“I’m just sick of learning. I’ve learned enough. There’s no way I’m going to college.”
“Or would you rather be a mule?” I sing the refrain to the old song quietly as I wipe down the kitchen counters and move some dishes over to the sink where Bob stands washing.
I’m a big believer in education, an ardent fan of learning. But I’ve never pushed on the college front for my kids. I believe there are many ways that a person can gain an education without jumping through the hoops set out by an external authority. Every individual’s needs are different. College and/or diplomas may or may not be in the cards for my kids. But higher learning is still imperative. Saoirse knows my views on this, and she’s testing her own thinking on the matter.
She is 13 now. She looms over me, a full head taller, with, she tells me, a few more inches to go. She likes to experiment with contrary remarks, to test her independent thoughts with me as her audience. I’m usually okay with that. But tonight, with the blunt pronouncement of ‘being sick of learning,’ she scares the hell out of me.
She’s a great “traditional” student. She achieves nearly perfect scores on any standardized tests we have to inflict upon her as required by state law. She appears to have an encyclopedic memory compared with the rest of us. I still teach her math, but she has outgrown my handle on the other subjects. She now does online courses, where she gets straight A’s.
Unlike her sister, who fights her learning disabilities heroically for every nugget of book-learning she can acquire, it all just flows for Saoirse.
And there are moments, like this one in the kitchen, where I worry that this academic aptitude infringes on her ability to learn. I have observed in my life that many people for whom academics come easily have a hard time pushing through when learning gets tough. This comes so easily for Ula. She accepts that push as a given. But if there is one lesson I want to give to my oldest daughter right now, it is learning how to face that push.
In the corner of our kitchen is a sewing machine that I purchased when Saoirse was two. I never had a personal desire to sew, but from the time she was a baby, it seemed like Saoirse was drawn to textiles. Where other 18 month olds would pour over the pages of The Hungry Caterpillar, Saoirse preferred my knitting books, gazing endlessly at the textures of the clothing. We were pretty broke at that time, but I had two hundred dollars’ cash stuffed in my desk drawer that my grandfather had given me for Christmas a few years’ back. I was it saving for an emergency. And in the window of the quilt shop in town was this sewing machine on clearance.. The shop was dumping it because the owners were moving over to more expensive computerized machines. This one just went forward and backward.
“Saoirse needs that,” I remember saying to Bob.
“She’s two.”
“But I have to learn to use it, because she needs me to show her.” It sounded silly. But I knew it was true. I considered it “the right kind of emergency,” bought it and learned the rudiments of sewing while she watched. By the time she was eight or nine, she was working on the machine, begging me to teach her what I knew. By the time she was ten she was making stuffed animals for her little sister and I relinquished ownership of it. Her latest interest is in taking her favorite t-shirts from Goodwill and making replicas of them with fabrics of her choosing.
Standing in the kitchen, listening to her mulish proclamations, I wonder if this sewing machine holds the key to Saoirse’s learning how to learn. But I don’t enjoy sewing. And the three dimensional thinking required to understand instructions and visualize how things go together is hard for me.…Especially when my mind is pulled in so many other directions. Aside from helping her fix the machine when things go wrong, I feel like I can’t give her what she needs.
Saoirse doesn’t have many heroes, but I know, from her quiet confidences with me, that Clare, our neighbor on the next mountain, is one of them. At 62, Clare still gets chastised by her younger brother for riding her mountain bike too fast. She and her husband Neil have built their lives by hand from clearing their land, to building their house, to building a perennial business. Clare also became well known in our county with her sewing machine, traveling all over the country, teaching and taking highly technical custom jobs doing draperies and re-upholstery. She also does a killer impersonation of Donald Duck. In short, to Soairse, Clare epitomizes the word awesome.
I think I need Clare right now. Saoirse needs her. Saoirse also needs a curtain for her room. I take her to buy some remnant upholstery fabric in Albany, and one evening Clare pops over to talk to her about her project. To my surprise, ordinarily cool and articulate Saoirse is wild-eyed. Fearful. Clare asks her questions to help her plan out her project that Saoirse has never considered. Saoirse signals me with her eyebrows. She wants me to answer Clare’s questions for her. Instead, I retreat to cook dinner I don’t know enough to help Saoirse with this dialogue, and I don’t want to. I want Saoirse to grab her opportunity, and to know what it feels like to reach for an experience because you want it. Clare doesn’t have patterns for Saoirse. She has design books. She expects Saoirse to visualize. To plan. It’s like learning to cook without recipes. The remnant we bought isn’t quite the right size, and the opening to her room, because of the timber-frame structure of our house, is unconventional. She asks Saoirse to consider ways to improvise.
