Experience is not the best teacher. I never thought it was, but now that I'm experienced, I think I can say so, and maybe people will be more likely to listen. There isn't a best teacher, and even if there were one, it wouldn't necessarily be experience. Youthful energy and openness would be a contender.

Experience can teach us what can sometimes work for us. It can build up our repertoires. We try something, and if, for some reason, it does or doesn't work, we may learn to try or not try it again. If we do try it again, we may have a better sense of how and when to try it. So I'm not saying experience isn't a teacher at all.

But experience can be a lousy teacher. It can make it so that you're unwilling to try something that really could work this time. You don't try it because you "know" better. The thing you don't want to try may closely resemble something you've tried. It may remind you so much of something you've tried before that you're experiencing deja vu. Experience has closed your mind. If it were really the "best" teacher, it wouldn't do that kind of thing.

Now that I'm more of an Old Fogie and less of a Young Whippersnapper, I find myself tempted to use my experience as a weapon, or at least as an unfair tool. When a person with less experience seems to be tearing apart my ideas, I'm tempted to say, "When you're my age, you'll feel differently." I actually don't have a clue how someone else will feel when that someone else is my age; lots of people are already my age, and we're far from unanimous.

But if someone pulls rank on you by using her/his experience, there isn't really any way to rebound. It's a real conversation-stopper. The only way to prove that you won't feel differently when you're my age is to get to be my age. And that could take a long time. Besides, by then I'll be even older, with any luck. Unless my victim has been painstakingly keeping detailed records, I won't hear, "When you were forty-seven years and sixty-five days old, you said I'd agree with you when I was your age. Now I'm forty-seven years and sixty-five days old, and I still disagree."

Don't get me wrong; experience can teach. It can be a great teacher. If you use it well, it can help you and other people find answers, avoid potholes, and evaluate strategies. A person who has been working and thinking for a long time has probably accomplished a lot more than the proverbial monkey fooling around with the typewriter (you remember - the one who was supposed to reproduce the works of Shakespeare).

But a friend (an experienced friend) once told me that someone who has been doing the same kind of work for forty years may not have forty years of experience; he/she may have one year of experience, experienced forty times. Experience, like any other teacher, needs to stay current and keep growing if it wants to be a good teacher. And really, I think it's a waste of time to argue about who's the "best" teacher.

(Back to Index)

"Back to Basics"

I tried writing a brief article about Back-to-Basics movements. At first, it didn't work. Back-to-Basics movements have been haunting me for twenty-five years, and my thoughts and feelings about them could fill up a book. They are based on points of view that are as hard to pin down as the "open classroom" concept. I think two things they all have in common are the feeling that schools today are neglecting something important and the sense that they used to pay better attention to whatever it is.

So I'll work on the word "basics," and then examine what "back" has to do with it. When we use the word "basics," I think it helps to think of "frills" as the direct opposite. A curriculum based on "basics" teaches children important things that aren't easy, but are worth the effort. A curriculum full of "frills" spends too much time making sure things are fun and exciting, and lets kids coast from grade to grade without getting what they need. I hope that is a fair distinction.

My basic objection to "basics" is that to me, its use implies a static view of education. A quick look at the past two hundred years reveals an evolutionary trend in curriculum. Reading started out as a "frill." How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm now that they've read a book? Noah Webster et alia decided that we ought to have a uniform way to spell each word, did some good PR, and as a result, children have slaved over spelling lists to learn Webster's code. In spite of all the slaving, to most adults and children, the code is still a well-kept secret. And any mathematician worthy of the name knows there's nothing static about math. We define "basics" as we move along. Howard Gardner's work on intelligence may give art, music, movement, self-concept, and human relations new respect. I foresee a day when mainstream critics of public schools bemoan the fact that some children graduate from high school unable to respect themselves or relate to other people. A lot of us already quietly bemoan the fact; maybe we're a silent majority. Have I made my point? Basics change, and opinions about what is basic vary.

Now for the word "back." Every time I hear "back-to-basics," I wonder whether I've missed something. When were basics? People often refer to the 1950's as a time of vintage basic education. Are we going to bring back Ted, Sally, Puff, and Spot? I went to school in the 1950's, and was lucky enough to learn to read, write, spell, compute, etc. anyway. I was a "smart" kid. There were about six of us in my class. The rest of the class envied and pitied us. We got lots of praise and ridicule. If you were one of the "smart" kids, perhaps you think it was your "basic" education that made you that way. I don't think so. I think you were lucky, as I was. And maybe, like me, you graduated from high school unsure about yourself, and insecure about friendships.

I'm no longer so threatened by back-to-basics movements. Partly, it's that I don't have to prove myself each year; I'm not getting paid any more. But more to the point, I know we can't go home again; even if we reach consensus on what the basics are, I'm sure we can't get there backwards. (Back to Index)

Report Cards

Children get report cards. Teachers do them. Parents read them. Not me, though. I don't have to put checks, numbers, and letters in the boxes, and I don't have to write, "Mildred has been working hard to develop more self-control in class. I encourage her to keep up the effort," or "Cedric responds to all challenges with intelligence and enthusiasm. It is a pleasure working with him." Instead, I take a nap. I could be wrong, but I think most teachers envy this freedom (though some would ski rather than nap). There are so many sound reasons for teachers to hate report cards. I've isolated three of them, but I'm sure there's more.

Reason #1: Human beings are dynamic.The report card is not dynamic; as the child grows, the report card stays the same.What a child does during a particular minute, day, week, month, season, lesson, unit, crisis, or good time may be untypical of the child, but if the timing is wrong, it ends up on the report card. Perhaps some day soon there will be dynamic report cards that change from day to day. As I think about it, it sounds a little like an improvement and a little like an Orwellian nightmare. Meanwhile, teachers have to summarize children and hope that the summaries have good effects.

Reason #2: There's an awful lot of pressure to be perfect. It comes from some parents, media, peers, teachers, and others in people's lives. We hear it as children at little league games. We hear it as adolescents, and we never outgrow it. Finally, we pass it on to our children. Since no one actually is perfect, no one escapes the effects of the pressure. Even the child who seems close to perfect is always afraid: What if I make a big mistake? What if they find out that I'm actually not so great? So every time a teacher mentions an area for improvement, there is the chance that a child and/or the child's parents will feel like a failure.

Reason #3: Nowadays, many teachers believe in the cooperative approach to learning. It's partly based on a hunch many teachers have had for years, but lately solid research is supporting the hunch. The competitive approach simply doesn't do the best job. When children are motivated by the pressure to perform better than other children, they don't do as well as children who learn together. Even children who seem to thrive on competition often do better without it. If you watch children who have just seen their report cards, whether in class or on the way home, you may see the competitive spirit at its worst. All the work a teacher may have done to deliver the message, "We're all in this together" is suddenly at risk.

I don't have an easy alternative in mind. Parents need to know how their children are doing in the complicated task of growing up. They want to know how they're doing as parents, and how the teachers are doing as teachers. Most parents are too busy to spend a lot of time in the schools, and the question "What did you do in school today?" doesn't usually yield much, even after an inspiring, successful day in school. Regrettably, report cards, so far, play a role. I think I'll go take a nap.(Back to Index)

Politics

Do you remember the moment in Animal Farm when Napoleon (the Lenin pig) ordered the dogs to drive Snowball (the Trotsky pig) out of Animal Farm? Napoleon had taken charge of the education of the pups, and they had grown up loyal to Napoleon. I read the book in high school, and though I had no plans to be a teacher, I was struck by the awesome and potentially dangerous power entrusted to those who work with children.

On the one hand, teachers cannot avoid influencing children's political thinking. Neither can parents. If we present ourselves as devoid of political leanings, or embarrassed about them, children pick that up. On the other hand, our politics, if well-developed, are based on years of study and thought. They are also based on our personalities and events in our lives. We hope that our children's political thinking will develop so that they participate intelligently in our democracy. We don't want them to be carbon copies of ourselves, but neither do we want them to appall us with their politics.

I've worked to help children understand politics without indoctrinating them. I rarely gave hints about my politics. My beard and bumper stickers may have given me away as a bleeding heart, tax-and-spend liberal, but only to those who knew and trusted stereotypes.

Meanwhile, children "rooted" for candidates, often as they rooted for a baseball team. The timing of national elections and world series games is unfortunate. Before each election, I faced a class of children who knew which candidate was the "best" one. Their reasons varied. Some supported candidates' stands on issues, but most based their leanings on image, parental influence, and peer influence. I hope that's less true of adults.

Adults have to be careful with their power. I remember that Mr. Loucks, my junior high social studies teacher, cautioned us during the student government elections: "Don't just vote for candidates because they are good-looking. Think about how well they'll do the job." Coincidentally (or not), there was a national campaign going on at the time. We could choose a good-looking president, or one whose campaign slogan was "Experience Counts." Partly to avoid being superficial, and partly to rebel against my parents, I supported the experienced one.

I encourage children to wait. Each year, around election time, I tell them about some of the concepts they will learn later, and some of the experiences they may have later that will help them develop political opinions. I ask them to try to focus their political thoughts on issues that are important to them now. They often confuse the words "vote" and "root," and I try to get them to see the important difference. I want children to form opinions based on sound thinking and information.

There is no easy formula for dealing with children's political thinking, in or out of school. I have voted pretty much the way my parents have, and I suspect that my daughters' politics will probably follow suit. But I hope our good sense in the voting booths is due to genetically inherited intelligence and wisdom, and not indoctrination. (Back to Index)

Teaching Disabilities

Jonathan Kozol once coined the phrase "didagenic learning disabilities" - learning disabilities caused by ineffective teaching. He borrowed the concept from the medical world. An iatrogenic disease is one caused by a doctor. I think these terms can be useful. I don't think people become teachers in order to prevent children from learning, but we can all think of teachers who have made learning difficult for us. In fact, the only ones who never have are the perfect ones.

We have terms such as "dyslexia" and "attention deficit disorder" to describe children's difficulties in school, and we are careful to stress that children with these problems can learn; they just require alternative instructional strategies. Tests are designed and administered, educational plans are written, and all kinds of alternative instruction is tried because we recognize that not everyone learns the same way. We remind children and their parents that Leonardo DaVinci and Albert Einstein were learning disabled.

But I don't think we have publicly acknowledged "teaching disabilities." I think the term can be useful. Teaching-disabled adults can teach; they just require alternative instructional strategies. Before I alienate anyone, let me be the first to cross the line: I am teaching-disabled. I care very much about being a good teacher, and for years, I've been developing strategies to compensate for my disabilities. When parents say that I get kids excited about music, that I get them interested in stories, or that I focus well on children's feelings, I appreciate those comments very much. But when someone calls me well-organized or predictable, I feel as if I've won a major victory. Organization and predictability are, to me, what frontwards letters and numbers are to some learning disabled children. They sometimes seem to be what distinguishes me from the capable people.

Teachers work hard to deal with disabilities - their own and children's. Whether you find a teacher disorganized, inflexible, insensitive, or any other unflattering adjective, perhaps the teacher is working on it. We all work to strengthen our strengths and remediate our weaknesses. If your child seems to be having a "bad" year, and you think it's because of a "bad" teacher, or at least a teacher who is not right for your child, something needs to be done about it, but please notice that this sentence refers to three people. How much of the problem is owned by each of the three, and what can be done about each person's portion? Once we accept the existence of learning disabilities and teaching disabilities, I suppose the next step is to take a look at parenting disabilities. But that's another story.(Back to Index)

Music

It is time for music to take its rightful place as a priority in schools - not replacing reading, writing, math, etc., but not eliminated by them, either. Music is a way to access concepts that are hard to access in other ways. And it's how most of us learn the alphabet. It is fairly conspicuous in most kindergartens and first grades, and in many second grades. Primary teachers usually make sure children use every kind of intelligence they have to learn what they need to learn. But all kinds of things happen after the primary grades to prevent music from being a major part of the curriculum, a major learning tool.

Imagine, for a moment, a school in which reading is treated the way music is treated in most schools, and hence, in society. The reading teacher sees the class for a half hour each week, in a reading room, if one is available. If not, the reading teacher brings a cartload of books into the classroom. Either way, the classroom teacher takes a much-needed break. She/he does not really know specifically what happens during reading time, but no matter. Incidentally, on the way to the teachers' room, the teacher passes a child who is late coming back from the music disabilities teacher, and tells the child to go to the reading room. The teacher then sits down over a cup of coffee to look over some simple adagio movements the children have written. He/she is not much of a reader anyway (in fact, is word-blind), and there are two assemblies per year when children display their reading skill. Some have taken reading lessons, and gone to reading camps, and are able to read entire books! Most have already learned that such children are gifted, and publicly or privately think reading is mostly a way of showing off.

