Another night of “sleeping” on my son’s floor because he wakes up crying in the night, another day of fighting over what assignments he has or has not done, and another article encouraging parents to opt out of a curriculum plan designed for the classroom but delivered at home. This one is from The Atlantic and written by a woman already committed to home education for her children. She isn’t saying parents should give up on educating their children this year but that they should, “take charge of their kids’ schooling.” The education paradigm—just like just about every other paradigm—has changed in the corona. Parents are now the ones in the trenches with their children/students/co-workers so parents are the ones who should be calling the shots.

My son’s school and teachers are doing an excellent job “virtualizing” (fun new verb I read today) their classroom-based curriculum. I get well-structured assignment sheets and easy electronic submission tools thanks to Google. It makes perfect sense. But I’m reminded of Harrison Ford’s critique of George Lucas’s Star Wars dialogue, “You can write this shit, George, but you sure can’t say it!” The school can deliver the curriculum via email, but that doesn’t mean we can decipher where it’s all leading. With about 6 weeks left in the school year, I am beginning to wonder if any of the lessons I’m forcing him to complete is worthwhile.

When I ask my Intro to Comp students what they want to improve in their writing each semester, about 75% of them say commas. They want to know how to use commas. Why? When did commas become the indicator of quality, college-level writing? Apostrophes maybe, but never commas. Apostrophes are to writing as shoes are to an interview outfit—they can make or break your presence, style, and authority. Commas are like underwear. Yes, they have some basic functions and rules, but they are largely a personal decision. Even Stephen King says he uses an Oxford comma when it makes sense with what he is writing, and doesn’t when it don’t.

Many of the lessons my son is tasked with are “commas.” They have purpose, but they are not going to make or break him in the next month. Yesterday’s social studies assignment was to watch two PBS videos on explorers—Magellan & Amerigo Vespucci—and describe what they saw on their journeys and how they were challenged. It was fun watching the videos with him—they had cool graphics and were entertaining—but what is he supposed to get from them? Name recognition of these explorers? Fair enough. But isn’t he bound to encounter these men in other contexts and figure that out? Is there a larger project he is to complete for which these videos are beginning research? I don’t know—and he doesn’t know either. Without purpose and context, everything feels like busy work; he doesn’t want to do it. And I don’t want to make him.

I’ve asked his teachers for the expected learning outcomes for this quarter’s lessons. If we know what learning he is supposed to achieve in the next few weeks, perhaps he can prioritize the lessons that lead to learning and marginalize the tasks that are ends in themselves, the activities that, like commas, he will figure out along the way.

I rarely comment on commas in student writing. No one ever under-uses commas—students pepper their writing with them or throw them like confetti on an essay. But that never makes the writing spicier or more entertaining. This metaphor is enough information for students to start thinking about commas in their writing. And thinking about their writing is the goal. My objective—which I tell my students every day—is to help them become capable and confident writers in any situation. They will know how to get their ideas from their heads onto paper in a manner that someone else can understand when they are not there to explain it.

I know what my son is feeling—anxiety, frustration, inadequacy—I need to help him explore what he is thinking. Right now, he is working on a poetry project for school. He is to read a poem and identify a line he likes and what he thinks it means. Ok. I suggested we write sonnets together today in honor of Shakespeare’s birthday. He didn’t cry or scream or run from the room. He asked, “What’s a sonnet?”