Clare leaves and Saoirse finds me making my bed. I expect her to be excited, inspired. Instead, she inserts her lanky frame between me and the covers so that I cannot escape her. She looks off out the window and gives a little toss of her hair.
“Well, I don’t think I’m really interested in learning to sew curtains anyhow,” she says.
I want to reach up and put my fingers around her slender neck and scream, You disrespectful little brat! That woman made time in her day for you, and you’ll show her respect and you’ll do what she tells you!
Instead, I breathe. And that’s when I see it. This thing that I recognize from every learning breakthrough I’ve ever had, whether’s it figuring out a research problem when writing a book, or puzzling through a financial problem on the farm, or battling through a question in my mind as I consider an essay or blog post. Some people might call it a stumbling block. But a stumbling block suggests that we fall at these moments. And then maybe we don’t get up. In my mind, it’s more of a magical veil, really. Or, perhaps more apropos, a curtain. A learning curtain. It’s thick and heavy, and we can’t see through it. And it looks like a wall, and unless we find the courage to face it, to put our hands up to it, to wrap our fingers within it’s folds, we will believe it is a wall.
But it’s not. And if we can approach it and pull it back, the other side is just so…exhilarating. It’s like chocolate for breakfast. It’s the ultimate high.
And as I stare up at my adolescent daughter and her dismissive shrug, I can’t stop myself from taking her by the shoulders and giving a little happy hop.
“This is the good part!” I gush. “This is the part when you don’t think you can do it, so you tell yourself you don’t want to do it. Because you don’t want to get it wrong. But then..” I’m vibrating with excitement now, wriggling with pleasure. “It’s so COOL! You’re gonna spend the rest of tonight discouraged. You’re going to shove the fabric away. And then, like, maybe in the middle of the night, or maybe while you’re outside playing tomorrow, something’s going to click. And you’re not going to known much more than you do now, but you’ll know what you need to do next. And if you can just trust yourself, that’ll happen again and again, and before you know it, you’ll have a curtain, and it’ll feel….amazing!”
She droops her shoulders and cocks her chin to one side as she pointedly stares the long way down at me with practiced exasperation. Then she rolls her eyes. I shut my mouth and take a vow of silence on the sewing thing.
One day goes by. She doesn’t touch it. Another day goes by. Nearly a week goes by. And then, one afternoon, the ironing board is set up in the kitchen, and the fabric has been laid across it. A few hours later, I hear the hum of the machine.
Then everything comes to a stop. The fabric is left in a wad, the machine left uncovered.
That’s when an email comes in from Clare. How’s it going? I have time this week. Saoirse can come over to sew while I work outside. I can be here to answer her questions.
I relay the message. Saoirse tries to tell me she’s busy, that she doesn’t want to put me out by making me drive She doesn’t want to have to make the social effort. I assure her that I am not inconvenienced in any way. I go to the kitchen to start lunch when I hear her speaking. She has picked up the telephone to schedule the visit. Without asking me to make the call. A short while later, I drop her off at Clare’s, her sewing machine in hand.
A few hours later, I drive up to retrieve her. Her sewing machine is pushed to the side and she’s working on Clare’s 50-year-old machine, admiring how it works. “The tension’s not set right on the bobbin on your machine,” Clare explains. “You’ll need to take it apart, maybe clean it. See if that helps.”
My shoulders slump when Saoirse’s back is to me. I don’t want to take the darn thing apart. I don’t want to deal with it. I feel frustrated, because Saoirse’s sewing is still, somehow, my responsibility. Maybe I’ll just pay to have it serviced. But that will hold her up a few weeks.
Saoirse seems sullen on the way home. Over supper, her dad asks her about how it went.
“Great!” She tells him, her cheerfulness blind-siding me. “But I need to see if I can open up the machine and clean it. The tension’s not right on the bobbin.”
She’s going to do it? I don’t have to? I don’t say anything. College? No college? Doesn’t matter. I see a beautiful learning curtain in the making.
Tatiana
Super special words, learning how to face that push, improvisation and embracing the difficult, learning from the past the present and going to the future, sounds like so much fun, such a blessing to watch people grow. In a parents case to watch our youth move forward and get excited about blunders, bloopers, boo-boos, and botch-ups that turn into revitalizing, rejoicing, reveling and rewarding triumphs in the best possible ways of growing in your body, mind and soul. Great words to share with so many, keep writing and sharing, love and all you do.
