The school that my children attend, and where I spend a disproportionate amount of what would otherwise be my free time (or, more realistically, time I would be spending in church or doing other volunteer stuff), has a reputation for being unstructured and, among certain circles, unchallenging. By most measures, the reputation is richly undeserved: Peninsula School kids are a diverse bunch, are well-liked by high school teachers, get into good colleges (with a disproportionate number going to Santa Cruz, Reed, or other slightly unconventional places), and do in fact know how to read and count.
I went to very conventional schools, but aside from a couple years in a school in Nashville that was a feeder for Vanderbilt faculty kids (which I was at the time), didn't like them very much. (Of course, to a Korean parent, academic underachievement is only slightly less unacceptable than brigandage and grave-robbing.) So for me, one of the pleasures of Peninsula is that the kids really enjoy it there: it's hard to get them out of there at the end of the day, and they think nothing of going there to play on weekends.

Another pleasure is hearing them translate progressive pedagogical philosophy into terms comprehensible to the under-7 set. Last night, on the drive home from Melville, we were listening to Princess and the Pauper in the car. For those of you who haven't already memorized it, the CD opens with the Princess (played by Barbie) being fitted for a new dress, and the chamberlain fretting over how she's late for her next appointment, and how her schedule that day is a train wreck.

He's going through the list of what she has to do today, including a "speech at the Historical Society" and "the Horticultural Society tea" (a combination that warms the heart of this history of science). Then he rattles off the classes (or more likely tutors) she has today: "Then there's your math lesson... your science lesson... your geography lesson..."
My daughter, who's heard this CD a minimum of ten thousand times, says, "Her science lesson!? She can't go to her science lesson-- she'll get her dress soaking wet!"
That tells you something about what her science classes are like.
Come to think of it, science at Peninsula must be the very model of Baconian empiricism. Last year, the day after her class took a field trip to the wetlands, I asked my daughter, "So, what did your science teachers teach you on your field trip yesterday?"
She sighed, exasperated. "Daddy," she said, "she doesn't teach us anything. We figure stuff out."
Even by my standards-- I take for granted that my daughter is a genius-- I was stunned by the subtlety of that answer. If there's ever been a better description of progressive school philosophy, I have yet to hear it. After we got to school, I asked her teachers if they had been talking to the kids about education, and how you learn. No, they insisted, they hadn't; she had, as she would say, figured that out.
So on one hand, Peninsula has a bit of a reputation as a place where kids don't learn anything; on the other, it's a place where they come up with descriptions of educational philosophy. I know which data-point I trust. I'm an empiricist, too.
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