11. The Remedial Teacher

 

Teacher Debby from Group 3 rested her chin in her hand and looked at me intensely. I caught myself explaining a lot, again. Teacher Debby had just delivered a long diatribe. Peter would not remain seated in his bench. He constantly stood up and bothered other children. He never finished his daily task and when teacher Debby then assigned it as homework, it often didn’t get done. I tried to explain that maybe it was a bit too easy for Peter. Perhaps if he was given somewhat more difficult work, Peter would feel more challenged.

Teacher Debby explained that underachievement was indeed a characteristic of giftedness, but that she did not feel that Peter was unusually intelligent. Nor did it explain why Peter kept getting up, walking around and making other children angry.

‘Do you think it’s all right if I sign Peter up for RT? Later on he may be too far behind to catch up.’

‘To far behind? He could already read in group 2!’

‘Yes, but at the moment he is only in box 1. Most children are already in box 3. Maybe it is a bit too difficult for him.’

Too difficult? I couldn’t imagine that. Later on I would find out that there were more children in box 1, especially boys, and that there were also many children who were still working in box 2. So why the rush?

‘Perhaps it would have been better if Peter had had an extra year in kindergarten.’

It had been a subject of discussion. The teacher of the kindergarten found Peter difficult. But Jan and I were concerned that he would only become more difficult if he wasn’t allowed to go to the next level.

 

It was 8 o'clock on Thursday morning and Peter didn’t want to go to school. He claimed that he had a stomach ache. But it was the third Thursday in a row that Peter complained of a tummy ache and did not want to go to school. Like most working mothers, I was free on Wednesdays, not Thursdays. I called my mother.

‘Does he have a stomachache again?’ she exclaimed, ‘Well all right, I'll come.’

 

When I think back of that time, what is still clear in my mind is how we, the parents, took it for granted that our children were being assessed all the time. And I myself judged other people's children just as easily. I remember running into a mother in the street whom I had not seen in the schoolyard for a while. Her son was in a higher grade than Peter, but I hadn't seen him for a while either. I spoke to her. She acted very cheerful and happy at first, but when I asked her about Josh, she started crying. I stood in the street for 15 minutes listening to a story that I couldn’t believe at that time. Josh was now at another school. And he was deeply unhappy there. He had had two friends at the Montessori but at the new school he made no friends at all. She told me how she had tried to keep Josh at the Montessori, without success. He was dyslexic and still read at too low a level. Math wasn’t going well either, and the fourth grade teacher and Mrs. Rascals from RT had explained to her that school X was much quieter and that it would suit Josh better. They would really pay attention to his problems. But that was not true at all, the mother said. It was awful. Josh's reading was getting worse and now he was wetting the bed again.

I was shocked, but I am ashamed to admit that I also thought: There must be more to it than that. It must be you, I thought, or there is something wrong with Josh that is more serious than you want to admit. And there are special schools for that. That was a good thing.

 

And now here I was, sitting across from Mrs Rascals from RT. And the first thing I thought: you are not going to send my child away. Immediately, I had the ominous feeling that I could end up in the same boat as Josh's mother. But that was not going to happen. Not to my Peter, who knew how to name all the different beetles in the garden, who at four years old knew the difference between mammals and fish, whales and sharks, spiders and beetles, who could recognise trees by their leaves. No, this child would never be like Josh.

 

‘In the last test Peter scored remarkably low, far below average.’ Rascals announced, after her polite welcome speech.

‘The last test?' I asked. ‘They don't take that test until the eighth grade, do they?’

Mrs Rascals smiled indulgently. ‘We test from the third grade onwards. But the children don’t notice it, don’t worry.’

‘Oh. Well, neither do I,' I said more sharply than I intended.

 

‘If you would like to take a look,’ she slid a diagram across the table towards me, ‘you will see that Peter's reading comprehension is, well ... a good deal below average.’

I looked at a piece of paper which showed a graph with two rising lines. One was Peter's and the other was that of the normal child at that age, Rascals explained. Peter's line was lower than that of the normal child. ‘Normal child?’ I asked. 'Do you mean Peter is not normal?'

'In terms of his score, no.'

 

I was not prepared for this confrontation. Mrs Rascals saw my confusion and went on more reassuringly. She would take Peter under her wing for a while. She was very busy but a pupil had just been transferred to another school. (Josh? I thought involuntarily.) So there was an opening.

‘Was that Josh?' I asked.

‘What do you mean?’

'That pupil who has been transferred?'

