gender-role prejudices.

Consequently, I say, on these sorts of panels and at these sorts of conferences we should have at least one dad who is the main homeschooling parent.

If you think I am overreacting, underneath some of the Facebook ads for the "Dad's Panel" was this picture:

Sigh!  Really?!

I mean, in other contexts it is kinda funny and cute.

But used to advertise a panel discussion at a conference where they are discussing the role of homeschool dads?

It just reinforces those sexist notions that the dad could never, gasp, actually be the kid's teacher.  That his role is, dare I say it, one of sexual titillation and amusement.

I have a sudden urge to burn my g-string.

Update on Miya's reading

We've now been consciously working on Miya's reading for a little over a year.  Last March, when we began, she was a near complete non-reader, recognising maybe only a half-dozen words or so and knowing only some of the letter sounds.

In August, I wrote about where we were at, five months into our project, and the method that we were using for her learning.

In the past eight months, we have mostly followed this same method, with Miya reading out loud to me most days and me reading out loud to her most days.  (We do skip days sometimes if we are too busy with other things!)

So, here is where we are at, right now.

A couple of days ago, we got out our Frances books (some pics of the books in the link below) and Miya started reading out loud to me A Birthday for Frances.  She didn't feel like reading it all in one session (or even two), and she will likely finish the last couple of pages today.  She is probably about 95% correct in her reading of it for the first time.

Notably, she didn't know words like "closet" and "pail" (she struggled to pronounce them and also didn't know what they were -- they are not Kiwi English words).  She also struggled to pronounce names like "Ida", "Albert", and "Gloria".  But with all of these words, after a few repeat occurrences of them in the story she was saying them smoothly.  She continues to sometimes mix up "said" and "and" with each other, as well as mix up "when" and "then" with each other -- that is an ongoing thing with all the books she is reading at the moment, though she almost always self-corrects immediately after saying the wrong word.

But all in all, a pretty good effort.  Sometimes I get Miya to read a book two or three times to solidify the new words, but I don't think we need to do this with these Frances books.

Back in 2013, I wrote about Mulan's experience reading these Frances books.  It seems that Miya, at 6 years 8 months, is reading at about the same level that Mulan was when she was 6 years 3 months.  But Miya started later and is learning faster than Mulan did.

Waitomo

Last weekend, we had a quick 30-hour car trip holiday down to Waitomo and back.

Mostly, it was in aid of showing Mama's friend from China (who Mulan and Miya call Ganma) around the country.  (Ganma is here in New Zealand for about a month, staying with us in our home.)

We left on Saturday afternoon, after Mulan and Miya had finished their morning music lessons.

Our first stop was Huntly, to do a property inspection of an investment property we own there.  The little two-bedroom cottage, which we bought a couple of years ago, is about 110 years old.

All was good at the property, so our next stop was an afternoon tea break in Hamilton.

With not much of a plan, and simply wanting a nice scenic park alongside the Waikato River, we found the Parana Park/Soldiers Memorial Park area and wandered down to have a look.

After eating, the girls and I discovered the old Rangiriri boat, and so took the opportunity to learn a bit about the history of the area.  The official information signs at the park taught us something of the English colonisation of the area in 1864.  The handwritten graffiti scratched into the signs taught us that what some see as "acquired" land, others see as "stolen" land.

And then it was off to Kihikihi, where we were staying at Free Range Farmstay for the night (no they are not homeschoolers, we were told, but they do let their kids run free there).  The accommodation was very comfortable, and we highly recommend it.  They had set up their homestay accommodation in the granny flat above their main house, giving the five of us two bedrooms, a bathroom and a kitchenette.  The flat had its own external entrance in the form of a spiral staircase up to the bedroom balcony.

The next morning it was raining, but we had a short walk around the farm and a swim in their pool.

Just after 11 am, we headed to Waitomo to see the caves.  Our farmstay owners work in tourism in the area, and they were able to get us discounted tickets to the caves.  So, since two caves was cheaper than one we decided to go to both the Ruakuri Cave and the Glowworm Cave.

Two years ago, the four of us had visited the Glowworm Cave during our winter campervan holiday, but none of us had been to the Ruakuri Cave.