I hope the absurdity makes a point. We have set up a structure that puts music way down on the priority list. During my years as a teacher, occasionally I would hear a complaint about how much time I spent on music. It actually was a very small portion of the day, even in my most musical years. I know teachers who use music very effectively throughout the curriculum. I admire them, but during my years in Wellesley, I only scratched the surface of music's potential. I used music to build classroom community, but used it only occasionally to teach math, language arts, and science. I enjoy music, and have some musical talent, so I thought it was "my thing," but not something I should "impose" on uninterested children and parents.

If you are one of the millions of people who grew up thinking you had no musical talent, I urge you to look again. I don't mean you should take piano lessons. That, done the way it's often done, can reinforce negative feelings. Just ask yourself what happened to make you think you had no talent, or why you think music is for the talented while reading is for everyone. And please try not to will music avoidance to your children. Music is a mostly unused learning tool which can open doors for children who are too often left outside.(Back to Index)

Writing

Because of some excellent teaching, or at least due to the absence of awful teaching, I became a writer. I almost wrote "compulsive" writer, but that makes it seem like a problem. Let's see...Perhaps I'll write "prolific" writer. No. That refers to quantity, but doesn't convey my passion for writing. I'm sure there's a word or phrase in the English language that says what I mean. I know - I'll try a sentence: I often feel compelled to write, not by some requirement imposed on me by someone else, but by the need to be sure people at least have a chance to know what's on my mind. There. That is close enough for now.

Today I sat with Ethel, a girl in first grade, as she wrote in her writing journal. Her teacher is excellent, and I don't think she's had much awful teaching so far. She wrote, "The earth is a round ball. It has water and dirt. People who died are in the dirt. My aunt died, and she's in the dirt. She used to take us camping. I miss her very much." She spoke to me as she wrote, and there wasn't a clear dividing line between the things she would say and the things she would write. We writers may have to be technicians, but we are also artists, and we're often surprised to see what ends up on our canvasses. I saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes, and felt them in mine.

As she wrote, she occasionally asked me how to spell a word. I helped her sound words out, and as you probably know, English sounds don't correspond to spellings as neatly as they do in other languages. I think it's because English absorbs foreign words faster than other languages do, and has been doing it for a long time. But don't quote me on that. At any rate, insistence on correct spelling is not an effective policy in teaching writing to English-speaking children - especially not in first grade. All three first grade teachers at the Fort River School agree on that, as do more and more teachers all around the English-speaking part of the world.

If you are in my generation, one preceding mine, or a member of a younger generation who still didn't grow up with "invented spelling," you may not have had enough chances to know yourself as a writer. Or maybe spelling came easily enough to allow you to get on with the art of writing. It did for me. Invented spelling is a license to write, and it can make all children (compulsive? prolific? passionate?) writers. It means the important part is what's on your mind, not whether you use the right letters.

Of course, someone has to be able to read it. But that's not as important, especially in the beginning, as is the joy of writing. Which would you rather read - what Ethel wrote, "The arth is a rand ball. It has wodr and drt. Pepl hoo dide are in the drt. My ont dide, and shes in the drt. She yust to take us caping. I miss her vary much.", or something written by a child afraid to misspell words: "I like cats. I like dogs. I like cars. I like my dad. I like my mom."?(Back to Index)

Mr. Blue

When I graduated from college and landed a job as a teacher, I was given a new name: Mr. Blue. I didn't like the name. To me, it wasn't a symbol of respect. As far as I knew, plenty of people respected me, and none, so far, had called me "Mr. Blue." Furthermore, I was a young whippersnapper from the local college, and some of the high school "children" I was going to teach seemed older than I was. I wore a three-piece suit every day so people would know I was a teacher. As far as many of them knew, college was a place where you burned draft cards, organized marches, and said rude things about sacred American institutions. "Mr. Blue" or not, I didn't get as much respect as I would have liked.

At first, when I had student teachers, I encouraged them to feel free to use their given names. But I soon realized that if I was going to be Mr. Blue, then someone named Cathy or Dan would be seen differently by the children. A school is a culture, and has its own cultural norms. In one way, it was easier to be the children's ally if, like them, you were called by your first name. In another way, it was harder to get their attention, compliance, and (yes) respect if the one you were supposed to respect didn't seem to have a first name. So I encouraged student teachers to use their last names. Like it or not, it made a difference.

Now, as a volunteer, I have the chance to get my real name back. I've worked mostly with four classes - three first grades and one third grade. In the Leeds school, the first graders call me "Bob" and the third graders call me "Mr. Blue." (I surprised myself by introducing myself to the third graders as "Mr. Blue." I think I missed the children of Wellesley, and thought this would help. It did.) At the Fort River School, Irene's class calls me Bob and Ms. Thrasher's class calls me "Mr. Blue." It's an open space school, and some of the classes are separated only by cabinets. Children have several reasons to pass through a class other than their own, so Mr. Blue can be greeted as Bob, and vice versa.

There are teachers who have strong convictions about the name question. Some feel that it's hypocritical, elitist, undemocratic to insist that children use "Mr.," "Ms.," "Miss," or "Mrs." Others feel, equally strongly, that a large portion of respect is bound up with symbols, and the title is an important symbol. They will much more easily accept a diagnosis from a physician named Dr. Glasser than from Ruth, even if Dr. Ruth Glasser is intrinsically one person.

Some issues inspire me to take a stand. Not this one. I know that the only people I really don't want to call me "Bob" are salespeople who are trying to sell me something I may not want to buy. My daughters call me "Daddy," even now that they're adults, and it's all right. Children in Wellesley call me "Mr. Blue." Some of you adults call me "Mr. Blue," either because I was your teacher, or because I was your child's teacher. That's all right, too. But if you are talking to the real me, not one of the roles I've played, whether you know it or not, you're talking to Bob.

-Mr. Bob Blue(Back to Index)

Wellesley

In 1974, I applied for teaching positions in the Boston area. I was hoping to teach in Boston, and help right the wrongs Kozol wrote about. That year, for reasons I support, Boston was looking for teachers who would help make the Boston Public Schools more racially balanced. My racial characteristics were pretty much like Kozol's, and I was not hired. My wife's cousin, Linda Goulding, was a teacher at the Hunnewell School in Wellesley, and she was going to have a baby. I came, talked with Sam Beattie, the principal of Hunnewell, and was hired.

My ecstasy was mixed with severe anxiety. I was afraid that I would like teaching in Wellesley. After all, I grew up in a suburb, and suburbs were known to be more open to new ideas than cities. Especially well-to-do suburbs. I was afraid that I would abandon my dream of bringing justice to the starving masses, and settle comfortably in Camelot.

My fear was realized. For years, I was embarrassed when I told people that I taught in Wellesley. At first, I'd add, "but I want to teach in Boston," and then later, as I got to know Wellesley, I'd add instead, "but it's not the kind of place you think it is." I wasn't the only one who was embarrassed. Most parents I got to know explained, "I really don't belong in Wellesley." If Wellesley lost all the people who are embarrassed about living in Wellesley, it would be a ghost town.

And then I was at a meeting at which we were trying to form a network called the Children's Music Network. In an embarrassed mumble, I mentioned that I taught in Wellesley. I started my usual verbose apology. Ruth Pelham, whose life and songs seemed like a guiding beacon to me, brushed off my apology with the statement, "Kids are kids." That sentence changed my life. I realize that on one level, it's on a par with "A rose is a rose is a rose," or Yogi Berra's "It's not over till it's over," but it spoke directly to my problem. If I wanted to bring justice to the starving masses, working with children, whether they had enough food or not, was a way to do it.

The schools in Amherst and Northampton have more of the diversity I'd hoped to find in Boston, and never found in Wellesley. But in the words of Ruth Pelham, kids are kids. Here, Malaysian kids, kids with two fathers or two mothers, kids from interracial families, cousins in the same household, all come together to be a community. And as they do in Wellesley, they sleep over at each other's houses sometimes, get excited about holidays, argue with each other... they are children, with all the charms, irritations, hopes, frustrations, etc. that children have.

My name is Bob Blue, and I've lived and worked in Wellesley. Got a problem with that?(Back to Index)

One of Those Days

10.

Did you ever have one of those days? We humans are always trying to explain why "those days" seem to happen. Drop into the teachers' room on one of "those days" and you'll hear the latest theory on what causes "those days." A sugar high after a holiday. A snow day. An impending or recent vacation. A change in atmospheric pressure. Cabin fever. Spring fever. The end of the school year.

Do you know what I'm talking about? The day the class seems to fall apart. The day a certain child who is usually difficult to manage is suddenly impossible to manage. The day when all your best laid plans run amok. Murphy's law and the law of the jungle seem to be the only laws. On those days, it's a good thing teachers have each other. The anxious question, "Is it me?" is answered with a reassuring, "No, it's them. My class is that way, too, today." If it happens at home, single parents wish they had partners, and two-parent families wish there were a third parent.

Well, now that I can sit back as a volunteer and observe, I see that we adults are pretty much in sync with the children. Sugar highs, atmospheric pressure, etc. alter our moods as well, and like children, we blame other people. We don't notice that we are behaving differently; we notice that they are. And they ought to do something about it! They should have more self-control.

There was one particular day I had a moment of clarity on the subject. I'm proud of that moment, and I'll tell you about it. I won't tell you about some other moments, and if someone else tells you, I'll deny it ever happened. Besides, the class deserved it.

I came to school wishing it were summer vacation and knowing it was March. I put on a happy face, which lasted about five minutes. Soon I was snapping at the class. Then I had my moment. May all you parents and teachers have such moments. I said to the class, "Put your hand up if you think I'm in a bad mood." Most hands went up. Then I said, "Put your hand up if you think it's your fault." Again, most hands went up. Finally, I said, "Well, it's not your fault. I came here today in a bad mood. Put your hand up if that ever happens to you." Most hands went up again. We talked about bad moods, how children and adults want to be treated when they're in bad moods, how many of them were also in bad moods, how we could get through the day without doing or saying things we'd later regret.

That approach can't work forever. We have to be models for children, controlling our behavior so that apologies aren't necessary. But it can't hurt, once in a while, to acknowledge that we're human, and that we are dealing with the same stuff children have to deal with.

Later that day, a child came up to me during a quiet moment and said, "It's okay, Mr. Blue. My parents blow their stacks all the time." I knew the child's parents, and knew the child had fairly patient, loving parents. I smiled.(Back to Index)

Sadness

11.

I've recently made a new friend: sadness. I've known sadness for a long time, and it's been hanging around with me even longer, but I've only recently made friends with it. I used to pretend it wasn't there, bar the door when I saw it coming, and look for a way to get rid of it if it got inside. Nowadays, though I don't invite sadness to visit me, when it does come to visit, I invite it in and offer it some tea. Paradoxically, I think I'm happier now that I've let sadness into my life.

Like many people, I was raised by parents who didn't want me to be sad. That certainly doesn't qualify as grand-scale emotional abuse, but now I wish they had let me feel sadness more when it came. It's a pretty good emotion. It teaches. Not that I think parents or teachers should devise ways to make children sad. But life already provides plenty of chances to experience sadness, and too many adults have learned to fight the feeling. President Eisenhower responded to the death of his child's dog by buying an identical dog, never telling his child. I must have been about ten years old when I read about it, and at the time, I thought it was a wonderful thing to do. Then I looked at my dog, Chipper, suspiciously. No, it was the same Chipper I'd always known. I wish President Eisenhower had been honest with his child.

Medicating sadness through various cheering-up strategies is one of our national pastimes. Some people ingest or inhale substances (chocolate counts). Some go to cheerful places or rent cheerful movies. Our culture supports this approach: "You're never fully dressed without a smile." "Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile." "Put on a happy face." I haven't kept up with more recent songs, but I'll bet the message is still in there somewhere. Sadness has gotten a pretty bad rap; it doesn't seem to have full citizenship the way happiness does.

As a teacher, I often hear adults respond to children's sadness in ways that are in keeping with our cultural taboo: "Cheer up. Maybe you'll do better next time." It's true, of course. Maybe the child will do better next time. But maybe, for the child, that's not the point. Maybe the child needs a little time to be sad, and perhaps some recognition of and respect for the sadness: "That feels pretty bad, doesn't it? You really wanted to do better, didn't you?" And maybe the child needs to cry. Many of us have learned that words that "make" a child cry must be the wrong words. But sometimes words that help a child cry, or permit and respect tears are exactly the right words. (Back to Index)

Religion

12.

