Friday, April 28, 2017

"I Found A Jewel For You"

Among the many loose parts both large and small that comprise our playground, there have always been "jewels" or "treasures," glass florist marbles of various sizes, shapes and colors. At any given moment, no matter what age of kids playing out there, someone is always hunting for them, usually collecting them in a bucket. 

Lately, one boy has been attempting to collect them all. It's his stated goal. And his plan is to hoard them. Indeed, when other children come near his bucket he curls his torso over the opening just in case someone attempts to make a grab for his stash. He's been collecting all week, filling his bucket, then protecting it.

Yesterday, as I watched him clutching his bucket in two hands another child approached, apparently making a beeline for it. In a mild panic, the boy swung the bucket away, putting his body between it an the interloper, scowling warningly. His face relaxed in a moment, however, when the other child said, "I found a jewel for you," holding it out to him. He smiled then, holding the bucket out like a church usher passing the offering plate. As the jewel clinked into the metal bucket another child approached, also offering a jewel.

Indeed, a group of kids had spontaneously decided to help him collect all the treasure as a half dozen kids were scouring the ground on his behalf. As they filled his bucket, he began to relax about his hoard, no longer curling over it protectively when others approached. On the contrary, he held his bucket out to them, gladly accepting their contribution.

After a time, he carried his bucket to the new stage where he set it on the ground and without getting too far away from it, began to dance along to the music with several of his classmates. He was torn at first between really cutting loose and keeping a close watch on the jewels, but finally allowed the music to carry him away bit. Just when he was really getting into it another boy, getting into it in his own way, gave the bucket a massive kick, sending it along with its contents scattering across the boards. Our hoarder froze in horror, then began to quiver with rage, his whole body tense with the emotion. He screamed and it was obvious to me that he was not capable of forming words, so I took it upon myself to speak for him.

I called out, "Hey, those are the jewels he's been collecting!" The boy who had kicked the bucket stopped, then looked from me to his classmate who was still showing all the signs of anger. For me the moment was all about these two boys, one offended, the other the offender. I was so focused on the intensity of that stand-off that I didn't at first notice the small miracle that was taking place around their feet. The other children had set the bucket upright and had dropped to their knees, pausing in their dancing to refill the bucket for the boy who would hoard all the jewels. And as they did it, the intense emotions just blew away with the next breeze.

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Thursday, April 27, 2017

Because I Thought I Knew It All

These girls are best friends and they've been that way since the first day of class. They spend large parts of their days playing their games of imagination together, usually in an intimate huddle. It's not that they exclude others, on the contrary they are usually open to newcomers, but they are often so wrapped up in their friendship that the rest of us become invisible.

When we're indoors, I tend to find them either in our loft or under our loft, wearing their princess dresses, being movie characters or sisters or mother-and-baby. For the better part of this school year their three and four year old classmates have worked around them, too busy with their own activities to take special notice, but lately they have begun to draw the attention of their classmates.

There is one girl, a bit younger than our best friends, who regularly announces to me her intent to play with "those princesses." She then moves her body closer, watching the "glamorous" girls intensely, listening to them, but all while maintaining her distance, often going through a process of approaching and retreating in a cautious cycle, but never, from my perspective, really engaging. She's obviously somewhat in awe of the pair and it causes her to flit about near, but not within, their orbit. Later, she'll tell me she was playing with them, providing details she picked up from their conversations and her own observations. I've suggested that she might want to put on a princess dress herself, to stand closer, to perhaps even talk with them, but for now this is enough, it seems, just to be near them.

There's a boy, on the other hand, who has no qualms about actively joining them. His approach, one that is almost always a winner under any circumstances, is to come bearing gifts -- food made from play dough, stuffed animals, artwork. He's also more than willing to take on any role in their game, playing a prince or a daddy or whatever "male" character the girls offer him.

And then there the group of 4-5 boys who are obviously interested in playing with the girls, but are unwilling or unable to adapt their typically rowdy play to the quieter, more intimate games the girls tend to play. These guys roam the classroom, often well-armed with blasters to use on the bad guys, hoses to put out the fires, or whatever. Sometimes they approach our best friends in attack mode, barging into the loft, blasters blasting, insisting that the girls are villains to be subdued. Other times they insist that the castle is ablaze and they've arrived to save the day. And at other times they come as bandits, bent on stealing something or other from the girls.

