'A' for Adorable

Breaking down a six year old's weird school report

On a recent visit home my mum gave me a giant folder that included every document related to my education. This ranged from a ‘congratulations on learning the front crawl’ swimming certificate to my university degree. Same year.

I also found my school report from when I was six years old and living in Kenya. It’s odd that kids this age even need a report and that it’s more than just a sentence: “Kept his hands to himself, didn’t eat that much glue.”

But my reports from that time are descriptive and personal. In many instances they are over ten pages long and outline my progress in each lesson in specific detail. Check out my report from Music:

That’s for the people that tell me I can’t dance, and there’s been a few. I am extremely flexible in dance and movement and often take on a leadership role in composing my own steps in front of my peers. Going straight on LinkedIn.

School’s out for the summary

At the end of these reports, there is a short summary of that school term. Let’s break down this paragraph which gets kookier with each sentence.

Jovial is an odd way to describe a child. It makes it sound like I wore a smoking jacket and cravat while hosting elaborate parties like Gatsby: “More glue, old sport?”

I hope so, otherwise the entire concept of this blog is flawed. I can’t remember what I did as a child that would have been that humorous though. Once, around the age that this report came out, I did get into trouble during a P.E. lesson for replacing the ‘goose’ in ‘Duck, Duck, Goose’ with the Swahili word for testicles. Not side-splittingly funny I admit, but it did get a few chuckles back then.

Kids can be genuinely funny though. When I was teaching English in Vietnam a few years ago I had one kid that would regularly make me laugh. He was 10 years old and incredibly smart for his age. His English was at a much higher level than his classmates, presumably because he watched English TV or internet memes. I know this because I once walked into class and he jumped out from behind the wall he was hiding and screamed: “Surprise motherfucker!”

I obviously had to reprimand him, but I fear my authority was compromised by the desperate efforts to cover my laughing.

“Magnitude”? What were they making us do? Composing steps in front of my peers doesn’t seem that arduous.

Now, that sentence doesn’t seem odd but it does contradict some earlier feedback that I haven’t shown you.

How were they measuring my tolerance of others’ beliefs? Also, why didn’t I get full marks? What did I do or say?

Thankfully I don’t suppose it was anything too offensive considering how the summary finishes:

That is a wild way to end a school report. But come on, can you blame them? Look at this face.

Now imagine that face saying an off-colour remark about someone’s deeply held beliefs.

The report summary ends with a handwritten note from the headteacher:

Again with the dancing. Who was I? Billy Elliot?

Why wasn’t I encouraged to explore this talent more? Ah, what could have been? I might have graced stages the world over as a master of movement, telling the tale of a young intolerant cygnet, with nothing but flexibility and a dream, that transforms into a graceful swan and mesmerises audiences (and peers) with self-composed steps.

With a pirouette and a bow,

E.J. Aljaedy