Even more than we get political views as we grow up, we get religion. We don't worry that we will burn eternally if we like a candidate our parents don't, but we're taught at a very early age whether to believe in a deity, and if so, which one to believe in, how to worship, and whether ours is the only way that leads to salvation, terminal bliss, inner peace, etc.

Most children get a pretty heavy dose of religion before they get to school. Like the pledge of allegiance and various patriotic songs, religion isn't necessarily understood ("Are father, Richard in Heaven, Howard be thy name"), but is absorbed. Whatever it means, it's sacred, whatever that means. Parents who are careful not to indoctrinate their children may find that their children are absorbing the indoctrination other children get.

So how does school fit into this? I remember moving to a new town just after I turned seven. Most of the kids in my new school seemed to believe that a fat man slipped down all earth's chimneys in late December, around Hannukah, and left presents for good kids. I was good, so I wasn't too concerned. But kids also seemed to believe that long ago, a man was killed, and three days later came back to life. They said that when I died, my soul would come out of my body, and meet this man. I had nightmares about this until my mother assured me that we didn't believe in that.

Religion, in one way or another, will be in school. The term "voluntary school prayer" is redundant; anyone who thinks we can legislate a deity out of a building must not think that deity has much power. Moments of silence in school happen. The one or two days I was legally required to allow a moment of prayer in school, I was told to ask whether there was anyone who wanted to lead the class in prayer, and whether any children wanted to wait in the hall while this happened. One child asked me, "What's prayer?" I told the child to speak with her parents about it - the only buck I've ever passed, as far as I know.

The immature rebel in me wanted to lead the class in a Hebrew prayer, to make the point about diversity, and then learn and teach prayers in Navajo, Hindi, Swahili, etc., so that children would be exposed to all the options. But the adult rebel in me objected to the whole process. Respect for diversity, when it comes to religion, is close to respect for privacy.

Since children are going to practice and discuss religion in school, whether or not teachers are involved, I think teachers ought to get involved, but very carefully. Each year, I gathered as many people as possible in my classroom to talk about memories of winter. The gathering was scheduled so that Hannukah, Christmas, and Kwanza were not far off, but over the years I heard about solstice rites, Santa Lucia Day, hockey games, the Tournament of Roses Parade, and many more rituals. I think religion was treated with respect, but I also think some children heard a kind of reverence connected with the Tournament of Roses.

This article cries out for a final paragraph which points the way to educational salvation. But no. I'll allow a moment for you to silently come to your own conclusion.(Back to Index)

History

13.

I just had a talk with my father. I told him about this book, and he suggested that I write an article about history. I belong to a generation that wasn't going to trust anyone over thirty, but we changed our minds about fifteen years ago. So I'll write about history, but not because my father told me to.

Henry Ford said that history is bunk. I don't like much of what I know about Henry Ford, and he probably didn't mean what I mean, but a lot of history qualifies as bunk. Robert Fulton didn't invent the steamboat. Christopher Columbus may have discovered America, but so did plenty of other people, before and after Columbus. People are still discovering and rediscovering it today, and I'll bet there are plenty of people who will never discover it, some of whom live here. History has all kinds of reasons for being bunk, and it's good to keep them in mind as we teach history.

For one thing, history was written by people. That fact, in itself, suggests a certain amount of fictionalization. Ask two people what significant things happened yesterday, or even this morning, and you will get two very different stories, even if they are in the same household. Even if they were joined at birth and never separated.

Furthermore, after history is written, it is selectively published, so the human element again comes into play. By the time it gets to children, Columbus was a brave, committed thinker who set out against all odds to prove to a very skeptical populace that the world was round. The pilgrims settled in Massachusetts in a way that allowed the native population to blend peacefully with the newcomers. The civil war was fought to free the slaves.

A brief look at the widespread dishonesty in history books can lead one to give up on history. But hold on. In one way, it's interesting to find out what has happened, or, more accurately, how people seem to have interpreted events. Most of what we learn in history or any other discipline ought to have that going for it. If it's interesting, other reasons for studying it stand a fighting chance.

In another way, history can teach us things we need to know in order to keep going, and maybe make things better. I like quoting Lily Tomlin (or her ghostwriter): "Maybe if we listened to history, it would stop repeating itself."

An honest approach to history would look more like "Rashomon" than "The History of Our Nation," by one of the regular textbook publishers. "Rashomon," for those of you who don't know, is a movie in which the same story is told from four different points of view. But four points of view are not enough; every moment of significance was lived by many people, and each person may live and relive the moment in different ways.

So maybe history is bunk, and maybe our efforts to debunk history are also bunk. But closing our eyes to the past and attempting to reinvent the wheel as we blaze a trail into the future, never trusting anyone over forty-five, is bunk, too.(Back to Index)

Neverland

14.

James Barrie may have been having a flash of insight when he thought of the name for Neverland. It was a place where you could experience eternal carefree youth. Those of you who really remember your youth must remember that it was never carefree. Let's go back and look.

Not back to infancy; that would be too obvious. You remember how terrifying it was to be brought into a world where you depended on giants who didn't know what you wanted, no matter how hard you tried to tell them. Occasionally, you would experience moments of pleasure, but as soon as you got comfortable, the sources of pleasure would be removed. It was as if the only purpose for the pleasure was to give pain a context.

Let's go to some time when you at least had some idea of what you wanted, and some chance of getting it. Let's try second grade. If you were lucky enough to be born into a functional family, by second grade, things may have been starting to look okay. You were still pretty dependent, but the giants were getting smaller, and some of them seemed to understand what you wanted, and even care. You could even get a lot of it for yourself, which was very gratifying.

Still, you found yourself in some pretty strange situations. You spent a lot of your time in a building where the giants were in charge of everything. You hoped to please them, but that wasn't easy. They gave you rules, which helped, but you still had to read their minds much of the time. And that wasn't easy. Sometimes they didn't seem to know what would please them. What pleased them once would infuriate them another time.

If you had to go to the bathroom, you needed a giant's permission. And since they never had to go to the bathroom, they didn't understand what the problem was. It was strange. The giants at home used the bathroom plenty - often, when you needed it. But not the giants in this building. Most of these giants, though seeming to mean well, had no idea what it was like to be your age. Some even seemed to envy your youth.

Have you had enough? I have. Let's go back. Could we stop in this stationery store on the way back? I want to get a birthday card for my mother. She's turning 77 next week. Let's see... All these cards seem to suggest that getting older is not desirable. I guess I'll have to make her a card. Maybe because I've spent my life with children, I think getting older is cool. I'm going to be fifty in a few years, and I can't wait. Of course, when I'm fifty, I'll probably wish I were sixty. But that will happen soon enough. My health is a problem, but you've got to expect some problems. At some point, I suppose I'll die, and I'd rather not do that.

I grew up in a youth culture, yet somehow, I escaped our culture's attitude about growing older. I worked with young children, and unlike most people who spend their lives working with young children, I'm male. If I were female, our culture probably would have made me self-conscious about my graying hair or wrinkling skin. If I hadn't worked with children, maybe I would have forgotten how important it was to me to get older. Most people do. For the most part, age is really wasted on the old. (Back to Index)

Kinderlieb

15.

Love, one of my favorite words, has too many meanings. I'm going to have to invent a word for what I'm talking about in this article. Kinderlieb. It's the kind of love healthy adults have for children. It's the kind of love that inspires a lot of good parents, teachers, daycare workers, pediatricians, and more to try to be better at what they do. It is also responsible for a lot of hugs. But there's something going on nowadays that is getting in the way of kinderlieb, or at least cutting down on the hugs. I guess it's been going on for a long time, but either it's reported more, or it's happening more.

When I first came to Amherst, I naively approached a nearby school, explaining that I was a veteran teacher who wanted to volunteer to work with children. I didn't bring letters of reference. After 25 years of teaching, mostly appreciated, and never once accused of having sinister motives, it had slipped my mind that my motives could be an issue. I thought I would be recognized as a gift to the school. Turns out my reputation hadn't preceded me. I ended up starting my volunteer work in Northampton, where luckily someone who knew me had sung my praises.

Children trust me very quickly, and while I enjoy that trust, I'm aware that it's precarious. Children need to learn caution, and as a teacher, I think I should help teach them that caution. Adults talk to strangers frequently, often with friendly voices, and sometimes make friends that way. Sometimes children see that happening, and it must be hard to understand in light of what they've been told: "Don't talk to strangers."

I've been having fun writing this column, but this is an issue that isn't fun to write about. Amherst is a place where strangers strike up friendly conversations all over the place. People hitchhike, and people pick up hitchhikers. It's a refreshingly naive town compared to any I've seen in the Boston area. Unfortunate things sometimes do happen here (to paraphrase Forest Gump), but the naivete seems to hang in there.

Frankly, I don't know where to go from here. As I write to your children, and get letters back, I feel lots of kinderlieb. So far, one of your children (with you) came to visit me here. I think I hugged that child, and I hope that somehow that hug travelled back to Wellesley and was shared with lots of other children. We humans are always pointing out things that separate us from "the animals." But one thing that binds us with "the animals" is that we have two basic motives - survival and preservation of the species. Kinderlieb has a lot to do with preservation of the species. Love,

Bob Blue(Back to Index)

Evaluation

16.

It's always been hard for me to teach when I'm being evaluated. During unsupervised teaching, I try things, take risks. When things don't work, I make mental notes - even plan my next attempts as I pick up the pieces. When no one is looking over my shoulder, I can more easily focus on the children. As I'm being supervised, no matter how hard I try, I can't forget that someone is forming an opinion of my teaching, and though I value constructive criticism, I can't quite be myself.

One drawback to this explanation of supervision phobia (I dignify it with a name because I know I'm in good company) is that besides honestly explaining a problem, it also provides a fairly believable alibi. Teachers who never have it together can say they do, except when they're being watched. Or should I say,"We do?" Twenty-five years of building confidence, and I still wonder whether I'm as talented and effective a teacher as the people I'd rather listen to think, or as incompetent as the harsher critics claim.

I've spoken to many other teachers about this, and most know exactly what I'm talking about. Anyone involved in a profession in which the "product" is a person is susceptible to intense self-doubt. So are potters, woodworkers, etc., but they don't have to worry that they have ruined a slab of clay or piece of wood for life. They can throw it out and start again. We doctors, lawyers, teachers, politicians, etc. have to rely on unreliable feedback to decide whether we're good at what we do.

I'll tell you about a moment of truth a student teacher had. I was videotaping her lesson. At one point, she was explaining something to a child who had come to her for help. I zoomed in on the child's face, and confusion was evident. Then I zoomed in on the student teacher's face, and there was a desperate look. If I read her mind correctly, she was thinking, "I am really blowing it, and the camera is creating evidence to be used against me." Instead of staying focussed on the student teacher's face, I followed the child as he went back to his seat. Suddenly, there was a look of insight. The sun had come out on his face. "Oh, I get it!" I zoomed back to the student teacher, and she was working with another child. The damage to this teacher's confidence had already been done, and you could see it on her face. But luckily, I had evidence in her favor. Later, when she saw the videotape, she was delighted. I hope it taught her an important lesson. At any rate, it taught me one. We may be better than our worst fears.

Most of you work with people, and most of you face evaluation. If you're a parent, you get feedback from children right away, but you can dismiss that if you want. They can't fire you, and besides, they don't always know what's best for them, and who knows? Maybe sometimes you do. If you have a spouse, maybe she/he is another source of feedback. Maybe that feedback is divorce-fodder. If you're employed, even if you're superintendent of schools or President of the United States (maybe "especially," should replace "even") evaluation is still not fun. Well, I was watching you today, and I think you're doing a great job.(Back to Index)

Ethical Behavior

17.

I have some good news and some bad news about teaching children to behave ethically. The bad news is that the religions I've come in contact with (including my own) and the attempt to do it through school curriculum seem to do the job about as well as spelling programs make children good spellers. There are two important points I should make before I go any further. One is that I don't think this is religion's or schools' fault; plenty of excellent people are deeply involved in religions and schools, and do all kinds of good work. The other is that the opinions expressed in this column do not necessarily represent anything but one guy's opinion. That's self-evident, but I thought I should mention it.

Now for the good news. I think there are ways to teach children to behave ethically. They are not fool-proof, nor quick. The most effective methods are modelling and tolerance. Modelling: If you don't think children should lie, don't lie. If you don't think they should steal, don't steal. The list goes on. This sounds simplistic, but in this confusing world, not lying, stealing, etc. is a challenge. Tax forms, contracts, social customs, and other parts of life seem to demand dishonesty.