I should mention that both of these girls have older brothers. They are hardly intimidated by this band. Nevertheless, when the pattern first emerged several weeks ago, I didn't think it was fair that the boys could interrupt, scuttle, or otherwise intrude upon the girls' games, and it seemed to me that this was their sole object, to make pests of themselves. I found myself attempting to help the girls defend themselves, reminding them that they could just tell the boys to "stop," while also reminding the boys that if someone said "stop" that they had all agreed to stop.

We talk a lot in class about listening to one another's words and watching one another's faces. I frequently note, aloud, that the girl's faces "look angry." At least that's how they look to me, although I've been frustrated that they haven't always used the word "stop," which is a more effective technique that just scowling, and instead have been responding to the boys by wielding their "frozen powers" at them, or otherwise "fighting" back, creating these loud, intense stand-offs in which everyone is shooting everyone.

I should also note that the best friends have rarely complained about the boys' interloping: my adult intervention has been largely at my own initiative. Yesterday, the girls were playing "Petco" in the loft, each pretending to be puppies. I heard the boys proclaiming, "We have to get the bad guys!" as they approached from across the room, all carrying old cell phones and remote controls as weapons, so I moved closer to the loft which was indeed their destination. They pounded up the stairs, shouting, "Bad guys!" then took aim at the puppies. The puppies rose up on their hind legs causing the boys to stop on the top step, not daring to come closer. I was about to point out the "angry" expressions on the girl's faces, and to suggest that they could say "stop," when I decided to say nothing, which is almost always the best approach.

As the boys fired their blasters, the puppies began to defend themselves by barking. It was only then that I realized I was wrong. The girls weren't angry: those expressions were intended to look fierce. They were pretending, just as they had previously been pretending to take a nap. And the boys, rather than ruining the game, were creating a dramatic moment in the story they were all playing together. And in that moment, I understood why the girls so rarely said "stop" to these boys: it was fun!

After a few minutes, the boys, laughing with one another, retreated and our best friends decided it was time for some lunch. And I walked away feeling like a jerk for having been so dense, wondering how many fun moments I'd scuttled because I thought I knew it all.

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Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Collective Intellect

A while back, I wrote about a new (to me) metaphor to explain an alternative theory of addiction. In a nutshell, the predominate addiction theory is based upon experiments in which rats in cages were given the option between, for instance, plain water or water laced with narcotics. The rats drank the narcotic water until they died prematurely, leading to the conclusion that narcotics themselves are addictive. One scientist, however, began to wonder about the design of the experiments. Instead of putting his experimental rats in traditional cages, he designed a kind of rat paradise with a lot of varied space, play-things, good food, play-mates, and sex partners, along with the narcotic option. In this experiment, none of the rats showed addictive behavior (although most of them occasionally used the drug recreationally) leading the scientist to conclude that addiction has more to do with the cage in which we live than the mind-altering substances themselves.

Since learning about this research I've spent a lot of time thinking about "cages," both mine and other people's, and how our "misbehaviors" are almost always the direct result of those cages.

It's hard, for instance, not to reflect on the cage that is school for many kids. In the play-based model we employ at Woodland Park, our goal really is to create a kind of "kid paradise," full of a lot of varied space, with play-things, play-mates, and the freedom to explore the physical, social, and emotional world as they see fit. Traditional schools, however, are more like the cage in the addiction experiments: freedom is restricted and their days are strictly controlled; children are expected to learn certain things at a certain time according to a predetermined schedule, and if they don't, or if they rebel in any way, they are labeled, condemned, punished, and often even drugged. This does not happen in play-based schools. This does not happen in democratic free schools. This tells me that school children's "disruptive" or "uncooperative" behavior has little to do with them and everything to do with the cage in which they find themselves.

