Social Studies
I guess Social Studies happened til sixth grade. Maybe it’s what’s been happening my whole life. The first lesson every year was that the three basic needs for human life are food, clothing and shelter. Social Studies was “Molly Pitcher” and a single, neutered Sociology lesson that gestured at certain concepts of demographics and jazzed you up for the different careers you might have one day.
Our textbook was silver with a patriotic emblazon and resembled the sort of plastic wings they pin on you when you fly across the country as a child. All the fashions in it were decades out of date, but because they merged with the 80s syndicated sitcoms one watched unceasingly (Chaz in Charge, Hogan Family) they comprised a single reality that became evocative through association with the L.A. looks of Burbank, California.
Social Studies was everyone’s easiest subject. It was like America gave it to you as a gift. Schools abandoned history and geography, subjects I often wish I had some long-imprinted knowledge about, to peddle human interest stories about rangers at Yosemite Park or have you circle the archipelago on a worksheet over and over. All of this was designed to leave wide open the possibility of movie showings by the guidance counselor (good touches v. bad touches) or lessons about self-esteem by a DARE cop (for years I thought all drugs made people leap out of windows because they think they can fly).
The quintessential Social Studies experience is one of those stultifying days of late May when the lawn is being loudly trimmed outside. The teacher turns off the fluorescent light to make it “cooler.” You have nothing to be aware of except that you are in school in your district. This is in fact instructive on a certain level. It’s not quite “citizenship” that you’re being shown, but it’s more American specifically than, say, “personhood.” It’s a certain kind of flavorless cud you’re given to chew on until the chewing itself convinces you that there’s been some kind of content to your experience.