And if you were spanked as a child, you may think that is an appropriate thing to do. The beat goes on, though; I think the main message children receive is that when someone less powerful displeases someone more powerful, the more powerful one should use physical force. Maybe they'll notice such behavior now without passing judgment, or maybe they won't even seem to notice it, but sooner or later there will be a judgment day. In a therapist's office, maybe. You can find out how ethical your parenting was by seeing your children. Sure, they're influenced by other adults, by peers, by media, but your influence is eventually pretty important.

Tolerance: It requires faith that your child can hit another child without later becoming Charles Manson. He/she can let an innocent racial slur slip out without later becoming Adolph Hitler. We can't quite save the world by giving our children a quick fix of ethics. Maybe you know all about this, but I learned some of it as recently as two years ago. It was at a parent conference. A parent suggested that I should not be so rigid about forbidding violence in children's writing. This parent, I think, was right. When we gently explain that a racial slur could hurt some one's feelings, or gently show concern that the violence we read about hurts, that gentleness has so much more power than rigidity. Of course, other children's reactions to being hit, insulted, or otherwise abused must receive respect, and justice must prevail, but I don't think our nation's penal system is a good model to follow. I wish I'd been thinking this way as my children were growing up.

This wasn't easy to write. I've tried to avoid sounding preachy, or sounding as if I have "seen the light" and you haven't. But whether or not I've succeeded in avoiding these potholes, I hope I've at least let you know I've found a mindset that works for me.(Back to Index)

Grouping

18.

There was a letter in the Amherst Bulletin, and I just had to answer it. Grouping of children in the schools here is a hot issue, and the person writing this letter asked for a teacher's point of view on the subject. His last sentence was, "Are you listening?" Here's the gist of my reply:

I'm listening. I taught for 25 years, 20 of them as an elementary school teacher in Wellesley, and like most teachers, I stayed out of the public arena. I was afraid of getting sucked down by the undertow of public opinion and losing my job, or at least having to get really defensive. Now that I'm on medical leave and headed for a disability retirement (MS), I can say whatever I want and nobody can do nothin'. I'm even writing a column for the Wellesley Townsman about teaching and parenting. Here goes:

Grouping some children together for one very specific reason can be useful occasionally. It can be distracting and discouraging to sit with someone who can when you can't, or who gets it when you don't. It can be boring to be on the other end, waiting for someone to catch on when you could be tackling new stuff.

But that's all. The decision to form a group should be made as carefully and specifically as we form some adult groups (adult children of parents who hogged the remote, even during commercials). The group should disband as soon as its purpose is accomplished.

I don't think that's the kind of grouping you mean. Don't you mean the kind in which you are labelled "smart," " average,'' or "requiring special instruction" (don't we all?), and that label helps define you to others and yourself? The little dictionary I use defines "define" using the word "limit," and I agree. And I was one of the "smart" ones! I didn't associate with the "riff-raff," because we "smart" folks didn't have to. And who knew? Maybe mediocrity was contagious. I sure didn't want to catch it.

Being in the "smart" group put all kinds of pressure on me. Pressure to excel, even when I didn't. Pressure to live up to expectations and reach my "potential." (I'm glad I never got there; I'll bet no one did). Pressure to develop neuroses, climb some kind of ladder (social? corporate?).

Meanwhile, the members of the "riff-raff" could have all the great ideas they wanted; they didn't have to worry that anyone would think they were "gifted." If they were "gifted," they wouldn't be in the "riff-raff" group. Teachers didn't have to think too hard about them. And we secretly suspected that only gifted teachers taught us.

Well, I guess I don't have to tell you which side I'm on. Most grouping is segregation. If you get a chance, read Playing Favorites, by Mara Sapon-Shevin. It's scholarly, but very reader-friendly. It raises all kinds of good issues about "gifted" education. I hope, like Mara, I've shed some light on the grouping issue. Because children aren't separated by racial, ethnic, or religious groups (or are they?), so far we haven't seen grouping as segregation, but if you'll pardon the expression, I have a dream. I have a dream that all children, regardless of academic talent or seeming lack thereof, will work together in a community of learning.(Back to Index)

The F Word

19.

I think most children say a certain word that's frowned upon. I think most adults do, too. I didn't say it until my mid-thirties. I thought it was because I considered the word imprecise, overused, meaningless, and rude. Now, I think not using it made me feel superior, and feeling superior made me feel less inferior. I still don't use it much. I'm around children a lot, and I don't want to accidentally say it at the wrong time. If I hit my thumb with a hammer, forget something important, or have some other reason to feel pain or stress, maybe I'll use it.

What's interesting is that children use it when they don't think adults hear them, and adults use it when they don't think children hear them. If an adult overhears a child saying it, there's usually some to-do. Not too many get the bar of mouth-soap any more. Mouth-soap is based on an absurd assumption. Dirty words don't leave microorganisms in the mouth. Still, I bet in the old days there were kids who became soap-connoisseurs. If a child hears an adult use the word, mouth-soap isn't an option. The most disapproving thing a child can do is open the eyes and mouth wide, perhaps covering the mouth with a hand.

The word is rarely used to mean what it started out meaning. The original meaning has to do with one of life's greatest pleasures - one which often eventually results in another of life's greatest pleasures. Hardly subjects that come to mind when you hit your thumb with a hammer. The common uses vary. The word ranges from the kind of expletive deleted from incriminating transcripts to a present participle inserted anywhere within a word. It can be a friendly, angry, or scornful thing to say. I was right in thinking it's imprecise and overused.

I encourage children to say what they mean. The English language, for all its problems, is full of words. There's a word, phrase, or sentence for every occasion. And we keep inventing new words and phrases as we need them. User-friendly. Politically correct. It's a dynamic language. If we chose to, I'm sure we could do fine without that word. But I don't think we'll ever choose to do without it.

So what should we do about it? I don't know. I'm sure some people reading this are offended by my light-hearted attitude towards the word. But really, when you look at our whole culture, with all our problems and issues, aren't you even a little tempted to say, "Who the frowned upon word cares about one little word?"(Back to Index)

Little League

20.

I feel as if I ought to write an article about little league. I really want to spend most of the article comparing little league to children's musical theatre, but perhaps that would be a little self-indulgent; I'm more of a thesbian than a jock. I'll start with a little league moment I'll never forget.

Our team was undefeated (or selective memory is superceding accuracy). We were playing the only other undefeated team, and we were playing the final game. The score was tied, it was the bottom of the ninth, and there were two outs. The ball was hit - a good solid fly out to center field. My daughter, Katy, (because I'm writing the article) moved back and caught the ball.

Some of the parents wanted another inning. The weather was good, we "needed" a champion, and the soccer season was over, so no one had anywhere they had to rush to. Barry and I, the co-coaches voted least likely to be George Steinbrenner, had had a few discussions about the degree of competitiveness we'd seen, and we had both worked hard to encourage other kinds of motivation. We decided to end the game in a tie, and we convinced the coach of the other team.

Maybe there was no "champion," but two teams went home (or to some pizza place) undefeated. That's not the whole league, but it's better than one. My philosophy about this is my philosophy about children's musical theatre. I believe that life offers ample opportunities to feel defeat and disappointment; I'm not at all worried that a child who gets to play the part she/he wants or gets to pitch will grow up spoiled. Whether a song is sung off-key, a child strikes out with bases loaded, an important line isn't heard by the audience, or a shaky pitcher gives up a home run, the important thing is to give a child a chance to shine. With coaches' and peers' support, any potential disappointment will be far less harmful than exclusion. So if a child wants to be Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz" or clean-up batter, let it happen.

Support for all children has to be as whole-hearted as the kind traditionally given to winners. You can't go berserk when your child hits a grand slam, and then expect to be believed when you say, "That's okay," after a strike-out. I've watched children's faces after they've struck out, and I think they immediately translate "That's okay" into "You're a failure." Some of that feeling may be inevitable, but we can help put it into perspective by more sincerely congratulating the child for the good swing that hits air instead of baseball. Try not to be automatic about it. After all, a good swing really is a good swing.

I've been both the star of the high school musical and the last kid chosen for the team ("Oh, no! We got Blue!") I know how both feel, and I'd gladly trade memories of being the lone star for memories of feeling part of the baseball team. And it's not that I like baseball more than theatre; it's that I like being part of a team more than I like shining alone. I think your child does, too.(Back to Index)

Tests

21.

I've always loved taking tests. They're much easier than real life, for me, because there are right and wrong answers. If you get right answers, people think you must have something going for you. What they don't know is that what I have going for me is quite simply that I love taking tests.

I've always had friends who hated taking tests. They studied all night while I relaxed, then they got nervous, got headaches, and took the tests. They always knew they'd done terribly, and sometimes, they actually had done terribly. Some found out that they had aced the tests after "knowing" they had done terribly. Most did about as well as I did, which meant they couldn't go to Harvard, but they probably wouldn't flunk out, either.

Later, when I gave children tests, occasionally I would see a child who liked tests as I had, but mostly I saw what I'd seen in my friends. As a teacher, I grew to hate giving tests. For one thing, children were not allowed to help each other. I had set up a healthy community of learners, and I was pulling the rug out from under them. "I know you're used to helping each other, but on this test you're not supposed to."

I wasn't fooling anyone. This was not the exception; this was the rule. The community of learners was the exception, and all my efforts to get children to support each other were just games. They weren't real life. This test was real life. It was printed in official-looking print. Though the bottom line may have read, "Go on to the next page," or "STOP," they knew the real bottom line: "How do you measure up?"

The solution? Simple. Don't give tests. Trust that the teachers are teaching as well as they ought to and the learners are learning as well as they can. There are no data offered by tests that can't be uncovered better in less painful ways. Most parents know how well their children are learning. Those who don't can find out without tests.

Unfortunately, it isn't that simple. There are other factors I haven't mentioned yet. The taxpayers are the real employers of the teachers. Some taxpayers, even some involved in helping professions, want cold, hard data verifying their employees' efficacy. They want quality control. Tests seem like a form of quality control. They aren't. I really believe they aren't. I remember my high school chemistry teacher, who taught us how to take the New York State chemistry regents examination instead of teaching us chemistry. Tests don't measure learning. They measure test-taking skill.

Most teachers (I'm tempted to say "all teachers," but I probably shouldn't) hold themselves accountable for children's learning. That's why we're teachers. We're not in it for the money, the fame, or even the vacations. When we hear that our employers (the taxpayers) want to make sure we're teaching, it sounds reasonable. But there isn't some company in Princeton, New Jersey or anywhere else that can tell you what you really want to know. All they can do is give you scores, percentiles, and stanine ratings. Probably, deep down inside, you're more interested in what's going on for your child. And I really don't believe that tests are going to tell you much about that. (Back to Index)

Home Schooling

22.

Some parents decide that they don't want their children to go to school, so they teach their children at home. Before school was invented, of course, it was neither a decision nor an issue. Where there are no schools, of course, it's still neither. But when school is available and free, or at least affordable, the decision not to send your child there can be a pretty heavy decision.

I decide which issues to tackle in these little articles. No one is looking over my shoulder, and my publishers can print or not print whatever they want. Sometimes I decide on a topic other writers write books about. I used to think the reasons I didn't write books were lack of time and energy. Lately, I've surrendered lack of time as an alibi, but for the time being, I've picked up lack of inclination, and lack of energy is now a more credible alibi. There are plenty of colleges around here where I could take courses in writing or selling what I write, but I choose not to. So I guess I'm home-schooling myself.

Well, let me give some lip-service to the issues around home-schooling. There are books about it you can borrow or buy if you want. Some people home-school because they don't want to spend a lot of time away from their children. Or at least they keep their kids out of school a lot to spend extra time with their children. I can understand that. They're postponing the inevitable, but culture and society let you know when saying good-by to your children becomes inevitable, and let's face it - staying alive is postponing the inevitable.

Some parents disapprove of the idea of school, and feel that it would be irresponsible to send their children to such a place. They may question why children move, in such a short time, from a multi-age home and neighborhood to a place where they're chronologically segregated. They may object to the crowding of so many people into one room where one adult is supposed to somehow be aware of and responsive to all their needs. Teachers sometimes secretly identify with the jolly old elf who is supposed to pop down all the chimneys on earth in one night. I think parents who question the concept of school have a point.

There are plenty of other reasons for home-schooling. Some aren't as commendable. Some parents abuse their children, and school can get in their way, both by providing a temporary haven and by taking legal action.

