In her memoir, Dear Diary Boy: An Exacting Mother, Her Free-Spirited Son, and Their Bittersweet Adventures in an Elite Japanese School, author Kumiko Makihara recounts her son Taro’s experience attending first through sixth grade in her home country of Japan.
“Japan has a well-respected public education system that emphasizes a high-level standardized curriculum and a belief that all children have the same potential to learn,” she writes. But “[d]eclining academic levels, demoralized teachers, and sub-standard facilities [led to] about 7 percent of Japanese children now [attending] private secondary schools because their parents believe that they offer higher quality teaching and help pave the way for entry into prestigious high schools and universities.”
Like other countries, Japan has periodically attempted to alter its traditional education system:
Regurgitating facts has long been a prized skill in Japanese schools because of the country’s rigorous university entrance exams. But from around the 1980s, there was growing criticism that such one-dimensional learning, dubbed “cramming,” was producing people who couldn’t think out of the box. In response, the country cut back school hours and pared curricula under the slogan “leeway.” But then, the cherished high scores of Japanese students in global comparative testing of math and science began to fall, while independent thinking didn’t show much improvement. “Leeway” was blamed for the slide, and the pendulum swung back to increased classrooms and hours.
As a result, Makihara decided to apply Taro to the same prestigious private school her father once attended.
There, the admissions criteria consisted of:
- An hour-long written test including listening comprehension, where children hear a recording of a story followed by questions. Many recorded stories run for about five minutes, and the children don’t take notes. They are also asked to discern and predict patterns, reverse mirror images, fill in gaps in three-dimensional shapes, and speculate about what happens to water volume once you put objects in it (akin to some tasks on American “gifted” exams).
- A group-behavior exam featuring table settings, party manners, and points for cooperation on an assigned task.
- Arts like origami and calligraphy.
- Athletic feats ranging from hopping on a specified foot to jumping rope, bouncing a ball, skipping, completing an obstacle course, and using a hula hoop.
- Household tasks like folding ironed pajamas, separating garbage for recycling, wringing out a wet washcloth, hanging laundry with clothespins, and tying a bow behind your back on an apron.
Makihara explains that, in Japan, “There are no gifted tracks in public primary schools that go from grade one through six.” But who needs a “gifted” track when all children are expected to master the above skill set? Think of all the American teenagers who’ve never been asked to do half the chores above!
In all seriousness, one of the keys to Japanese success in education seems to be the expectation “that all children have the same potential to learn.” This was confirmed by a study over forty years ago, with research based on different types of Japanese schools, not merely one private, elite institution.
My oldest son just turned twenty-six. When he was four years old, like many New York City children, he took the required tests for admission to public and private schools. On one, he scored around the 65th percentile. On another, somewhere in the low 80s. So no inherent “giftedness” to be found.
Nonetheless, my husband and I enrolled him in the most rigorous, academic private school that would accept him. We were warned that he’d struggle. That the other children actually were “gifted” and he’d be unable to keep up. We said we’d take our chances.
Did our son struggle? Sometimes. Was he at the top of the class? Rarely. Did he learn to work hard in order to achieve a goal? Absolutely!
In eighth grade, our son took the public Specialized High School Admissions Test (SHSAT). He got into Stuyvesant High School, which required the highest cut-off score. Suddenly, our 65th percentile child was in the top 2 percent of NYC test takers.
At Stuyvesant, the work ethic he’d developed while struggling in elementary and middle school landed him at the top of the class. This was a kid who would meet whatever bar you’d set for him. By the time he took the SAT, he only missed one question. Now he was in the top 1 percent. He got into an Ivy League university. No one cared what he’d scored at four years old. The only thing that mattered was what he’d mastered since then. And what he’d mastered came about because he was in a school that expected him to do so.
Makihara also sent her son to a school where Taro struggled with a daily load of Japanese, social studies, math, science, integrated studies, music, art, physical education, and English. She worried that Taro was developing an inferiority complex. She felt “the other children progress much faster, and we are always desperately chasing after them, one step behind.”
Makihara admitted, however, that even though Taro was struggling, he “was mastering his academic subjects to at least an acceptable and, in some cases, an advanced level.” She said he was getting some A’s, some B’s, and once in a while, a C.
Which brings me to my eighteen-year-old daughter. She scored much higher than her eldest brother on those kindergarten tests of “giftedness,” in the 93rd percentile. We also sent her to an academically rigorous private school, where (as she has given me permission to describe) my daughter loved everything about school…except the school part. She sang in the choir, wrote for the newspaper, served on student council, and was invited to present at evenings for prospective parents. Teachers loved her. Fellow students loved her. The administration loved her.
She was also a mediocre student. My daughter did just the bare minimum so she wouldn’t be bothered. On dedicated private school assessments, she rarely scored above the 70th percentile, sometimes even in the 60th or 50th. Yet, on national public school norms, she was in the 99th. When she transferred to a public, screened high school, she was using her seventh grade chemistry notes to help the eleventh graders with their Regents exam prep. Even at the bottom of a rigorous academic private school, my disinterested daughter was still mastering advanced level skills compared to her public-school peers.
My husband and I were OK with our daughter not getting straight A’s, as long as she was actually learning. We know how many kids get all A’s and objectively learn nothing.
Makihara, meanwhile, concerned with Taro’s self-esteem, withdrew him from school in Japan and sent him to boarding school in the U.S. There, her son quickly learned such American rationalizations as “I don’t test well.”
Taro’s mom had concerns about the new educational approach:
Was Taro stocking up on enough fundamental knowledge needed for critical thinking further down the line? Taro’s American teachers patiently tailored his instruction to his level instead of leaving it up to him to try to catch up to the class average, as we were expected in Japan. In fact, the U.S. school’s motto was, “to meet boys where they are.” It sounds great, but I wondered, does that mean a boy might stay at that level? The U.S. teachers patiently tried to guide Taro into independent, analytical thinking. But should they also be pushing to memorize as many facts as possible to build up the foundation from where such thoughts would arise?
Ultimately, Makiharo decided that her son’s feelings about learning were more important than what he was actually learning. She had some reservations about his new American school such as indicated above but, in the end, determined that their academic move was for the best.
Her conclusion is on par with the American school system, which keeps lowering academic standards so no one has to struggle or feel bad about failing. (Also so the school system doesn’t have to take responsibility for not adequately educating students. But the first reason sounds a lot more noble, doesn’t it?)
My family took the opposite approach. We believed that our children’s grades were less important than what they were actually learning. A “C” in one school was more meaningful than an “A” in another. As for their self-esteem, research backs up my gut sense that children are more likely to feel good about themselves when they struggle and ultimately meet their goals.
My husband and I believed that being in the middle of the pack in a rigorous classroom was more valuable than being at the top of a weak one. Yes, even if it leads to a crying child. Senior year of high school, my daughter was sobbing practically every week over AP Calculus. But the score of 3 she ultimately earned on her AP test meant more to her than the 5 she received in AP English Literature and Composition, where she’d needed to put in less effort. And it taught her the lesson that, yes, she can get results if she applies herself—that she is hard-working and capable and resilient. That’s a skill beyond calculus. That’s a skill she can use for the rest of her life.
In the end, I am most enamored of a quote Makihara heard from her son’s cram school teacher: “Please remember that these children have only been in the world for a short five years. If they fail, please blame yourselves.”
