The muggy heat weighs me down. So it was a relief feeling the evening breeze in the shade under a tree, waiting for The Boy to register for summer virtual school.
Summer school these days isn't the same as summer school in my day. Back then, you go to summer school because you flunked out. Your summer school classmates were either the cigarette dangling on the lip, motorcycle riding type too busy being aloof with drugs and rock and roll to do well in school, or the new immigrant kids who can't speak English, geek-clad in polyester plaid, and socially awkward, and therefore failed their courses because the teachers didn't understand them.
As I watched the kids going into the school to register, I see they are wholesome keeners, all of them. Individuals who are well supported at home. The immigrants, whole families of sisters chaperoned by their mothers, flowed their saris proudly while their dads waited in minivans and SUVs. No Heathers here, though some definite Pointdexters. Two girls skidded up to the school steps on their skate boards.
There were many parents on the lawn and school grounds waiting with me. This is a school that kids can only get to by car because it is located at the god-forsaken country of The East Mall and Burnamthorpe.
The Boy is keen to do the five-week grade 12 English course this summer. He is not in pursuit of excellence. He just wants a spare in the Fall. Only, he'll be in France for three of the five weeks and can't count on internet access. Plus, there will be an exam on July 18 but he doesn't get back to Toronto till July 25.
I think he should focus on France and do English as a regular course in the Fall. This suggestion riles him. He doesn't want to go to France now. He said he never wanted to go but agreed only to indulge his parents. I think he will grow up to vote Republican if he can, and focus on the acquisition of material things. How did he get this way?
The teachers we spoke to said he can hand in all his assignments early. He will need to find a school in France that will agree to act as his supervisor for the exam. And he needs to factor in courier time because he needs to have written the exam and have it delivered to his teacher in Toronto by July 18.
This is not a virtual quagmire; it is real. Now to figure a way through it.
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8 comments:
Well, that "God-forsaken country school" is a five minute drive from my place here in bum-fuck country. In fact, I used to play badminton at a club that is still run out of that school. So it's true that for people who live downtown, anything west of Dufferin becomes an arduous day trip.
I really don't want to know what the national past time is in your country.
Wait a second...I live west of Dufferin and it can be an arduous day trip to get to my house. Does that mean I live in a different country? Okay, I guess the Hammer could be considered a different country---Hamiltonia!
Sparky you're welcome here anytime...and bring your badminnton racquets! We acknowledge all sorts of national past times, unlike The Sylph.
Game on...
Better put all your children away in case he doesn't want to play badminton.
Thank you sil, for the invitation. And Sylph, whatever happens in bum-fuck Etobicoke, stays west of Dufferin.
See why god has forsaken that country?
My God! I must be living in a different Galaxy!! I'm REALLY in the sticks! East of everything. But you got to love those cows!
TO is the centre of the universe, duncha know?
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