There are good reasons to school-school, too. One is that everyone else does. Not the kind of reason we want to use too often (If everyone else jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, etc.), but it's hard to be the only kid on the block. Other children may look with envy, but they get recess, camaraderie. They get to "have to" sit next to the pretty girl or cute boy they'd never "have to" sit next to if they were home-schooled. And teachers, for all our shortcomings, can sometimes teach kids some things.

If you've been confused about this issue, I hope I've helped clarify it a little. If you haven't had a chance to be confused about it yet, I hope I've given you the chance.(Back to Index)

Feelings

23.

Most teachers, especially primary teachers, spend time teaching children about feelings. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, (Thank you, Abe Lincoln, for finding the right words) who are we to teach children about feelings? They haven't had as much time to unlearn the important part as we have. Most adults - even female adults - have had all kinds of life experiences that may qualify children to teach us about feelings.

Lest I be accused of adult-bashing, let me accentuate the positive for a while. It's not our fault that we have lost touch with our feelings. Our culture is not one that encourages awareness of all emotions. Calling someone emotional in our culture is often a form of criticism. I'm sure many of you remember how much praise Jackie Kennedy got for not "falling apart" on that awful day in 1963. To give her credit, I'm pretty sure she did "fall apart," and it was just media interpretation that rewrote that part of history.

Our teaching about feelings had better take into account that we don't have all the answers. I recently saw a well-meaning teacher say to a child dealing with her parents' divorce, "But your Mommy and Daddy will always both love you." I saw the look on the child's face, and even at the tender age of six, she looked as if she was skeptical about this sweeping statement. Another child may have really needed to hear this, but this particular child may have needed to hear something different, or to be heard. Maybe Mommy or Daddy was not going to love her, or at least not going to behave in a way that should be a model for what love ought to look like.

I have seen teachers focus well on children's feelings, descriptively, not prescriptively. I've tried to do that myself. Our experience can qualify us to be wise on the subject, and to help children keep or recover the awareness they started out with, but I've also seen adults bequeathing their own neuroses to children. So if you have been putting off getting in touch with your own feelings and learning to manage them well, your influence on children is another good reason to move it up on your priority list. Whether you're a parent, a teacher, neither, or both, emotional health is a marvelous gift to give children. (Back to Index)

Reading Buddies

24.

Margaret Mead described an aspect of Samoan culture that seemed downright utopian: growing up without adolescence. Children helped to raise their siblings, and the various traumas of pre-adolescence and adolescence didn't happen. There was no niche in the culture for it.

I caught a glimpse of that utopia when I saw "reading buddies" at work in the Fort River School. Fifth-graders were reading with first-graders. For years, I've known that cross-grade tutoring of many types was a good thing. But scheduling conflicts and lack of cross-grade planning time usually discouraged most teachers, including me, from arranging opportunities for cross-grade tutoring. And anything that looked different from what people were used to usually involved some flack. It's easier not to try anything unusual, even if you're pretty sure it works.

Well, it works! I wish I had had a videocamera and some skill with it. But at least I can write. So I'll try to portray a few of the children I saw, through a little mind-reading.

Child #1 (a fifth-grader): This is one of my favorite things we do in school. I spend most of the day having to look cool and mature. When the first-graders come, I can read books I used to read, and pretend I'm only doing it because the first-graders enjoy it, or because I have to. I wish the first graders could be here more often. They assume we're cool, because we're fifth-graders. We don't have to prove anything. Sometimes I get so tired of proving that I'm growing up.

Child #2 (a first-grader): I am reading to a fifth-grader! And some people think we first-graders can't read! Learning to read is hard work, and sometimes I feel like giving up, but this is so cool! And the fifth-graders are saying we're good at it! It's nice, of course, when teachers say we're good at reading, but sometimes I think they would say that no matter what they really thought. But when a fifth-grader says it, I believe it. Maybe I actually am getting good at reading!

Child #3 (a fifth-grader): Wow! I've come a long way! When it's just our class here, I feel as if I'm no good at reading. But when the first-graders are here, I remember how hard it used to be to read anything at all. And they're so proud of themselves! If they feel that proud of reading books that seem so simple to me, maybe I ought to be proud of the reading I do. Helping them read makes me feel like an expert.

Child #4 (a first-grader): Out on the playground, fifth-graders are the bosses. You have to do what they say, unless a grown-up is around. Here, they seem more like real people. In fact, I think I'm making friends with a fifth-grader! I never thought I'd do that. I can't wait till I'm in fifth grade so I can read to the little first-graders.

I'm not a mind-reader, but these are the thoughts I imagined children thinking as I sat and watched the "reading buddies." Most good teaching, I believe, is not standing up in front of a bunch of people and imparting knowledge. I think most good teaching is arranging situations that do the kind of magic "reading buddies" time does.(Back to Index)

Wednesday Afternoons

25.

When you were a child, you saw your teacher teach. You knew, on some level, that your teacher did other things, too, but it probably wasn't foremost in your mind. Your teacher was already in school when you got there, and stayed after you left, so you may have thought, at first, that she/he lived there. It may have been something you needed to think. It made the world easier to understand.

Later, perhaps, you learned that your teacher had a life - perhaps had a family, had an apartment or house, went shopping - did the kinds of things your parents did. You may have seen him/her at a supermarket, and felt disoriented at first. Who's minding the classroom? The days after you saw this adult at supermarkets or soccer games, you probably saw her/him somewhat differently.

But your teacher also did something you may never have thought about as a child; he/she planned the day. This may have involved writing lesson plans, hunting for materials, getting books out of the library, putting up bulletin boards, writing letters, looking at the work you did, taking courses, meeting with other teachers,...any teacher reading this can probably add plenty of items to the list.

As a teacher in Wellesley, I appreciated any recognition you grown children gave us for the time, thought, and energy we put into planning and teaching. The PTO set aside some extra money for teachers to buy supplementary materials. You volunteered some of your own time, thought, and energy to help make school all it could be. You worked with your child(ren) to reinforce the learning that happened (we hope) in school.

And at sometimes great inconvenience to yourself, you set aside Wednesday afternoons as a time for us to plan. For some of you, this was simply a welcome chance to spend some extra time with your child(ren). But for many of you, this was an added strain on your time, energy, and money budgets. No matter how Wednesday afternoon affects you, please know that teachers spend the time finding ways to make school more meaningful for your child. This may involve grade-level meetings, workshops, conferences with you, or time to hunt for materials, write lesson plans, etc. It is valuable time.

Amherst teachers also use Wednesday afternoons as preparation/meeting/conference times. If there is ever a movement to challenge this, I'll help create a Committee for the Twenty-first Century, and fight for the Wednesday afternoon preparation time.(Back to Index)

Listening to Children

26.

Children need to be heard. Caught up in the juggling acts of teaching, parenting, and/or myriads of other adult activities, we lose sight of that truth, or let it slip into a lower priority. From what I've seen and experienced, it's often overshadowed by another truth: we adults need to be heard. It's not something one outgrows, although many adults and children learn a kind of despair that makes them harder to hear.

If children aren't heard, they resort to all kinds of strategies to be heard, or they give up. Later, they become adults. Unless we were raised and schooled by a team of saints, we weren't consistently heard, and our behaviors strongly reflect that sad reality. We tell children to be quiet so that we can be heard. True, that's often an appropriate thing to do - when our messages are legitimately higher priorities.

But that's not the only reason we try to keep children quiet. They may be saying important things we're not ready to hear. We grown children haven't been heard enough, and we're bigger, more powerful, and (believe it or not) louder. So we get heard - if not the content of our messages, at least our powerful sounds. And important things children say are missed.

As a volunteer in Northampton and Amherst, I get to spend almost all my time listening to children. I admit that it's a luxury that goes with not doing report cards, recess duty, conferences, and all the other things teachers must do instead of teach. In many ways, though unpaid, I'm a better teacher than I've ever been.

It was time for literacy activities. A first grader had just come in from recess looking quite upset. He had not had snack, and he was pretty upset; you could see it on his face. He's quite a handful when upset feelings take over. Adults are put into a position where they must control him. But I was there at the right moment, in the right frame of mind. Using my best Fred Rogers, Chaim Ginott cool, I said, "Jeff, you look pretty upset." He mumbled, "Yeah." He told me he had had no snack. On one level, too bad. He'd forgotten to use snack time for snack. On another level, I wanted to sneak him into a corner where he could have snack.

But I did not say, "Too bad," and I did not sneak him into a corner. Instead, I said, "I know how you feel. I hate it when that happens to me." The clouds over his head cleared away almost instantly. He smiled and went over to his literacy activities. I felt like Superteacher.

Listening to children is a real challenge. I don't congratulate myself too much (although I do congratulate myself), because listening to children is all I do in the schools. My need to be heard is satisfied in other ways, and I'm not constantly generating new priority items as I did when I was parenting, teaching, and juggling all my roles. As a parent and teacher, I did my best to listen to my children, your children, and all you grown-ups. If I slipped up with some of you, I'm sorry. Now that I have time to listen, and have shed my need to be defensive, I find that listening to children is even more rewarding. And it's often fun. If you haven't found time to do it as much as you want and they need, I hope you can soon.(Back to Index)

Pendula

27.

People occasionally talk about a pendulum that swings back and forth, indicating the philosophical trend that is in style. There's an educational pendulum, a political pendulum, and I'm sure that people immersed in theology, sociology, and other disciplines have their pendula. I don't like the image, and don't accept it. Our species is not where it was a century ago, and will not be there next year. And effective and sensitive education of children is not dependent on fads or styles.

So why do people talk about the swing of the pendulum? I think adults get tired of growing - tired of encountering new ideas. For one thing, we may be afraid that the new idea will require extra work, or extra thinking. And any new idea may give us the scary feeling that we've been doing things "wrong" for a long time. So it's easier to think of a new idea as an old idea in new clothing.

I reacted that way to cooperative learning. I avoided cooperative learning workshops, because I didn't want to think I'd spent twenty-four years not doing something that could have been very effective. I preferred to think that I had already been doing it, and that the rest of the world was simply catching up to me, and labelling what I had been doing. Now, I call this problem the "veteran teacher syndrome" - the mindset that reacts to each new idea by saying, "What goes around comes around."

It's also common to "try" a new idea half-heartedly, find that it doesn't work, and quickly go back to the old way. I remember reading a study about Words in Color, a dynamic, though strictly phonetic approach to teaching reading. The designer of the study seemed out to prove that the approach could not work. Experienced teachers used Words in Color, and new teachers used a basal reader. "Surprisingly," the new teachers had more success. I suggest that the results could have been very different if experienced and inexperienced teachers had been mixed, or if only new teachers had used Words in Color. I believe that the "veteran teacher syndrome" was a factor.

I am not suggesting that teachers should be put out to pasture when they have too much experience. Experience can be a great teacher. It can provide a great repertoire upon which to build. Mistakes are great catalysts for learning, and you can't make them all in college, no matter how devoted you are. Claudia Schmidt says, "How do you get good judgment? Experience. And how do you get experience? Bad judgment." I'm not sure whether she is quoting someone else, but until I find out, I'm quoting her.

I am suggesting that we adults should work to avoid visualizing a pendulum. When something new arises, we ought to look at it as a possible opportunity to become even better at what we do, and not immediately reject it as something we tried twenty years ago. The truth is, we probably didn't try it in its present form. If there are aspects of it we have tried, perhaps it has been improved. Perhaps it is more appropriate for today. And perhaps we are more skilled than we were 20 years ago. (Back to Index)

Homework

28.

Homework is many issues. Years ago, treating it as one issue, I opposed it. I didn't give homework, and I responded to parents who wanted it by suggesting things they could do at home. I thought of many reasons parents might have wanted their children to have homework - none of them good reasons. When children asked for homework, I gave them what they wanted, but my heart wasn't in it. I was skeptical about their eagerness, and wondered what their real motivation was.

Back then, I viewed homework as a substitute for family and neighborhood life. I had young children, and had to spend some of the best hours of the day away from them. When they finally got home, they had to do homework, and eventually, yielding to community pressure, I had to correct or prepare homework for my class. Homework seemed like a wall keeping me away from my children. Occasionally, I would get involved, only to hear, "That's not how my teacher does it." Sometimes I would become confused by the homework, or irritated by it. Why should children do phonics worksheets full of sex-role stereotypes? Why should they memorize the state capitals? How many adults know the state capitals, and how many of those find that knowledge useful? Why can't I spend the evening hanging out peacefully with my children?

