The Smell of the Sawdust; the Love of the Wood
It’s so hard to get good help these days. I’m 49, single, and currently boyfriend-less. My 79-year-old mother, who was widowed at 51, lives with me. I live in the sixth house I’ve owned, so you can imagine how much I know how to do around the house. I’m from a family of carpenters, so the smell of sawdust is in my nose and the love of wood is in my hands.
Nevertheless, there are things I cannot do (fix the air conditioning unit), should not do (rewire circuitry), or am too tired to do when I get home after a long day of teaching (almost everything else). I’ve finally been teaching long enough to be able to afford help. But the ability to pay for help, alas, does not equal the ability to find it. Some guys are just lazy. But I’m more concerned with training: people who are willing to help, but don’t know what they’re doing.
All of this is by way of introducing David, a student in one of my first classes 18 years ago. I noticed him because when I got to his name on the roll sheet, students were poking each other and grinning, ready for me to screw it up. When I flawlessly pronounced his Polish last name, this junior in high school actually stood up and said, “You’re the first teacher in my whole life who ever pronounced my name correctly!” I laughed and explained that I was from Chicago
But David’s name is not what makes me think about the lack of handymen available. It’s his high school major. Of course, high school students don’t really have majors, but David did. He was in his fourth year of woodworking when I had him in my English class again his senior year. The woodshop teacher told me that, hands down and no question, David was the finest finish carpenter he’d ever known.
“You mean among all your students?” I asked.
“No,” he said emphatically, “all the woodworkers I’ve ever known.”
David struggled in English. He did every single assignment, even re-writing essays to improve them, and still ended up with a B- he was happy to have earned.
I have thought of David often in the years since. I have no doubt he’s building beautiful furniture someplace, and his boss loves him for his work ethic as well as his skills. I like to think that he’s probably making more money than I am.
But if David were in high school today, he’d be a dropout. We have no room for him. He didn’t test well. He could read and do math, if you gave him plenty of time. But testing doesn’t allow plenty of time. David could sometimes come up with truly different and thoughtful insights about the literature we read. But testing doesn’t allow time for thoughtfulness.
Worst, though, is the fact that there are few high school woodshops for the Davids out there to learn in. And students like David, who test poorly in math or English, are often subjected to three or even four hours per school day of those classes, leaving little time to complete other requirements like social studies or P.E., and no time for electives.
In short, there is no place for David today. He would be one of the thousands of students we are indeed leaving behind. And we are all the poorer for it, and not just because I cannot find a handyman.
Let’s consider David starting high school in 2005 instead of 1985:
David did not watch T.V.; he found it boring. He also did not read books, unless coerced. His reading test scores were slightly below average. His computational skills were average, but he saw no point in algebra; he did not awaken to the magic of math until Geometry—a subject he was instantly able to apply to his favorite activity, working with wood.
If David showed up today at my previous teaching assignment in San Diego, he would be scheduled for a three-hour English class and a two-hour math class every day. Oh, and he’d get lunch. He would not have time for woodworking, but it’s just as well. Non-academic classes like that are being eliminated from most high schools anyway. Worse, David would have no time for his required classes in physical science, social science, or P.E.; so he would be forced to take them in summer school or begin his tenth grade year 15 credits behind.
Oh wait—actually, David would have to take a standardized reading test in February of his ninth grade year, after only one semester of intensive work in his English class. Unless he had gained approximately 2 grade levels in one semester (an extremely difficult task, even for the brightest and most motivated student), he would be assigned to a six-week four-hour per day summer school class in reading. If he were lucky and progressed two grade levels in one semester, he would take a two-hour summer school class in reading, and a two-hour class in math. So he’d be back to starting his sophomore year fifteen credits behind, without ever having failed a class.
With any luck, he would end his sophomore year so far behind on credits that he would give up and drop out. The State Attendance Review Board people are understaffed and too busy looking for non-attending eight-year-olds to bother with David, and his school wouldn’t have to include his consistently low test scores in their API rankings. Everybody wins.
Except, of course, David.
And, of course, me. Because in the new, improved 21st century scenario of the American high school, David doesn’t get to build cabinets in my home office because he doesn’t know how. Instead, he is on public assistance or in jail. At best, he’s a hard-working man in a low-paying job, contributing far less in income taxes that he would have as a high-income finish carpenter.
And these are only the financial costs to us all. I once heard an interview with Robert Pastore, the actor who played Murphy Brown’s Eldon the painter. He talked about how important it was to give kids the chance to find out what they’re good at. “Just imagine,” he said, “what would’ve happened if no one had ever handed Eric Clapton a guitar?”
And what, I ask, is going to happen to all of today’s Davids who never get handed a hammer or a saw? Tomorrow it won’t be hard to find good help. It’ll be impossible.
