P starting 6th grade was a little disconcerting to me. Despite the fact that I’m knocking on 40, it’s still a little unbelievable to me that I’m the mother of a real-live middle-schooler.
My own 6th grade experiences were as far-removed from P’s as is possible. P goes to a private Christian school where I work as the upper school principal. I pretty much know everything that’s going on with him each and every day, and our days have a Little House on the Prairie quality to them (I mean that in a good way). My experience, by contrast, was more akin to Lord of the Flies. In the late 70′s, early 80′s, Tampa had not yet made the switch over to the “middle school” model. Elementary school was kindergarten to fifth grade, junior high was 7th through 9th grade, and high school was tenth through twelfth grade. The butt-crack in between elementary and junior high school was the 6th grade center.
Hundreds of ex-fifth graders from my neighborhood were bused to a 6th grade center all the way across town. We were integrated with an assortment of kids from all over Tampa. It was like gathering hippos, giraffes, zebras and gazelles from various parts of the zoo and putting them together in one habitat with the parting exhortation to, “make friends.” Lions and hyenas in disguise emerged quickly, and I was exposed to all kinds of serendipitous lessons outside of the classroom. I saw kids fighting, French kissing and smoking for the first time. I heard a boy scream, “You’re just a Yankee whore” at a girl on the playground. Perhaps even more disturbing than the fact that he lobbed such an adult insult was the clarity with which she understood his meaning.
I survived, but I was definitely scarred. P’s childhood is decidedly more innocent than mine. As a result, my husband, Jason, and I try to get all of our kids out and about in the world on trips to get them acquainted with more than just the pedestrian goings-on of our little rural town and their admittedly G-rated school. It’s hard to find a balance because I definitely don’t want any of them learning how to launch insults that would make a woman my age cringe, but I also don’t want them insulated, asking me at eighteen or nineteen years old what a “douche” is.
I guess it’ll be years before I find out whether P attending the middle school where I work is a help or a hindrance to his development. For now, we just go along and hope for the best!