Later, I learned that not every family was like ours. For some, homework was the main link between home and school. For some, it was a way to cut down on television time. Some children really wanted homework. And some parents needed to have some way to relate with their children. Homework provided a structure within which they could spend time with their children. In an ideal world, this wouldn't be necessary, but we live in a world in which some adults spend so much of their time away from children that they need help reconnecting.

When you send your children to school, you expose them to democracy. If a large portion of the community wanted children to memorize the phone book, there would probably be all kinds of efforts by teachers and administrators to educate the community about the issue, but unless these efforts were successful, there would probably be all kinds of workshops, materials, and units about the phone book. Some teachers would look for work elsewhere; for some it would be the last straw. But for most, it would just be another part of a job that already had its ups and downs.

Some homes would resound with voices of dutiful children, memorizing phone numbers. Some would have phone book pages taped to the refrigerator. Some parents would buy the MacPhone memorization program and install it on their hard drive. Tutors would be hired. And some parents would ask for more homework. "My neighbor's kids go to the NYNEX Academy, and they have to memorize ten pages a day...with addresses. Those kids will get into the best colleges."

Sorry. I got a little carried away. I'm a recovering dogmatist. We sometimes overstate our cases. I hope I've learned to listen better to other people's points, and I hope I've helped you think about homework. (Back to Index)

Conferences

29.

At least twice a year, parents and teachers have conferences to discuss children's progress. The conferences are mostly friendly encounters. There may be some anxiety at first (Am I parenting well? Am I teaching well?), but it doesn't usually last long.

Because these conferences are such a time-honored tradition, we are apt to forget an important aspect of what is happening: Some people are gathering behind a closed door to discuss another person who is not there.

Most children are curious about the conferences we have; they want to know what was said. Some want all the details, and some just want the bottom line: good news or bad news? Some are annoyed that they are being discussed, some are flattered, and some attend the conferences.

I think this is another issue full of questions that don't have right and wrong answers. I have had children come to conferences. Their parents and I agreed that it would be good to have the children there. The appreciations and suggestions were, after all, for the children. There was no need for an intermediary. For some families, this point of view works. For others, it makes no sense at all.

I don't think I would have wanted to be there when I was a child being discussed at a conference. Mrs. Remavich, my fifth grade teacher, said I fooled around in class. I'm not sure I would have wanted to face my accuser at the time. Looking at it now from my adult point of view, I was probably trying out ways to relate to people. "Fooling around" was just her name for the important social learning I was doing. But back then I probably would have just hung my head in shame.

There are plenty of confidentiality/candor issues at work, school, and home. I think each case has to be examined individually. I guess my reason for even writing this article is that I think we sometimes forget to think about the issues when we think about discussing children. When"mum" is said too automatically, we may miss opportunities for important communication. (Back to Index)

Parent Requests, Part One

30.

The issue of parent requests not to have certain teachers is a difficult one, and I've faced it both as a parent and as a teacher. This article will tell you how it feels to one teacher, and my next article will tell you how it feels to one parent. We're both the same person, but the issue can bring up powerful feelings, depending on which way you're looking at it.

At the end of my first year as an elementary school teacher, and even during the year, there were parents who wrote to the principal that they did not want their children in my class. In fact, there were so many parents who felt that way that I ended up losing my job. During that year, I also realized that I had stumbled on to the kind of work I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to spend my life teaching young children, and since I also wanted an income that would support my family, I wanted to teach in a public school. So I had one of the most painful experiences I've ever had.

It was comforting to learn, later, that every teacher deals with parents who say their children are having or have had wasted years. Even a teacher I nominated as MTA Teacher of the Year had had the experience. We try to do the best job we can, and we try to keep getting better. Some people tell us we're doing miracles with their children, and we drink in the appreciation. Some drink it in more easily than others, but appreciation is never wasted.

But that one letter or conference that talks about the wasted or destructive year really hurts. For new, insecure teachers, it hurts even more. And the more a teacher cares about teaching, of course, the more it hurts.

There are plenty of reasons for those letters and conferences. There's the one on the parent's mind - that the child really is having a wasted or destructive year, or could, if the child is in that teacher's class. But there are plenty of other reasons. Maybe you've heard from a friend, "Don't put your child in that class." You want to do the best you can as a parent, and any advice you get is treasured. Maybe your child is having a bad year, you don't know why, and you unconsciously hope it's because of the teacher. Maybe the teacher is just right for your child, but not for you.

Whenever I list reasons for people's thoughts and behaviors, I know I'm probably missing some important ones. I'm not trying to answer all questions. I only hope to shed some light. As we live, we sometimes do and say things that hurt other people. I like to think that people aren't trying to hurt each other; they're trying to live well, and some of their efforts incidentally cause pain.

As a teacher who has been both requested and avoided, I want to make sure parents know about the pain of being avoided. Knowing about it may not change the final outcome; as a parent, you want to do what you think is best for your child. If that means some one's feelings get hurt, so be it. But it's important to know that we teachers care about the work we do, and like children, we get hurt when someone says we're not doing it well. (Back to Index)

Parent Requests, Part Two

31.

If you are a good parent, you want to do as much as you can to make life go well for your child. If we didn't have schools, and the custom was to hire a teacher to teach your child, you would probably be pretty picky. You would want a teacher who shared certain values with you, and seemed to have the characteristics you think are most important for your child.

You get to choose your child's doctors. If you don't like a certain doctor, you have many alternatives (unless your health plan limits you). And for a reasonably healthy child, I think a teacher is more important than a doctor. And so sending your child to school is an act of supreme faith.

As a teacher - the same teacher who wrote last week's article - I am opening Pandora's box by writing about this from a parent's perspective. But the issue is always there, and a parent's point of view deserves to be aired in public.

As a parent, I remember the first and only time we made a request. It was my second year as a teacher in Wellesley. Our children were not in the Wellesley Public Schools at the time, but we were still nervous about the disturbances we might cause. The person we ended up speaking with knew the superintendent of schools in Wellesley, and let us know about that early in the conversation.

Our daughter had been placed with a teacher whose personality intimidated children. My use of the plural "children" lets you know right away that I was in touch with other parents. I did not want my daughter in "that class," with "that teacher." There I was, a young teacher, unsure of myself, disapproving of a veteran teacher. And I was a young parent. In fact, I was fewer than twenty years beyond the time when that teacher could have been my teacher. I think I may have been slightly afraid that she would punish me for complaining.

I think we acted in our daughter's best interest. Our daughter was moved into another class, with a teacher who enjoyed her, listened to her, and sent her home smiling, full of stories about the day. Probably there was some discussion among the teachers about the new parents in the neighborhood who were already making trouble. We didn't mind; we wanted our daughter to be appreciated, and now she was. We wanted her to enjoy school, and now she did.

I don't think it would be good for a school to open up class placement to parents. It would be instant chaos. Class placement would become a political/social issue. Rumors would create a "best" teacher for each grade level. Children who needed "structure" would end up with the teacher who had managed to seem more "structured." That class would be hard to teach because of the number of children with attention problems. Diversity is important in a classroom; it allows for more varied modelling. Too much attention to parent requests makes diversity more of a challenge.

But that's when I'm thinking like a teacher. As a parent, I am glad my daughter's first year in school gave her good feelings about school. (Back to Index)

The Whole Village

32.

The teachers assigned to teach your child in school are not the only people to teach your child. You know that. We mostly teach your child how to do schoolwork. We sometimes make valiant efforts to include the rest of life in our curriculum, and we succeed to varying degrees. But no matter how hard we try, school is only school. The textbooks, even if they are called, Mathematics Around Us or Science in Everyday Life, are really only textbooks.

There's an African (I'd be more specific, but I don't know which part of Africa I mean) proverb: "It takes a whole village to raise one child." And it does. We teachers specialize, and many of us know things about children and learning that others in our village (i.e., town, city, state, nation) have forgotten or never knew. But children don't necessarily know what to learn from whom (neither do adults), and some members of our community are less in touch with childhood than others.

Sometimes we ask members of the community to come into our classrooms and tell about what they do. If we're lucky (and we often are), the community members know how to talk to and with children. If not, speakers will either address children as if they were totally ignorant or as if they were adults. I've seen both approaches, and it doesn't take children long to classify a speaker as effective or ineffective.

If a speaker is effective, a wonderful thing happens. Children get to see a connection between school and the rest of the world. I've had a dentist, a lawyer, an oceanographer, a salesperson, a surveyor - people from many lines of work - speak to my classes about what they do, and show them, when possible. I've had people come in to talk about what life was like for them as children - even an 85-year-old man who had vivid memories of his grandfather telling him about life in the early 1800's.

The question "What do you want to be when you grow up?'' can be an overwhelming question. I wanted to be a cowboy. Later, getting more realistic, I wanted to be a doctor, then United States Ambassador to the Soviet Union, then something even more exciting, rewarding, and important, which I ended up doing for over twenty years. I never once thought of writing about parenting and teaching until I was forty-five years old, but I ended up doing that, too. We adults often don't know what we want to "be" as we grow. Maybe a more appropriate question for children might be, "What are some of the things you think you might like to do during your life?"

I'm grateful to the people who spoke to my classes about their lives. Most of them seemed to enjoy doing it, and to be comfortable and effective in speaking with children. I'm sure the experience was educational for them. With a little thought, and a little calling around, we can continue to mobilize our villages to help raise our children.(Back to Index)

Discipline

33.

"Discipline" was an important word when I first started teaching. It meant something related to what "classroom management" now means. In fact, "discipline" is still used by some people, and the two terms are sometimes used interchangeably. It may be that it's still commonly used to mean adult "control" of children, but I prefer to use it to refer to something inside a person, or an area of inquiry and study. The other use of the word always seemed too military for me.

A classroom that's managed well is peaceful. Children are doing interesting and educational things. Once in a while, a child may get carried away, but it doesn't last long; someone reminds the child that self-control is important. Even children for whom it's difficult are motivated to work on it , because when order prevails, school is more fun.

A classroom that is poorly managed can be wild. Some children are having fun throwing paper airplanes and making noise. Some look very unhappy, because they like predictability. Some have a kind of inner teacher, and are busily doing great things, ignoring the chaos. There is a large bottle of Tylenol in the back of the teacher's top right drawer, and it is replaced frequently.

I remember my first year teaching elementary school. I had no idea how to manage a class. The other teachers in the school, to a person, seemed to know what they were doing. Some could leave the classroom for a long time, knowing that things would go well. I didn't know how they did it. I, meanwhile, begged, threatened, yelled, manipulated, all to no avail. I thought someone had sabotaged my attempt to teach by giving me a class filled with impossible children.

One day, a volunteer came into my classroom to play some games with the class. She said, "Would you all please line up here?" The class lined up in an orderly fashion. At that moment, I despaired. I was sure that I had chosen the wrong line of work. As much as I loved children and wanted to teach, I was just not cut out for it.

Years later, I walked into my classroom after leaving my student teacher in charge for ten minutes. Right away, children noticed me and quieted down. I'm not sure what had transformed me into the one children would be "good" for, but I spent a good deal of time assuring my student teacher that her world had not come to an end.

Children have fewer problems learning, feeling good, relating with other children if they know what to expect (and it isn't chaos ), and what is expected of them. Teachers and other adults sometimes refer to "the good old days," when children had respect, and would never think of saying something rude. Cicero did, too ("O tempora! O mores!") I'll bet Adam and Eve would have referred to "good old days" if they'd had any to refer to. But there aren't any, really, or if there are, we're having more now, and there will be more later. But whichever days these are, teachers need to help their classes find and stay in that sublime place between autocracy and chaos.(Back to Index)

Television

34.

When I was a child, my parents unknowingly hired a bunch of teachers for me and my siblings. These teachers had never worked in schools, and didn't know much about child development or curriculum. They were great at classroom management; in fact, we were spellbound, hanging on their every word. My two favorites were Popeye and Zorro.

Popeye taught me that spinach is good food. Zorro taught me that it's exciting and noble to work for justice. Spinach is still my favorite vegetable, and working for justice is one of my favorite pastimes.

I think I was a discerning child. I could have focussed on the importance of bulging biceps, or gotten in loads of trouble for carving the letter Z on people's clothes. I think my parents may have been concerned about some of the effects of television, but it was new, we enjoyed it, and we weren't turning into monsters. Besides, all the other children got to watch television. It would have made us feel deprived and resentful if we hadn't gotten to be part of Howdy Doody time, the Mickey Mouse Club, and all that.

And I played an early video game: Winky Dink. You put a plastic sheet over the TV screen, and drew the items Winky Dink needed. Then you quickly erased them before the villain got to use them. It all seemed so right. And it was fun.