'I'm not allowed to talk about other pupils, of course,' said Rascals kindly, 'but no, Josh has been gone for some time.'

The thought that another pupil had just been sent away didn't exactly put me at ease.

 

I called Maria.

Jan was on the other side of the ocean. In those days there was no possibility to call the ship. Jan would call if he was in port long enough. That is, if the port authority had put a telephone on board, ánd Jan happened to be free at a time when it was not the middle of the night for us.

 

Maria was well informed, as usual. She could tell me all sorts of things about the possibilities parents have nowadays to defend themselves against annoying schools.

‘Although your Peter is in a good school.’

‘Oh yes?’

'Yes, that school has a really good reputation.'

'Oh.' I felt like mother Josh.

Maria advised me to have my own evaluation done. She knew a mother who had done the same for her daughter. It turned out that the girl's left and right hemispheres were not working well together. ‘You see, if there is a report from a specialist, the school has to work with that.’

‘How is that girl now?' I asked.

‘Oh well, still not good. But some parents always find things to whine about.’

Mother Josh.

'Oh yes?’

'Yes, you know. I think ... maybe those parents want too much. Some parents have too high expectations and then a child falls victim to it.'

'Do you think my expectations are too high? For Peter?’

‘Oh no! Sweetheart! That is not what I mean at all! Peter is so very clever! Of course you want the best for him!’

'Actually, I just want him to enjoy going to school. He's home every Thursday with a stomach ache.'

‘What's on Thursdays then?'

'Oh that's a good question. I don't know, actually.'

I did know but I didn't want Maria to jump to conclusions. Peter had sports on Thursdays. Wouldn't he like that? I had also noticed that Peter never asked any friends to come home with him. Sam had a whole group of friends around him. Every Wednesday, after school, there was a lot of bargaining going on in the square about who was going home with whom to play. But Peter I always had to fetch from the sandpit. He usually sat there in a corner. He did have children around him. But did he play with them? I decided to watch him more closely.

 

 

Jan was home on leave and my parents were visiting.

He had had to stay on board longer than agreed. The shipping company was in trouble. According to Jan, they didn’t have enough permanent employees, so they used temporary workers now and then. These were more expensive than permanent staff, so his own time on board was extended. Each time Jan was at sea, they added a few weeks and this time he had been on board almost two months longer than agreed in his contract. Six months in all! Ingeborg's vocabulary had doubled in that time. Jan hardly recognised his own daughter.

 

It didn't used to bother me that Jan went sailing. I had my own work and activities. But now, with the difficulties at Peter's school and our little girl growing so fast. Sam was getting so robust. When I see how happy they are that daddy is back.

 

Jan looked tired. He had Ingeborg on his lap who was already dozing off a bit. We had finished our evening meal. The boys had slipped quietly from their chairs and were now hanging in front of the television.

‘How is Peter doing at school?’ asked Jan, ‘he seems very quiet.’

‘We must have him examined,' I replied somewhat bluntly. So it was out in the open.

My father raised his eyebrows. My mother said 'Oh dear.’ And Jan said, 'What?’

'The RT teacher says he’s lagging behind.'

'What's an RT person?'

My father took the floor.

'Marta means the remedial teacher. That's an education specialist. Most good schools nowadays have someone like that on their staff. A very good development, you know. Children who are having problems in the classroom come to light more quickly and something can be done about it sooner. What do you mean by examined, Marta?’

‘A boy has been sent away from school. What am I saying? I already know of two children who have been sent away. I don't want that to happen to us.’

‘Well, I’m sure it won’t come to that,' my father said.

‘Sent away?' said Jan.

‘Yes, I met a mother the other day, Josh's mother. Josh isn't in the Montessori school anymore. According to his mother they misinformed her. It was supposed to be better for him at another school, but that turned out not to be the case at all.’

‘Oh well, those stories,' my father said, 'you can never be sure what's really going on with a child like that.’

'But I don't get it.' Jan had looked from one to the other frowning. 'Send him away? Why would they send Peter away?'

'He's below average,' I said.

'That’s the situation at this moment,' my father said, 'you shouldn’t take it too seriously.’

'Rascals is taking it very seriously.'

'Rascals?'

‘The RT-er.’

‘Is that woman called Rascals? I'll tell her were she gets off, with a name like that!’ We all laughed. ‘What can she be thinking?’ Jan said softly to Ingeborg’s sleeping face.

‘Shall I put her to bed?’ He got up carefully with our child in his arms. I thanked heaven that he was home.