I’ve always grown up around Bradford pear trees. They’re a pretty popular tree, so you’ve probably grown up around them, too. I didn’t pay them much attention though until a few years ago. We had a really tough winter (as far as North Carolina goes), and I remember my dad mentioning that he was worried that his Bradford pear wouldn’t make it through another snowstorm. Bradford pears are a cultivated tree that wouldn’t exist if horticulturists hadn’t willed it so. They were engineered to grow quickly, and to be beautiful. Bradford pears are very popular with landscapers because of this expediency and curb appeal; if they plant these trees in a brand new development, the Bradford pears give that neighborhood the look of permanence that is often lacking from new construction in just a few short years. Heartier, sturdier trees grow much slower and the new neighborhood has that stark, naked look. There is a flaw in the tree design though. The crown of the Bradford pear grows much quicker than its trunk, and oftentimes the trunk and limbs cannot support the weight of the crown. Even with pruning, the upward growth of the Bradford pear puts a strain on the trunk. My dad preemptively had the tree cut down, before it had the opportunity to fall on his house.
I started paying more attention to Bradford Pears after that, and I realized there are a lot of them in front of my school. For a few weeks in the spring, the Bradford pears have these beautiful white blooms that cover every inch of the branches. They almost look like they are covered in snow. One day when the trees were in full bloom, I took my students outside so we could write some haiku. I figured the outdoors would provide inspiration for their poems so we all sat underneath the shade of the Bradford pears. Within minutes my students were begging to go back inside complaining about the smell. Another flaw in the design of this tree is the fact that they legitimately smell like ass. The blooms are almost as beautiful as cherry blossoms, but they smell like fish entrails…that have been soaking in feces for a few days.
The Bradford pear is a fast-food, instant gratification tree. It’s a superficial tree that looks beautiful but smells putrid. It’s a tree from a fruit-bearing family that bears no edible fruit. It suffers from tunnel vision; it wants to become a tree while bypassing the slow, patient process that stronger trees must endure while growing. The Bradford pear’s limbs stretch as high and as far out as they can go before their roots have a chance to plant themselves deep enough, or their trunks are able to fill out. When bad weather hits, they don’t have a strong enough foundation to survive the storm. I’ve come to realize that every day I am teaching to a classroom full of Bradford pears.
Most students suffer from that same superficial tunnel vision of the Bradford pear; they are more concerned with their grades—the appearance of learning—than the actual learning process itself. In fact, they prefer the same meteoric progression to an end product just like the Bradford pear. Most of them aren’t interested in the slow and deliberate processes that a deeper understanding of something requires. (Don’t believe me? Ask a 16 year old to write a research paper—or just ask them to format a works cited page—and then we’ll talk). Just like the Bradford pear, they have these full and blooming crowns made up of superficial and regurgitated knowledge, but their trunks and root systems aren’t strong enough for synthesis and analysis. When they are asked to use their higher level thinking skills, they simply can’t weather the storm; their limbs break under the pressure.
My students (and the Bradford pears) are products of their environment, and we live in an impatient culture that exterminates processes whenever it’s possible. Schools themselves have their own Bradford pear tendencies. The pressure on school districts, principals, and then teachers to reach a certain graduation rate is possibly the best example of this Bradford pear-ness. (I left the students out of that last sentence on purpose). The magic number for graduation rate is currently 85%. And schools are under intense pressure to meet this lofty goal. Please don’t think I’m a proponent of dropping out of high school, or that I have some moral dispute with graduating over ¾ of a school. But I do worry that this type of pressure is simply reinforcing the Bradford pear syndrome that students are already suffering from. In order to turn 85% of the students into (seemingly) grown up trees, school systems have watered down the curriculum, lowered their standards, dropped their attendance policies, become lax with disciplinary procedures, all in the name of helping students appear to be successful. American schools are being pressured to support the most superficial type of growth in education. It’s “growth” that looks phenomenal on a bar graph, but in actuality it means nothing. Graduating 85% of your senior class means nothing when you consider that 95% of the seniors are reading on a 5th grade level. We are creating a top-heavy generation of students whose limbs have far exceeded their trunks; when they are faced with bad weather—in the form of a college or trade school class, or when they are expected to compete in the work force—their limbs break, or their trunks split. They are uprooted.