I don't know to what degree the destructive influences of TV affected me. As I said, it was a new medium, and it could well be that Madison Avenue hadn't yet figured out how to have maximum impact on consumers. I remember many of the commercials. For a long time, I brushed with Crest, because it had been shown to be an effective decay-preventive dentifrice, etc. It seemed so much more scientific than zonking Mr. Tooth Decay, or doing what Bucky Beaver told you to do. Now, I brush with Tom's, but I'm not sure my teeth even know the difference.

Later, as parents, my wife and I were concerned about what we perceived TV doing to our children. At first, we sought out positive images. We pinned hopes on Wonder Woman, because she was a strong woman who used a combination of wit and power to make good things happen. But she also used violence, and that bothered us.

When TV was trying to captivate our children, we worried that they would grow up thinking they needed various expensive things, bodies that were the "right" size and shape, men who would be big, rough, and tough - all the images TV supplied in heavy daily doses. Occasionally someone would say, "I like you just the way you are," but usually that was on public television, which wasn't trying to sell images. I think our children were more influenced by us than by TV. I hope so.

I guess about all we can do without knocking our heads against a wall is try to make non-video life as positive and engaging as possible, do what we can to keep public TV alive and well, and be the kind of consumers who can't be manipulated by the wrong images. (Back to Index)

Science

35.

Throughout school, as far as I can remember, I hated science. Science was, for me, what music was for other kids - something you just had to put up with. Being allergic to formaldehyde, I was unable to stand being in the room to disect frogs. When we had to do projects, I had no idea what to do. The summer of my sophomore year, I took a science class so that I could finish science in my junior year and be done with it. I had to take three science courses in college, and again, I hated it.

Teaching science to young children, I grew to love it. Whether we were studying astronomy, physics, biology, or any other science, the children's curiosity and enthusiasm were contagious. It was hard to remember what I had not liked about it. I watched children for signs of the aversion I had felt, ready to help some child get through it, but the aversion just wasn't there. I'm glad it wasn't, and I hope it didn't show up later.

The best science lessons I observed or taught were organized so that there was a minimum of time spent passing out materials. The children came into the room with materials already on their desks, and after a brief discussion ("What do you think will happen if you...?), they experimented with the materials. The teacher circulated around the room, asking questions, encouraging children, making suggestions. After a while, the teacher gathered the children to ask for observations and explanations. All serious answers were treated with respect.

I'm not sure how a student who hated science turned into a teacher who loved it. I do remember that when I was a child, I liked to try things, and see whether they worked. If it rained hard, afterwards I liked to go up Sweet Hollow Road, a mostly unused road behind our house, and dam up the water to make a lake. I remember watching dragonflies, turtles, and frogs by the pond near our house.

But none of that seemed to have anything to do with science. Science was boring facts you had to memorize, or projects you got bad grades on. It was periodic charts, and teachers who got annoyed when you didn't understand or remember. I'm glad I got through that time. Let's try to make sure children don't have to. (Back to Index)

The Groove and the Rut

36.

There are teachers who always teach the same grades, and always do the same things with the children in their classes. It may be that these teachers are in a "groove," and are doing what they do remarkably well. It may be that it would be a big mistake to move these teachers out of these "grooves" - that well enough should be left alone. Everybody's happy, and messing with success is not groovy. And so your child has the same first grade teacher you had, and enjoys first grade as you did.

But it may be that this teacher is in a rut. Change may cause stress, but it can also cause growth. Lack of change may provide security, but it can also lead to stagnation. Teaching materials and strategies are used because they have been used, and they've worked before. From the teacher's point of view, they are "tried and true." But in fact, there may be better materials and strategies, and children who have access to the better way are better off.

I've heard some teachers described as "dead wood." There were many years when, as a parent and as a teacher, I viewed some teachers that way, and wished that certain teachers would retire. Year after year, they seemed to be making life miserable for children, parents, administrators, and themselves. I tried, sometimes unsuccessfully, not to think of them as "dead wood." It's not a flattering image.

Then young teachers started filling up the schools. We had a superintendent and principals who were my age or younger. I don't think they were unusually young; I think I was getting older. I started wondering whether I was "dead wood." I listened to what I said, and watched what I did. There was still plenty of originality there, and some of what I was doing was "tried and true," but in at least some areas, I think rot was starting to set in.

Luckily, I had to retire anyway, for non-rot reasons. But I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed. I care about children and parents, and I think I would have tried hard to avoid becoming "dead wood," but decay can be a slow, undetectable process. It can be controlled if it's noticed; sometimes a change of grade level will do the trick. But decay may happen. It 's not some one's fault, and there ought to be a way to make sure no one is punished. I hope there is or wish there were a way to see to it that children have the benefit of teachers' enthusiasm and creativity, and somehow support is there for the teacher who used to be enthusiastic and creative, but is stuck in a rut. (Back to Index)

Technology

37.

If you're too "into" something, it can be hard to communicate with people who aren't. So if I'm going to write an article about technology, I'd better hurry up. I already do all my writing and organizing information on the computer, and even on a slow day, I spend an hour on E-mail.

Being disabled forces me to think about budgeting my energy, and technology helps me do it. Also, I can't see my friends as easily as I used to, and technology lets me communicate with them, and make new friends.

Now I'll roll the clock back. I don't have to go too far; in 1990, I was a technophobe. Computers were for MIT graduates, and if we didn't stop them, they were going to take over the world. Actually, I had good friends who were already fascinated with technology, and they weren't the type to take over the world. But I considered them exceptions.

I was scared. I had already learned the important things, I thought, and this was becoming an important thing I wasn't even close to learning. And it was like television without the saving grace of human images. People who got obsessed with computers sat like zombies in front of electronic screens and seemed to be in another world.

Quickly, before these body-snatchers completely take over my brain, let me (the human me) tell you what good technology can do. People who have various difficulties with communication may find that technology enables them to overcome or bypass their difficulties. At this very moment - the moment I'm "writing" it, not the moment you're reading it - my right hand is on strike. It goes on strike occasionally, and my left hand has to press all the keys. That's one of the ways multiple sclerosis affects me. People who have to live with autism often have important things to say, and can sometimes say these things with the help of technology. People who can't walk can still get around now. And you able-bodied folks out there probably will find that you can do more, and do it better, with the help of technology.

To me, the most important things people do are done through communication. It's a good thing I'm a verbal kind of person; if ballet were my medium, I'd be in trouble. I'd probably feel sorry for myself. And it will be a while before we figure out how to stage quality ballet with disabled artists. But technology seems to be full of surprises.

Last week I connected, via E-mail, with a teacher who wanted to know how to find non-sexist, non-violent fairy tales. I don't know whether that teacher shares a gender, race, religion, dietary preference, or Zodiac sign with me, but because of technology, that teacher has some leads in the search for those fairy tales. I won't necessarily know whether the leads lead anywhere, but it feels good to know I may have helped.

I haven't quite completed the move from technophobia to technophilia, but I'm on my way. I worry about what the little electrons may be doing to people. Carcinogens sometimes show up without warning. I once told my daughter that TV turns people into vegetables. Maybe computers do, too. But so far, I'm more impressed with the potential than the danger. (Back to Index)

The Printed Word

38.

There's something about the printed word that impresses people. When something is written well, and people read it, it's a little harder to disagree with it than when it is spoken well. When a person speaks, you can watch facial expressions and body language. You can listen to the tone of voice. All your senses work together to make it a multi-media experience, and you rarely forget that the message is from a regular human being like yourself.

Not so with the printed word. All you see is the word. Whether or not you believe that the Bible, the Koran, or other sacred documents were written by deities, it's not hard to imagine why other people believe it. There's nothing to distract you - no tell-tale signs of regular human presence. If these books were indeed written by humans, they were written by a special breed of humans called "writers."

As we work to help children become literate, we're ambivalent. We want them to know about the sanctity of the written word, and we also want them to be critical readers. It's not hard to do both, but children ought to learn that both are important elements of literacy. We want children to be fascinated with books, and we want them to think about what they read, questioning whatever is questionable.

As I write this column, and read back what I write, I'm impressed. When I speak, people watch me, listen to me, experience me with all my human foibles. My humor has to be carefully monitored; it matters whether I smile at the wrong time. If I'm having a bad voice day, I may not get my points across as well. But when I write, it's just me and my friend, the English language. I can be my own audience as long as I want to. I can try out my poetry or prose in several moods, and then, if it makes it through all the tests, I reward it by letting it be read by other people.

One of the children I work with, a first-grader, keeps reading what she writes. She writes a few words, then goes back to the beginning and reads the whole story aloud. She is very serious about this writing-reading process, and I respect her for it. For her, writing is indeed a craft. She also reads books avidly, and knows how important words are to her.

One of a teacher's tasks is to somehow help a child balance critical reading and respect for the writer. We can model this balance by occasionally letting children see us respond in writing to what we read.(Back to Index)

Divorce

39.

As I begin this article on divorce, I'm nervous. It's an important subject. I know things about divorce from my own experience, from my adult friends' experiences, and from my work with children. I got familiar with the effects on children of unhappy marriages and divorces well before I got familiar with their effects on myself and other adults. My parents have been married for over fifty years, and I suspect that the marriage will last. By the time I experienced divorce, I'd already worked with many children who'd experienced it. Some of my knowledge may reflect my personal experiences, but I'd rather not use this medium to tell you which ones.

Children with parents who seem to be happily married don't usually take much credit for the success of the marriage, but children are quick to blame themselves for divorce. If only they had been better children, they think (at some level of consciousness), their parents would be happy together. If only they'd walked the dog regularly, made less noise, gotten better grades in school. Parents frequently try to reassure their children that it's not the children's fault, and that they can't build any kind of Parent Trap to right the situation. But the feeling is persistent, and efforts to contradict it must hang in there.

The fantasy that the parents will reunite is resilient. Much of the anger directed at stepparents has to do with their role as obstacles to reunification. So children are apt to feel good about any discord they sense in the new marriage, and annoyed when things seem to be going well. This is not based on reason; children can be angry with a stepparent even if the birth parent is no longer alive. The stepparent makes it so that if the birth parent comes back to life, there's a problem.

I'm only touching the surface of this issue. Children's feelings about unhappy marriages and divorces run deep and wide. As long as I'm giving lip-service to issues that fill volumes, let me also take up some space comparing unhappy marriage to divorce. Children would rather have neither, but if they have to choose one, it depends. How unhappy is the marriage? Is unhappiness the norm, or are there just occasional fights? What will or does the divorce look like? Is one parent moving into a hole in the wall while the other lives in the family mansion? Will both parents be accessible? Will the fighting continue?

I know that reading and therapy help. As parents, we try to help our children find their way, and it's a hard job, made harder if we've lost our way. But it's our job.(Back to Index)

40.

When a child says no to a teacher, it raises an issue that we used to consider simple. In elementary school, I never said no to a teacher. I'm pretty sure I would have had trouble if I had. Occasionally, I witnessed what happened if a child said no to a teacher. It wasn't a pretty sight. It didn't inspire me to change my ways. I saw spankings, heard yelling, and kept my mouth shut like a "good boy." And this was a public school.

When I first started teaching and parenting, I considered it one of my jobs to teach children to say no. Abuse of children had still not reared its head as the issue it is today; I had a different reason in mind. I was thinking more of Lyndon Johnson, Richard Nixon, and all the other adults who had had the power to make people do what they didn't want to. I didn't want to become one of them. To me, sending people to war is the worst form of abuse. The selective service system inspired me to learn to say no.

It didn't take long for me to decide that saying no to a teacher about schoolwork or behavior was not on the same level as Ghandi's refusal to obey apartheid laws, or Rosa Parks' refusal to sit in the back of the bus. But I was never comfortable with the aspect of the authority role that suppressed children's natural ability to refuse.

Later in my career, the issue of refusal took on a new look. A few years ago, parents and teachers were officially given a new message: children need to learn to say no. At first, they were only supposed to say no to certain drugs. Then a little later, abuse also surfaced as an issue. "If someone tells you to do something that makes you feel uncomfortable, just say 'No.'" Authority figures were telling children to do what authority figures used to forbid: say no.

I'm glad to have shed the confusing authority role I had as a teacher. I'm also glad it's getting confusing. Even if we lived in a world free of harmful drugs and child abuse, I believe it would still be important to allow children to refuse. We want children to grow up with self-confidence and integrity. It may be simpler, at first, to answer "Why?" with "Because I said so," but it never was a satisfactory answer, and is less so now.(Back to Index)

Favoritism

41.