Pat Hults
There’s a woman who lives out by Milford who does sewing machine repairs who might be willing to work with Saoirse and show her what to do. She let me come over one day and coached me on some machine repair.
Tanya Dixon
Hi Shannon!
What a glorious story!! My daughter is at SCAD (Savannah College of Art and Design) studying Costume Design with the intention of becoming a makeup artist. When she was young makeup was her passion and I encouraged her to follow her passion.
Wishing Saoirse years of joy with what’s she’s doing!
PS. Your article in Yes magazine was great.
Laura Grace Weldon
Ah yes, how many times I’ve been pushed through what you aptly call a “learning curtain” only to give up once I’ve done what’s expected. The times I have approached it myself, often haltingly, and lifted it out of my own curiosity and doggedness — those are the times of exhilaration. Wonderful post. I’ll be sharing, yet again!
Carol Lavallee Troxell
Yippee! Loved the ending. Before we know it, Saoirse will become a quilter. That’s what happened to me when I didn’t think I could sew a single stitch, let alone make an entire quilt. She will have her stash of materials in a closet that Dad will have to build for her, unless she decides to build it herself! My learning was a small rag quilt for my granddaughter, Avery. I also must confess…..I never went to college. I experienced the hands on learning technique. I am proud of you Saoirse!
Patrice McFarland
The importance of surrogate parents.
Almost every child, at some point, seeks the lessons her parents cannot give her by looking to other role models. I did it during the Vietnam era when my parents couldn’t/wouldn’t talk politics with me. I did it during the environmental movement and the women’s movement too. I did it when I had questions I could not ask my parents no matter how good they had been in communicating with me. They were fine parents but I just needed the difference of others. We all do.
Outside role models can be threatening to parents but to my mother’s credit, she recognized what was happening and went and talked with them and she thanked the ones she knew were doing real good in helping raise her daughter. She was wise enough to advise me away from those she felt might be harmful. I didn’t find all this out until much later.
My surrogate parents did me a world of good and I think lovingly back on all the people who helped me mature and find answers to my myriad questions about life. They challenged me and even made me appreciate my own family more. No set of parents, no matter how wonderful, can always answer their children’s questions completely. Sometimes there isn’t even a question, just the need for different input. Sometimes it was challenging in new ways, sometimes the lessons were painful but we all learn from others and fortunately there are some astoundingly grand others around us. That is how we become grander ourselves.
This is just one more part where it just takes a village.
ronald cleeve
That young lady is a “dream kid” Shannon! You and Bob have opened the doors for her- now let her run.
Ron
Ailsa Tudhope
I am a teacher – I use unconventional approaches – I think you are both doing brilliantly!
You brought tears to my eyes and a big smile to my face.
I love the concept of a “learning curtain.” [I also love chocolate… :-)]
May I share this blog post with my very tender, very new to English A level studies guys (five 16 year old young men) at some stage? They attend school… but Albert College is a little different from most schools. We are all constantly learning the best approach for each student, to help them open those “learning curtains”! This morning I sent them all a NASA link about the latest astronaut candidates because some of them discovered last weekend, when visiting the Observatory in Cape Town, that they are already too tall to be considered for astronaut training. That might sound contrary – but they can still reach for the stars in other fields – and those candidates’ records already show they are indeed stars in lots of other areas!
Keep opening those curtains! 🙂
Shannon
Hi! Please, yes, feel free to share! Thanks for reading!
Shannon
Barbara
As a sewer I can so relate to Saorise apprehension. Whenever you are trying something new you are afraid that it won’t work out and you will “fail” . I have learned that that is why they made seam rippers.) . I have been sewing for over 50 years and have found that it involves reading comprehension, math and imagination. I’m sure she will do fine.
As far as her being 13….well that’s another issue. When each of my children turned 13 I used to say…..I had my dumb birthday because they knew everything and I knew nothing! Don’t worry…..one day they will have children and then you can just laugh and laugh:)
Anita
Bravo Shannon! You got Saoirse over a hump many people never learn to accomplish. They don’t know why they give up. You helped her see her fear of failure, her need to problem solve even though it isn’t instantaneous, to have patience with herself and confidence that she can do it in time.
Fashion school is very competitive. The atmosphere cut throat. Very negative. If somehow Saoirse could take courses in textiles and the like maybe online without the degree, without that “You will all be trained to be fashion designers but only few will make it.” message, her design creativity might turn into a business because it is something she loves.
Most career advisers say do what you love and it won’t seem like work. I know she is 13 but some of us passionately knew what we loved then and pursued it.
I love our community.