Every day I see a few Bradford pears, and this time of year especially I think about how fitting they are as a symbol for so many aspects of our society. They are ironically a victim of their own impatient and rapid growth. My grandma would have told those Bradford pears they were too big for their breeches. And when they are blooming and full of leaves like they are right now, it’s easy to spot the trees that have collapsed under the pressure and the weight of their oversized limbs. They have these strange shapes, and ugly bald spots that testify to the trees’ weakness. I can’t help but wonder if my students—and society by extension—will suffer from those same scars.
I started paying more attention to Bradford Pears after that, and I realized there are a lot of them in front of my school. For a few weeks in the spring, the Bradford pears have these beautiful white blooms that cover every inch of the branches. They almost look like they are covered in snow. One day when the trees were in full bloom, I took my students outside so we could write some haiku. I figured the outdoors would provide inspiration for their poems so we all sat underneath the shade of the Bradford pears. Within minutes my students were begging to go back inside complaining about the smell. Another flaw in the design of this tree is the fact that they legitimately smell like ass. The blooms are almost as beautiful as cherry blossoms, but they smell like fish entrails…that have been soaking in feces for a few days.
The Bradford pear is a fast-food, instant gratification tree. It’s a superficial tree that looks beautiful but smells putrid. It’s a tree from a fruit-bearing family that bears no edible fruit. It suffers from tunnel vision; it wants to become a tree while bypassing the slow, patient process that stronger trees must endure while growing. The Bradford pear’s limbs stretch as high and as far out as they can go before their roots have a chance to plant themselves deep enough, or their trunks are able to fill out. When bad weather hits, they don’t have a strong enough foundation to survive the storm. I’ve come to realize that every day I am teaching to a classroom full of Bradford pears.
Most students suffer from that same superficial tunnel vision of the Bradford pear; they are more concerned with their grades—the appearance of learning—than the actual learning process itself. In fact, they prefer the same meteoric progression to an end product just like the Bradford pear. Most of them aren’t interested in the slow and deliberate processes that a deeper understanding of something requires. (Don’t believe me? Ask a 16 year old to write a research paper—or just ask them to format a works cited page—and then we’ll talk). Just like the Bradford pear, they have these full and blooming crowns made up of superficial and regurgitated knowledge, but their trunks and root systems aren’t strong enough for synthesis and analysis. When they are asked to use their higher level thinking skills, they simply can’t weather the storm; their limbs break under the pressure.
My students (and the Bradford pears) are products of their environment, and we live in an impatient culture that exterminates processes whenever it’s possible. Schools themselves have their own Bradford pear tendencies. The pressure on school districts, principals, and then teachers to reach a certain graduation rate is possibly the best example of this Bradford pear-ness. (I left the students out of that last sentence on purpose). The magic number for graduation rate is currently 85%. And schools are under intense pressure to meet this lofty goal. Please don’t think I’m a proponent of dropping out of high school, or that I have some moral dispute with graduating over ¾ of a school. But I do worry that this type of pressure is simply reinforcing the Bradford pear syndrome that students are already suffering from. In order to turn 85% of the students into (seemingly) grown up trees, school systems have watered down the curriculum, lowered their standards, dropped their attendance policies, become lax with disciplinary procedures, all in the name of helping students appear to be successful. American schools are being pressured to support the most superficial type of growth in education. It’s “growth” that looks phenomenal on a bar graph, but in actuality it means nothing. Graduating 85% of your senior class means nothing when you consider that 95% of the seniors are reading on a 5th grade level. We are creating a top-heavy generation of students whose limbs have far exceeded their trunks; when they are faced with bad weather—in the form of a college or trade school class, or when they are expected to compete in the work force—their limbs break, or their trunks split. They are uprooted.
Every day I see a few Bradford pears, and this time of year especially I think about how fitting they are as a symbol for so many aspects of our society. They are ironically a victim of their own impatient and rapid growth. My grandma would have told those Bradford pears they were too big for their breeches. And when they are blooming and full of leaves like they are right now, it’s easy to spot the trees that have collapsed under the pressure and the weight of their oversized limbs. They have these strange shapes, and ugly bald spots that testify to the trees’ weakness. I can’t help but wonder if my students—and society by extension—will suffer from those same scars.
Very well said, Amy. Teaching in an alternative setting has made the superficial push for 'success' in traditional high school glaringly obvious.
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