When Teens Say School Is Pointless: How Parents Can Talk About Education Without Empty Promises
The algebra workbook was open to a page crisscrossed with eraser marks. Jamie’s phone buzzed face-down on the kitchen table, and the quesadilla I’d made him at 9:30 had cooled into a greasy square.
“Mom,” he said, pencil hovering, “what is the actual point of this?”
I almost gave the answer I grew up with. Stay in school. Get good grades. Get into college. Education is the key to a better future.
But that line has felt heavier lately. Jamie’s cousin Ana had graduated two years earlier with a psychology degree, a part-time retail job through school, and the usual graduation-party congratulations. Now she worked the front desk at a dental office, lived at home, and made monthly payments on loans she didn’t like talking about.
“She did everything you’re supposed to do,” Jamie said.
I closed the workbook halfway, then opened it again because I didn’t want him to think I was letting him quit at 9:47 at night.
“She did,” I said. “And it still hasn’t been simple.”
That wasn’t a slogan, but it was the first honest thing I’d said about school in a while.
Kids hear the promise everywhere: assemblies, college nights, dinner conversations, report-card envelopes. Education will change your life. It will open doors. It will give you a future. Most adults mean it. Some of us lived it. But young people are also watching older siblings move back home, seeing job listings ask for experience no entry-level worker can have, and noticing how much fear sits underneath the encouragement.
They aren’t always asking about algebra. They’re asking whether the trade is worth it.
Since that night, I’ve stopped trying to win the argument with a graduation speech. When Jamie complains that he’ll never use parabolas, I don’t claim he’ll use them daily. I say, “You probably won’t use this exact formula after the test. Some of this is practicing something boring until you can do it accurately. Most jobs have that part. It’s still fair to be annoyed.”
That last sentence matters. Acknowledging the annoyance doesn’t destroy his motivation; it lowers the temperature. He doesn’t feel like he’s being sold something.
On hard homework nights, we keep the routine small. His phone goes in the kitchen basket, not because phones are evil but because the buzzing makes the page feel impossible. I set a timer for twenty-five minutes and tell him, “Do the first two problems, even if the second one is a guess.” Then he gets a three-minute break to stand by the fridge and complain. If he’s stuck, he writes the exact question at the top of his notes: “How do I know when to factor?” or “Why does this sign change?” I’d rather email a photo of that question to his teacher than spend an hour fighting over a worksheet I may not understand either.
I’ve also tried to separate school from education. School is a system with grades, bells, credits, and sometimes too many worksheets. Education is wider. Jamie spends his own time editing mountain-bike videos, adjusting audio levels, cutting clips to the beat, and reading comments that tell him what bored viewers. That’s real learning, even if it doesn’t appear on a transcript.
I don’t ruin it by asking, “Could this be a career?” every time. Sometimes I just ask, “How’d you get that cut to line up?” He explains it impatiently, which is how fifteen-year-olds explain things they care about. The point isn’t to turn every interest into a college application. The point is to help him notice that attention, practice, and revision already exist in his life outside the grade book.
Once a month, we spend twenty minutes on the laptop looking at actual lives, not inspirational posters. We pull up help-wanted ads for a union line worker, a veterinary assistant, a municipal water department job, a production assistant, and a warehouse lead. We read the requirements, starting pay, schedule, and whether the job has benefits. He was surprised to see that an apprenticeship asked for applied math and a high school diploma, but not a four-year degree. He was also surprised by how little some office jobs paid after requiring “some college.”
I don’t do this to scare him. I say, “Here’s what employers are actually asking for. You don’t have to decide today, but you should know what’s behind the door.”
Education still gives people choices. That part hasn’t disappeared. But a degree no longer arrives with the same guarantee many parents remember, and pretending otherwise makes us look like we haven’t checked the price tag.
We also let him hear other adults’ boring versions. At a family cookout, I asked my brother, “Tell Jamie what school actually did for your job.” He said his community college certificate got him the interview, but his first real promotion came from knowing how to write a clear email. A family friend said her bachelor’s degree felt unrelated to her work, but student loans shaped her budget for years. Another relative said the most useful class he took was basic accounting, not because he became an accountant but because he finally understood invoices.
Kids need messy evidence, not just success montages.
Teachers can help too. Jamie’s biology teacher, Mr. Reyes, sometimes spends the first two minutes of class explaining why the lesson exists outside the textbook: vet techs calculating medication, park staff testing water, farmers reading soil reports. It doesn’t make every lab exciting, but it gives the work a location. Parents can ask the same thing by email: “Could you share one real task or job this unit connects to?” Asked politely, it isn’t challenging the teacher; it’s helping a kid who needs a reason.
No parent phrase fixes tuition costs, rent, wages, or the strange pressure teenagers feel to map out adulthood by sophomore year. But honest language helps. Instead of “education guarantees a better future,” I’m more likely to say, “Education can improve your odds. Some credentials are necessary for specific jobs. Some are expensive. You need to know both.”
Jamie still groans through homework. His algebra grade sits around a C, and some nights the workbook gets pushed away with real force. But last week he stayed after class to ask his teacher which topics would be on the next quiz, not because he suddenly loved math but because he wanted to know where he stood. He also emailed a local bike shop about summer work, using a short, polite email we edited together. The shop hasn’t replied.
That’s where we are. Not a success montage. Just a kid slowly learning that school can be useful, imperfect, boring, and sometimes worth questioning at the same time. I don’t have the key anymore. I’m just helping him look at the doors, check the cost, and keep a few tools in his hands.
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