At just over an hour, the Ruakuri Cave was a decent walk through a pretty spectacular cave system.  The highlight for me would have been the sheet-like stalactite formations on the ceilings.  There were glowworms in the cave, but not nearly as many as in the Glowworm Cave.

Immediately after that tour finished, we drove the few minutes to the Glowworm Cave entrance for the start of our tour there.  This tour is less than an hour, and has much less walking.  Once again, the big highlight for us was the boat ride through the dark with countless star-like glowworms above us.

Visiting these caves is expensive, and it is not something that we would want to do regularly, but they are indeed spectacular and must-sees at some point for everyone.

After the caves, we headed back up north towards home.  We stopped off for afternoon tea at Pirongia, parking on a side-street in front of a small alpaca farm.  The girls enjoyed watching the animals, and were fascinated to observe that each animal had a quite distinctively recognisable face.

All in all, a pleasant little holiday.  It is a good reminder that we should do these sorts of short trips more often as a family.

Free online courses

I've just discovered this site, which collects free online courses.  It looks very useful, and I'll probably sign up to some of the courses.

Typical day

On the National Council of Home Educators New Zealand website there is a page of a variety of New Zealand homeschoolers' "typical days".

I was asked to send them my "typical day" story for their website, which I did.  But I was probably too wordy (!), since they haven't added mine up there.  So, here is what I wrote:

---

On a typical day in our family, we have a mix of strictly timetabled events, important/necessary events that should be fitted into the day at some time, and optional extras that would be nice to do.

The strictly timetabled events take two forms.  Firstly, my wife and I both work from home as teachers, with my wife the primary income earner (my wife teaches Chinese and I teach critical thinking).  We have a classroom set up in our home, with paying students coming and going at various times of the day for classes or individual lessons.  Our children are sometimes involved in the classes as either teaching assistants or learners.  The second type of strict timetabling is that the children have outside organised activities (currently swimming, ballet, music, netball, basketball, athletics, tennis, sewing, gymnastics) most days, which I take them to.

The important daily events (besides, of course, our usual household duties, which everyone helps out with) include the core academic subjects.  At some point during the day (seven days a week, all year round), I work with the children on their maths and English.  The children need their free play time each day, and this involves both imaginative/creative play and outdoor physical play (we live next door to a school, so in addition to our own backyard, we also make use of the school's fields and playgrounds).  Throughout the day, I am also always on the lookout for those teachable moments, where something will inspire us to have an impromptu lesson on any subject; many hours are spent in our family observing and discussing anything and everything in the world around us.

Most days the children practice their musical instruments, and they also spend time learning touch typing.  Perhaps every second day my wife works with the children on their Chinese (our children are bilingual English/Chinese).  I frequently use P4C (Philosophy for Children) inspired lessons to teach the children critical thinking.

The optional extras typically include day-trip outings, including nature walks, the beach and playgrounds.  We often have overseas visitors staying with us, who we might show around our local area.

We probably spend about six weeks away from our home each year, with three main travel events.  We spend a few weeks each year in China (we lived in China up until the end of 2014), we have a one-week campervan road trip, and we have a couple of weeks camping over summer.

Do I believe in God?

In the past few days, I have been revisiting some thoughts I thought I had already thought about before.

Every once in a while I am asked the question, "do you believe in God?"  And I always have a hard time answering it.  It seems like such a simple yes/no question, but neither answer seems to do justice to what I really believe.

While re-reading more properly Robert Paul Wolff's small book Moneybags Must Be So Lucky (which I highly recommend), I came across a side-point example, being used to explain his main point.

Wolff writes:

Imagine, for example, that I have been raised in the Catholic faith, and have arrived at my present atheistical condition through a lengthy and painful process of questioning and selfcriticism.  The symbols, the myths, the liturgy, the language of Catholicism retain for me, as for many lapsed Catholics, a residual power that I cannot wholly subdue, and whose direct and indirect effects in part define who and how I am. If I am asked, “Do you believe in God?” how can I answer in such a way as to communicate this complex state of affairs, with the weights and resonances of the several portions of my religious condition given their proper magnitude? 

Simply to answer, “No, I do not” would be, strictly speaking, to lie. It would be to lie by omission, but to lie nonetheless. Such an answer in no way distinguishes me from one who has had no religious upbringing and who has never believed. To say, “I once did, but I no longer do” comes closer, but still misrepresents the true situation by treating the remnants of Catholicism as no longer present in me, as having been externalised and destroyed.

