Growing Up Ivy: Homeschooling 101

If you know me well,  you know that I had an odd upbringing and love to talk about it. I was home-schooled (insert scary awkward gasp here) until fourth grade when my mother's religious zeal subsided a bit, and she finally quit ripping the "guts" out of my TLC and En Vogue tapes: quite an achievement for the entire R&B community.

As far as home-schoolers go, my brother and I fit the bill. We never matched ( I still don't). We felt strange when confronted with other kids our age. We thought it was fun to learn bible verses and quote commandments.

Notice the mud on my feet and my awkward wardrobe.

Home-schooling certainly had its perks: Dairy Queen outings, homework on the roof, bird-watching, visits to nursing homes--armed with bananas and peppermints--, bowling parties with other home-schooled weirdos where we all sat around staring at each other. 

Imagine fifty kids like this poor guy. In one room.

Our "Cultural Studies" course consisted of watching (from the safety of our bean bag chairs / through the blinds with our binoculars) the traffic from the crack-house that filed up and down the street. 

Class was cancelled when it finally caught fire and burned to the ground. 

I'm not bashing home-schooling. In fact, I'm promoting the heck out of it. Who wouldn't want to create little minions that can spout every book in the B-I-B-L-E (cue song) better than the kids next door who are going to hell, I mean, public school.

Dear Mom, 

Don't be mad.

I love that we were home-schooled. 

It made me weird and quirky. 

Hearts, 

Ashlynn

I Heart Flannery

Well, it seems I've been reading too many Flannery O'Connor short stories again.  I can always tell when I've overdone it.  If you hear me complaining about the the lupus that I don't have, or if I start talking about naming my firstborn Joy-Hulga, it is definitely time to rip The Habit of Being out of my hands and tell me to get a life. I wish I could say, "Don't worry. I'm not going to go get a giant tattoo of a peacock on my arm to symbolize my undying love for a dead author or anything rash like that." Oh wait. Sheesh. 


I recently read Brad Gooch's biography, Flannery, and it really didn't help with my obsession. However, it did make me feel lazy and unaccomplished, which is how any great book or work of art usually affects me. It's strange. Even though I can't watch movies with violence, unless they feature zombies, I can stomach O'Connor's grim and gritty depictions of lost souls being offered a chance at spiritual life. O'Connor's characters get gored by bulls, drowned, murdered, and I can't get enough of them. If you've never read an O'Connor short story, you should be tarred and feathered. I would suggest starting with "Greenleaf" only because it is my favorite. Plus, if anyone is interested in the sort of "prayer healing" that Mrs. May despises, perhaps we can try it out one day. 


Future goals: live on a farm like this, dedicate myself to art, write well. Sigh.