Illustration by Drew Shannon
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It is back-to-school day. And I am on the deck at the cottage. It’s warm and humid. And I am in my favourite all-weather rocking chair, watching the waves as I let nostalgia wash over me.
The texts begin to arrive of the “first day of the new school year”: photographs of my grandchildren and a grandnephew.
My eldest granddaughter, poised to turn 12, looks beyond-her-age beautiful. Her ears are newly pierced – a summer rite of passage with friends. She has an air of centredness and confidence. Although perhaps the weight of her world presses. Her last written reflection in our cottage guest book read “thanks for giving us a place to get away from it all.” I wonder and worry what it means to “get away from it all” at the age of 11?
My youngest grandson, who is turning 10, has an awkward smile as always. He is starting the second year of a gifted program with a friend. Perhaps he is anxious. Last year he missed his friends from the “old days.” But he’s a cool, extroverted kid and a clown.
My flamboyant, five-year-old granddaughter boldly looks to camera. She flashes a peace sign. She is dressed in her own style. But because she is heading to school she must forsake her makeup, her clip-on earrings and her frothy frock.
My grandnephew – also 5 – proclaims he is heading to senior kindergarten with the aim of becoming a Pokémon Trainer. I doubt it pays well and wonder if he will instead follow in the footsteps of his parents and grandparents who took a more academic path studying commerce.
My kin take me back.
I remember Labour Day weekend as a solemn time in my childhood. It was full of reframing and transitioning from the carefree days of summer to the serious requirements of schooling. The days were filled with energy and trepidation. Would I find new friends? Would I reconnect with recent friends? Would I fit in? Would I stand out?
And the logistics! New haircuts. New pencils. More writing pads. New lunch boxes and, later, backpacks. In the university years it was all about finding textbooks and public transit passes. The long weekend was always future focused. It was all about taking care of that journey to the future.
I was raised in an era when parents were not that involved. My mother’s mantra was essentially “suck it up, buttercup.” Although my maternal grandfather would encourage me with “ah, you’re small but mighty.” I was raised in 15 different communities. I attended four high schools in five years. Honestly, I did not try to fit in. I had no long-standing friendships. No propelling into the inner circle. I hovered on the periphery and I observed. Those first days of a school year were met with neither excitement nor trepidation but rather a determined “I will survive.” And survive I did.
When I had children of my own, “survival” took on new meaning. My first-born son adjusted to moving between six Canadian cities with calm, confidence and academic success. My second son adjusted with the energy of my youngest granddaughter. When our family moved from Edmonton to Toronto in his pivotal Grade 8 year, son No. 2 not only mastered public transit, he was valedictorian! That year, I sat in the audience at his graduation in awe. My third son faced other challenges. He had learning disabilities which I always defined as “you just learn differently.” Every school year meant a new year of advocacy on his behalf. A new year of determining if he was in the right program to leverage his unique gifts. A new year of fighting a school system that typecasts and pigeonholes and ultimately loses out on leveraging the best of human beings who learn differently.
In my chair on the cottage deck, I’m amazed that my emotions on the matter can still overwhelm me. My son needed hope. And yet there is often so much despair for those who are different. I pray that my grandchildren and my grandnephew do not “learn differently” because that journey is long and difficult.
I shake off my sadness to bring me back to the present.
Today I rock and rejoice in the uniqueness of the youngsters in the photographs. Each one illustrates the personalities and individualities of my grandchildren and grandnephew. Bless those innocent and joyful faces. May they learn to evolve into the amazing human beings that I anticipate on this day. May the school systems recognize their gifts and their dreams.
Judy Fantham lives in Marmora, Ont.