We might think that a true, though tedious, answer to the question would be a thorough unpacking of the situation in flat, declarative prose, more or less as I have been doing in these past few paragraphs. But that really will not do. To speak that way is to invent a voice that is neither the voice of the victorious portion of myself, nor the voice of the subdued portion, but is the voice of an external observer, a scientific reporter, a neutral party not implicated either in the original Catholic faith nor in its rejection. It is the voice of the cultural anthropologist describing native customs, of the social theorist denying complicity in the popular culture of his own society by his very manner of reporting it. Insofar as I purport to be voicing my religious condition in that voice, I am lying. In all likelihood, I would be deceiving myself at least as much as my audience. What is more, the declarative unpacking of the complexities of my loss of faith would entirely miss the sensuous immediacy of feeling that is an essential part of my present rejection of, and residual clinging to, Catholicism. 

Consider now what might be accomplished by means of the adoption of an ironic voice. Asked whether I believe in God, I might reply – employing, ever so faintly exaggeratedly, the singsong tone of the Apostle’s Creed – “I believe in God the Father Almighty Creator of Heaven and Earth and in Jesus Christ…” These few words, uttered thus, would capture, for an audience capable of understanding what I was saying, the entire state of affairs: that I once was an unreflective communicant of the Roman Catholic faith, that I no longer am, that I view my former beliefs with amusement, rather than with superstitious fear, but that those beliefs, and the associated rituals, still have some power for me, so that what I now am and believe can only be understood as a development out of that earlier, credulous state. To a naive audience, it would of course appear that I was simply answering the question in the affirmative. 

Since this point is, in fact, the pivot on which my entire argument turns, I shall belabour it a bit at the risk of growing tiresome. The literary complexity of an ironic reply to the question, “Do you believe in God?” is required by the complexity of the speaking subject who gives the reply. If the self were substantively simple, so that either it believed or did not, asserted or did not, and so on, then simple declarative discourse would suffice. Even if this simple self had emerged from a complex process of development, in the course of which first one belief, then another, first one passion, then another, had held sway, even then, so long as the product of the developmental process were simple, unambiguous discourse would suffice to express its present state. The complexity of the historical development of the self would require no special complexity of expression, so long as that complexity were fully represented in the unified nature of the present ego. But if the speaking self is complex, many-layered, capable of reflection, self-deception, ambivalence, of unconscious thought processes, of projections, introjections, displacements, transferences, and all manner of ambiguities – in short, if the history of the self is directly present as part of its current nature – then only a language containing within itself the literary resources corresponding to these complexities will suffice to speak the truth. [my emphasis]

In the example we have been discussing, the immediately experienced tension between the antireligious conviction to which I have won my way by an inner struggle and the old, defeated but not banished faith that still asserts its claim upon my allegiance is a part of what I actually believe. It is false to suggest that I believe the proposition “There is no God” neutrally, unambivalently, purely assertorically, but also that, as an added and separable fact of my consciousness, I am experiencing certain inner feelings that can be characterised, phenomenologically, as feelings of tension or conflict. The tension is a tension in the belief, in such a manner that my belief differs in its nature from that of a complacent atheist who has never known God. It would be strictly false to say that we two believe the same proposition, and it would be manifestly obvious that we might fail to communicate with one another if each of us were to say to the other, in turn, “I do not believe in God “

This rings true for me.  I was raised in a Christian faith, and have arrived at my present atheistical condition through a (now distant, and occasionally painful) lengthy process of questioning and self-criticism.  And not only is my current state a development out of that earlier state, but I am also sure that a lot of those early beliefs and attitudes remain.

However, I wasn't raised in the Catholic tradition, meaning that all those fancy ceremonies and traditions are alien to me.  The version of Christianity that I was raised in was ceremonially simple, and the Apostle's Creed is not a part of me.

Moreover, I don't now view my former beliefs with amusement, so that singsong irony doesn't sit comfortably with me.

And there is family to consider, too.

So, Wolff's example ironic response would not work for me.

And I am struggling to think up any alternative.

The best I can think up is to say that I was born into Christ's house, and when I left home Christ came with me.

Not perfect, but I think I sort of get the right ironic tone of voice with that.