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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
“Do you do school in your pyjamas?” My friend asked with more enthusiasm than I thought the question warranted. We were standing at the window of the dance studio, watching the older kids while we waited for our ballet class to start. Instead of showing my frustration at the dreaded question, I inwardly rolled my eyes, did my best to smile and said, “No, I get dressed in the morning just like you.”
As a kid, this was always the first question when anyone found out I was part of the strange tribe of children who were home-schooled. I couldn’t understand the fascination with whether or not I got dressed in the morning. I was a normal kid who got up, chose an outfit, ate breakfast, brushed my teeth, and then buckled down to do school work for the better part of the day in my own house. I was normal, wasn’t I? But it wasn’t the only stereotype I was slapped with. Other popular questions were: “Do you have any friends?” “How do you socialize?” and even assumptions such as “Homeschoolers can’t be that smart” or that we didn’t really do any work.
During 13 years of home-schooling, my parents exposed me and my siblings to an overwhelming array of activities. We took music lessons, joined a band and choir, took lessons in karate, swimming, drama, dance, art and more. We were a part of homeschool co-ops, in which kids of all ages came together to be taught by professionals, teachers and parents. We went on dozens of field trips, introducing us to so many different places and people. I certainly never felt like an unsocialized recluse, as so many people seemed to assume. My family was one of the busiest I knew, our schedule was stuffed with activities, outings and play dates with friends that are still my best friends today. So why didn’t people think I was normal?
I suppose it was strange from an outsider’s perspective that I was taught by my mom (who was qualified as a high-school teacher) and had my own school room in my house. I had loads more free time than the average kid, but that was only because I wasn’t shackled to 29 other kids slogging along at a snail’s pace. When I was done slaving away with a page of math questions, I was done. I didn’t have to stick around. I could brush off my hands and my sister and brother and I could return to whatever blanket fort, Littlest Pet Shop set-up, or stack of books that was calling to us.
That’s what I remember most about my years as a home-schooler: the hours and hours that we spent with books. At the start of every school year a gigantic box the size of a washing machine arrived on our doorstep and we’d spend the afternoon opening it up and flipping through the workbooks, history books and novels that were inside. To this day, nothing compares to the feeling of opening that huge box and wondering what stories were contained within. While we kept up with every subject, home-schooling allowed me to pursue what interested me most. Forget math and science, I was a literature and creative writing girl.
During high school we moved from books to online courses. By Grade 12, we reluctantly submitted to online public school during the pandemic to acclimatize to the school system as we prepared to attend postsecondary. I was nervous about attending public school for the first time, not knowing what to expect. A small part of me was afraid that those people who proclaimed home-schoolers weren’t smart might be right. What if I couldn’t keep up? I have to admit a part of me felt vindicated when I soon realized that public school was, in many ways, much easier. Home-schooling had overprepared me for the amount of work we were given and the assignment difficulty. Getting into university for my dream program, Creative Writing and Publishing, felt even better. It felt good to prove the haters wrong.
It wasn’t until this point that I started to realize why people assumed I wasn’t normal. I wasn’t normal. I had a completely different education and a childhood than most other kids. And that was okay. I was proud of the strange tribe I belonged to. To this day I still think of myself as a member.
Perhaps what truly bothered me about the dreaded question was the presumption that being in your pyjamas was the only draw toward home-schooling. It belittled the approach that made me, me. If I hadn’t experienced home-schooling, I believe I would be far less passionate, hardworking and creative.
But I do feel I have to admit that as I’m writing this, I am, in fact, sitting at home in my pyjamas.
The irony is not lost on me.
Victoria Lilley lives in Burlington, Ont.