Peter Gray, researcher and author of Free to Learn, a man who wrote, "children hate school because they love freedom," recently posted at Psychology Today about a study in which researchers found that the "inclusion of a person with ADHD greatly improved the problem-solving ability of groups, even though it led to more off-task behavior." Now to be clear, ADHD is generally considered by traditional schools to be a disruptive condition, one that often requires medication, yet this experiment in which groups of middle school students were tasked with solving problems found:

The groups including an ADHD student were far more likely to solve the problems than were the control groups! In fact, 14 of the 16 groups (88%) containing an ADHD student solved both problems, and none (0%) of the 6 control groups did. This result was significant . . . meaning that there is less than one chance in 10,000 that such a large difference, with this many groups, would occur by chance.

In other words, in a problem-solving setting, kids with ADHD make the group more capable, yet they show up as a "problem" within the cage of traditional schools. Gray then, as he does, dug more deeply into the ADHD research:

Taking all of the research together, the studies indicate that ADHD symptoms correspond with improved performance on tasks that involve divergent, or "out-of-the-box" thinking, but interfere with tasks that involve convergent, or "in-the-box" thinking. ADHD students generally perform poorly in school, because school involves almost entirely in-the-box thinking. In fact, thinking out of the box can get you in trouble in school.

We live in a world in which schools have arbitrarily decide that they are in the business of educating individuals in their unnatural cages, rather than humans in their natural habitat which is, after all, playing in community with one another. We have spent trillions in both treasure and hours attempting to educate individuals when history shows that problems are rarely solved by the lone wolf, no matter how much of a brainiac she is. No, problem solving, going back to the darkest reaches of our hunter-gatherer ancestry has always been, as my wife often calls it, a "group grope," each of us bringing our unique cognitive capacity to the effort.

(H)istorically, intelligence was the product of a network of minds working together, sometimes at odds with one another. And, in many if not most cases outside of school, that is still true today.

Traditional schools are indeed an anomaly historically and in the contemporary world, most similar institutionally to actual prisons: cages in which we shove all the kids, commanding them to keep their eyes on their own papers, to stay indoors, to shut up and listen, to be still in their chairs. In fact, in many regards, convicts have more freedom than our school children. This is the kind of cage I'm talking about. I paint the picture here in extremes, of course, many kids plow through just fine, some even excel, but far too many don't, and they react to their cage in completely predictable ways, what we usually call misbehavior. And all too often we blame the kids when they react to their cage with distraction, anger, rowdiness, shyness, and other strong emotions, not to mention manifestations of what we call "special needs," a population for which traditional schools simply are not a good fit, even as I acknowledge the dedicated work their teachers are doing. Just as rats -- intelligent, social animals -- can be expected to react self-destructively when confined to a cage with only food and cocaine, we can also expect intelligent, social children to react to their deprivations.

We call them disruptive or unfocused or misbehaving. We call it ADHD, autism, or label it as a syndrome or disorder, from sensory processing to, my favorite, oppositional defiant. Of course, I understand that these diagnosis have helped people, and the conventional treatments, including drugs, have helped kids live "happier" lives. I get that. It's true. But please consider that these conditions would not exist outside the cage that is traditional schooling, that the cage is, indeed, the only reason these behaviors show up as problems.

No, outside that cage it is all nothing more or less than a vital part of our collective intellect, and if we are going to solve our problems, we're going to need all of us.

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Tuesday, April 25, 2017

"Then You Can Have Some Ice Cream"

The two-year-old said to me, "If you eat this food you can have some ice cream." She placed a plate in front of me on which she had positioned a glob of play dough. 

I said, "What is it?"

"It's healthy food."

"What kind of healthy food?"

"You just have to eat it."

"I'll need a fork."

"I'll get one for you, Teacher Tom." She dug around on the shelf until she found a plastic one. "Here's your fork, now eat your food."

I pretended to take a bite. Sometimes when kids want me to taste their imaginary food, I make a comical face and say, "It's yucky" or "It's too hot!" but this time I said, "That is so good! I'm going to eat it all!" I stabbed the play dough with my fork pretending to shove the whole thing in my mouth, then hid it on my lap while mimicking chewing and swallowing. "Now I'm ready for my ice cream."

The "ice cream" was more play dough she held in a container. For a moment I thought she was going to serve it to me, but then she said, "First you have to take your bath, then you can have some ice cream."

"I don't want to take a bath."

"You have to take a bath if want to have some ice cream."

"I'll need a wash cloth."

"I'll get one for you, Teacher Tom." She found a small blanket in our cradle of baby dolls. "Here's your wash cloth."

I mimed bathing, then said, "All clean and fresh, now I'm ready for that ice cream."

"No, first you have to put on your jammies."

"I don't want to put on my jammies."

"You have to put on your jammies, then you can have some ice cream."

It went a couple more rounds like this. It was clear that I wasn't going to get any ice cream.

It was all pretend. The food wasn't real, the bath wasn't real, the pajamas weren't real. Even the ice cream wasn't real. Nothing about this was real, it was all a child's game, yet as she dangled that reward always just out of reach, I found a thread of growing annoyance and helplessness underneath my play. I felt manipulated and controlled. I'd jumped through her hoops, yet there was always another placed before me. The game was pretend, but the emotions it evoked were real.

Just think how much stronger those emotions would be were I the child, she the adult, and it was not a game, but rather a part of my day-to-day reality. 

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Monday, April 24, 2017

The Team

I was 14 when I landed my first non-baby sitting job. The City of Corvallis, Oregon Parks and Recreation Department hired me, along with another teenager, to coach the experimental "Snoopy League" baseball team, which was comprised of four-year-olds. We didn't exactly play baseball, it was more of a baseball-themed summer camp, and the program was discontinued the following year, but it was my foot in the door. For the next three summers I worked as a baseball coach, first as an assistant, then as a "head" coach, responsible for teams of boys and girls ranging in age from five to 14.

It was a nine to five job. One summer I even added a second "shift" as scorekeeper for adult league softball which meant I was turning in time sheets claiming 12 hours a day, a practice that was banned when one of the secretaries complained that I was making more than her. For a kid like me, it was glorious: baseball all day long, every day, outside, in the sun, with all those kids, some of whom were girls quite close to my age, looking up to me. Even at the time, I knew I was living a dream.

I coached other teams at other times, but those three years were foundational for me, and to this day you can hear echoes in the halls of Woodland Park of what I learned on the dusty fields at Avery and Chintimini Parks. 

To this day, I would say that my "teaching style" is more coach than teacher, at least when compared to the stereotypes that go with each discipline. As a coach, I would show up each morning, get out the gear, install the bases, then wait for the kids to show up, much the way I do it today as a teacher. I must have planned some drills and activities, but what we primarily did was what most baseball teams do, practice the skills we were going to need for games: fielding ground balls, judging pop flies, throwing, running bases, pitching, catching, and, of course, hitting. I reckon I gave the kids some tips and strategy here and there, but mostly I counted on repetition and their own motivation to "teach" them how to play. My job, as I did it, was to "chatter" our way through our drills and games, give pep talks full of phrases like "Come on, everybody!" and "Let's do our best!" and generally keep it fun.

There was no pressure to win or lose, our bosses didn't care and the parents were sanguine. (There was another baseball league in town, Boys and Girls Club, that wore proper uniforms instead of just matching t-shirts, that attracted "those kinds" of parents.) No, more important was balancing playing time so that everyone more or less played the same amount. We were happy when we won and philosophical when we lost. And we cheered for one another, loudly and a lot, because whatever happened we were all in this together.

As a teacher, I've become more focused on individual children, more aware of them as individuals than I ever did as a coach, for whom "the team" always comes first, but much of what I do each day can be traced back to those years coaching Parks and Rec baseball, helping those individual children come together. And truth be told, that's still the main focus for me as a teacher, the team, although today I'm more likely to refer to it as "our community," because without that, we as individuals are lost.

I'm still living the dream.

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Friday, April 21, 2017

As It Always Should Be

A few weeks ago, a team of parents installed what we're calling "the stage" in a corner of our playground. Essentially, it's a small deck from which emerge four upright metal poles left over from a little-used climbing structure that had previously occupied the spot.

One day I brought in a waterproof wireless speaker that I use in my shower and began playing music from my phone to which the children danced. As I explained in my post about it, we've never used much recorded music in our school and I had assumed that this would be a one-off activity or, at best, only an occasional one, but that's not how it turned out.

It wasn't long before the children started making musical requests such as "the Frozen song," "Paw Patrol," and "Star Wars." I don't have any of those in my music collection, so I wound up, under pressure and on the spot, signing up for a music service that allows us to pretty much play any song ever recorded on demand. This means that I've spent the last couple weeks playing DJ as an ever-changing collection of kids have taken the stage to physically and communally interpret whatever song is coming from the speaker.

If I started with mixed feelings, I don't have them any longer. There are a pair of "best friends" in our 3's class who perform "Let It Go" with a heart-felt, full-body passion that surpasses anything I've ever witnessed. One of their mothers described their faces as looking as if they were "in pain, in love, and constipated all at the same time."

There's a group that performs "Step in Time" (from the movie Mary Poppin) with an enthusiasm that rivals Dick van Dyke and crew. There are few things more entertaining and inspiring than seeing those kids link their elbows and flap like a birdie. 

I've never seen anyone rock out quite as hard as our "Paw Patrol Theme Song" band. And I've seen the Rolling Stones live a half dozen times.

Then there's the "Imperial March" and other music from the magnificent Star Wars sound track accompanied by increasingly synchronized marching and light saber battles.

And just as our Elsa and Anna showed their emotions in their features, there is something about "Everything is Awesome!!!" that makes it impossible to not smile as you dance.

Maybe I should have expected it, but this is very good stuff, because, except in a few cases, it isn't performing as much as letting music fill their collective bodies and souls. There is almost always an audience, although those on stage rarely turn toward us, but rather toward their stage-mates, forming loose circles to dance at one another or sing into one another's faces. Children who have not often played together the rest of the school day are finding one another through their shared passion for this or that song. And each time I move from one song to the next, the cast changes with it, insuring that no one group dominates the stage.

I was concerned that we would fall into a rut, that we would quickly find ourselves repeating the same damn songs over and over, and there has been a bit of that, but yesterday one boy introduced us to Elvis Presley's "Ready Teddy," another to Rachel Platton's "Fight Song," and our Mary Poppins fan is walking us through the entire soundtrack. The one person who apparently cannot chose a song is me. Every now and then I try, hoping to get them bopping along to one of my favorites, but whenever I do, the stage remains empty until I let them pick their own music.

And that's has it's always been and always should be.

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Thursday, April 20, 2017

"You Always Wear Your Purple Shirt"

"Teacher Tom, you always wear the same shirt."

It isn't entirely true, but I understand why a kid might say that. "I wear different shirts."

"No, you always wear your purple shirt."

Again, not entirely true, but I do always wear something from my by now extensive Woodland Park logo t-shirt collection, and among them are three purple ones. "I do wear a lot of purple shirts."

"And you always wear the same jeans."

This is true, although I'll switch to shorts when the weather permits it. I have one pair of threadbare jeans I think of as my "work pants." They get washed every weekend whether they need it or not. "Fair enough."

"And you always wear the same shoes."

By now, I was starting to feel a little defensive. I have several pairs of shoes I wear to school, but I have to admit that I've gone with the same old (mostly) waterproof boots during this long, wet winter. "I don't always wear the same shoes. I just mostly wear the same shoes."

"You don't even change your hairstyle."

"It gets longer and shorter, but yes, you're right about that."

Up to this point he had taken the posture of an earnest prosecutor, laying out the bare facts as if from notes. I appreciated his honestly and was flattered that he had apparently given my appearance a good deal of thought, even as I wasn't exactly thrilled with the portrait he was painting of me. But now he smiled as he came to the conclusion toward which he had been working, "You never change."

In a flash I recognized that while I do change, while I do continue to grow, in this boy's eyes I am a man upon whom one can rely day after day, a man that he saw as solid, predictable, stable, and safe, like my father had been for me. That isn't the kind of man I have always been. I liked what I saw in this unexpected reflection of myself. I said, "Thank you for telling me that."

"You're welcome."

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