Everybody likes some people more than others. Even teachers. We're human, too. Teachers, in fact, like some children more than others. Even the most egalitarian teachers, somewhere deep inside, have some favorite children, and some they don't consider their favorites. A parent or child may have a hunch who the teacher likes or dislikes, but we'll never tell. And it's important, in our job, not to tell. Not to say or do anything that even suggests favoritism.

Some teachers like spunky children. Some like the "cooperative" (translate: "obedient") ones. Some like social butterflies and some like loners. Some like children who can't stay still, and some like children who can. These labels don't have to be permanent or omnipresent, but as ideosyncrasies manifest themselves, teachers have been known to smile or frown. There's no accounting for taste.

I have a friend who didn't trust Mr. Rogers, and didn't want his children to watch the guy. He was annoyed by the statement "You are special," and all the elaboration of that message Fred Rogers gave children. Wouldn't there come a point in the child's development when the child would feel betrayed? "Hey, he's saying that to everybody! He doesn't think I'm special!"

I like Fred Rogers. I don't know him personally. I don't know whether he has obnoxious traits that would bother me. But I like the message he's giving children. It's a global message, and yet a very personal one. And for some children who are in bad situations, Mr. Rogers may be the only one who tells them they're special.

I once saw a sign in a principal's office when I was interviewing for a job. It said, "Teaching is more than liking kids." I knew right away I did not want to work for that principal. It's not that I disagreed with the statement on the sign; I disagreed with the decision to put up that sign. Of course teaching is more than liking kids, but what was his point? Liking kids is a pretty important part of teaching, as are the other parts of teaching.

Like parents, teachers have to fight their own tendency to play favorites. Favoritism is destructive for children. If I think Mom and Dad always liked you best, I'll be angry at Mom, at Dad, at you, and at myself. So one of Mom's and Dad's jobs is to find the lovability in each child, and make sure to cut off comparisons at the pass.

If you had me as a teacher, you may be wondering, "Who were his favorites?" I know I said in the first paragraph that teachers never tell, but just this once, I'm going to break the rule. You were one of my favorites. (Back to Index)

Class Size

42.

Once, driving home from an evening conference at a parent's house, I was listening to David Brodnoy on the car radio. He was saying that class size had absolutely no effect on the quality of education. A good teacher, he said, would do just as good a job with a class of forty as with a class of twenty. This was before they'd come up with car phones. If I'd had a car phone, I would have pulled over and called him. As it was, I had to try to keep my mind on driving, and call when I got home, when, for all I knew, he'd be saying kids and teachers should stay in school on weekends and vacations.

For me, the ideal class size is twenty, with ten boys and ten girls. When the size gets smaller, it's harder to build a diverse community, with different learning styles, personal styles, interests, etc. As class size gets larger, it gets harder to be sure individuals get the attention they deserve. It would be harder to make sure every child is heard, every personal problem or learning problem is addressed. And it would certainly be harder to have evening conferences at parents' homes.

All of these things are hard anyway, and each year teachers work to come close. We know we can't be perfect, but we do try. Teachers, for the most part, also have other things they need to do in their lives. They may need more income than teaching provides, so they may have other work. They may have families and friends who need attention and time. Every teacher has different ways to spend non-teaching time. Some were shocked that I had evening conferences, as I was shocked that they got all their paperwork done every day.

In all my years of teaching, my largest class had twenty-six children, and my smallest had eighteen. I usually had close to twenty. When I tell this to teachers who work in other towns, some consider it normal, but some are impressed, and want to work in Wellesley. I haven't yet come across any who seriously say, "How can you teach with so few children in your class?" or "Eighteen children! How can you possibly keep track of them all?" The class size I've experienced in Wellesley seems to be what most teachers consider ideal.

I called David Brodnoy. I had thought the issue through thoroughly, I thought. I learned that oral debate is not my medium. He backed me into a corner where I think I said a class of eight would be fun to teach. Then he hung up on me before I could recover, and told the radio audience that I was a typical teacher - that I wanted to have an easy life, and squander the taxpayers' money. Really, I don't. Neither do the rest of the teachers. We want to make sure we can teach your children in the best possible way. (Back to Index)

Duos

43.

I once saw, in The Wellesley Townsman, that two children who were great friends when they were in my second grade class were still together. Dozens of duos flashed through my mind - children who had resolved to stay together always. They'd go to the same college, marry two people who were also the best of friends, and their children would be friends. A good forty-five-year old friend of mine is still friends with an elementary school chum. They sometimes have problems, as do those second grade duos. And they didn't go to the same college or marry people who were good friends.

Let me tell you about Ruth and Naomi, two fictional children who we'll say were in my class years ago. They were inseparable; whither Ruth went, Naomi went. I thought it was an open, healthy friendship, and I did what I could to make sure they stayed together the next year. But the year after that, they were separated. I saw their tears on the last day of school in June, and I knew right away what had happened.

I tried to console them. They were going to be next door to each other, and they'd see each other at lunch and recess. But that was like telling someone you'll write, and then moving to California. There was no way to console them.

I've heard this wisdom from children and adults: "Don't let certain teachers know how good your friendship is. If they find out that your friendship is too good, they'll separate you." The implication, I think, was that some teachers were actually evil or sick. These teachers had never had close friends, maybe had been tormented or excluded by some duos, and this was revenge.

Maybe there are teachers like that, but there are lots of other reasons to separate children - even children who are good friends. The two may be good role models, and having them in the same class is not sharing the wealth. The friendship may be getting in the way of schoolwork. It may be that there are children who need friends, and these two are great potential friends for other children, rendered inaccessible by their own friendship.

Like so many decisions made by teachers and principals, class placement is not easy. At the end of the school year, they sometimes have awful decisions to make about class assignments. It makes it easier to tell themselves it's just a class assignment, it's not the end of the world, the first day of school, they'll forget all about it. But that's not always true.(Back to Index)

Being Disabled

44.

I've always had a thing about justice. If anyone seems to get short-changed in any way, it bothers me. Unequal distribution of wealth, appreciation, or health has always bothered me. So when children seemed to be getting a raw deal because they learned too fast, too slowly, or too differently, I did what I could to reshuffle and deal again. Over the years, I've had children in my classes who were physically, emotionally, or cognitively disabled, and I've tried to keep things fair. Other teachers also do this, but there are other important parts of our job, and each of us has different portions of our work that get us to bend over backwards.

I guess justice has a sense of humor. I'm disabled. If you know me, it may be old news to you, but I have been denying it in a way for years. When people have treated me as if I'm disabled, whether sensitively or condescendingly, I've thought they've been perceiving me wrong. When I've had trouble accomplishing a task because of my MS, I've thought, "Now I know how disabled people feel." When I've parked in handicapped parking spaces with my handicapped parking placard, I've felt strange twinges of guilt. I've even had moments of upside-down guilt when I've had to use spaces that seemed to be reserved for non-handicapped persons.

Denial is one of the commonly known stages of mourning. When I was diagnosed with "possible MS" in 1978, when it was confirmed in 1987, when I started developing annoying symptoms in 1990, and as my MS has progressed during the past five years, I've experienced various kinds of denial: I didn't really have MS; it was psychosomatic. No, I had it, but all I had to do was find the right treatment strategy and it would go away. No, it wouldn't go away, but it meant I could retire and do all the things I like to do; nothing I really enjoyed doing required myelin coating on my nerves.

On Saturday, April 22, 1995, as I was driving to the New England Folk Festival, I realized that I really was disabled, that there was a good chance I'd stay that way and maybe become more disabled, and that I was going to a place where I'd be singing, listening, and talking with old friends, but they would be dancing, and I wouldn't. I was never an accomplished dancer, never what you'd call poetry in motion, but that's only if you think poetry has to rhyme and have recognizable meter. My dancing was whimsical blank verse, and I miss it.

I'm glad that I did what I could to make things a little more fair for children who have disabilities. I've often talked to children about the two kinds of pride - the constructive kind that makes you feel good about who you are and what you do, and the destructive kind that stops you from asking for or accepting help when you need it. I've always had a good supply of constructive pride. I've also had the other kind, and it's not easy to give it up. But I have asked for help and received it, and it's made my life better. Try it. You'll like it. (Back to Index)

Humor

45.

Humor can be serious business. True, it can be an irritating distraction at times, diverting attention from the issue at hand. It can be destructive, eating away at human dignity or conveying suppressed anger in a way that it can't be answered (Can't you take a joke?). I know funny people, people who receive humor well but aren't effective quarterbacks (Is it better to quarterback than receive?), and people who are humor-impaired - people with laughing disabilities.

Garrison Keillor once talked about Mark Twain's humor in a way that made me realize why I respect Keillor, Twain, and the like. He said, "Some people think good humor comes from joy, but I don't think so. I think the best humor comes from sadness." I think so, too. It doesn't mean that humor is a wall, hiding sadness; it's more of a window, letting you look into the sadness. It's a great coping and healing device. When you're ready to laugh about your pain - profoundly laugh, not superficially giggle, you're on your way towards recovery.

Children want to be taken seriously. They like laughter as much as we do, but not when they're trying to make a point. It can be irritating to hear laughter when you think you've said something important and someone thinks you've said it in a funny way. I remember a child, just learning English, who used a word incorrectly. It was cute. The adults in the room laughed, and the child said, "What are you funny about?" The adults laughed louder. The child left the room angrily. After I witnessed that, I resolved to try not to laugh at any child - to be sure I was laughing with the child if I laughed at all.

It was hard at first. It's still hard sometimes, but it's getting easier. Adults sometimes overhear my conversations with children and later say to me, "How can you keep a straight face?" Sometimes I quickly think of something that is not funny at all - the Vietnam War, the Holocaust, the average TV situation comedy. Sometimes I bite the inside of my cheek. And I'm getting so I can use the most honest and effective technique - really listening to what the child is saying, and refusing to be distracted by the cuteness.

As an effective humor quarterback and an eager receiver, I want to speak for the children (and adults) who don't necessarily want us to laugh. I'm forever working to make sure I don't send a bit of humor if the receiver is not ready to receive it. I like humor, but I've learned, over the years, that there's a time and a place. Get it? (Back to Index)

Diversity and Commonality

46.

One of the many priorities teachers have is to make sure children know how diverse our species is. Another is to make sure they know we all have a lot in common. After years of struggling with this balancing act, I still don't know how to give children the "right" message about diversity. To what degree should we accept and pass on the message that no one can know how it feels to be _____ unless they've been ______? And to what degree should we stress the fact that we're all in this together?

Having looked at the issue from both sides now, I'm pretty sure both sides are absolutely right. You can't reach an intimate, profound, total understanding of any group unless you are part of that group, and even then it can be a struggle. And that is no excuse not to do the best you can. In this article, I'll try to scratch the surface of yet another issue, and give equal coverage to both points of view.

First, there's the viewpoint of the group that's somehow different: "If I've spent my life ______, it is part of my identity. You may learn in school that we exist, and have a right to be treated as equals. You may learn about some of the symbols we use, some of the traditions we have, and lots of things that make you feel you know what it's like to be ______, but you don't. And you can't have a race-change, gender-change, whatever-change, and then be qualified to write an insightful book called _______ Like Me. So all those well-meaning lessons that let children try balalaikas, wheelchairs, menorahs, and Mankala are teaching them about stereotypes and souvenirs, not letting them into the essence of otherhood. It may be that those lessons are doing more harm than good.

Now let me step out of the separatist persona and answer: You gotta start somewhere. If we want to save the rainforest, it helps to be dealing with people who know what a tree looks like. If rainforest-type trees aren't available, maple trees. Or pictures of trees. To someone who knows a rainforest well, the maple tree lesson may seem sadly deficient - almost counter-productive, but the child who's seen a maple tree is a little closer to understanding than the child who hasn't. It shouldn't be presented as more than a peek, but it should be presented. And wearing a sari or kimono can start to open a window on another culture.

It's nice to have easy answers. It makes it easier to take sides. Life would be simpler if we could pick a line of consistent, or at least compatible viewpoints and stick with them. But as a Jewish, disabled, agnostic, semi-vegetarian teacher (the list of minorities could probably go on ad infinitum), I'm discovering more and more things I just don't know. And one of the things I don't know is how and how much to stress diversity and how and how much to stress commonality.(Back to Index)

Inclusion

47.

Around the United States and around the world, it is being decided that children with "special needs" ought to be included in regular classrooms as much as possible - that removing a child from a classroom for instruction is harmful to everyone involved. Before I explore the nooks and crannies of this issue, let me take my stand: I think inclusion of all children in the regular classroom as much as possible is right and practical.

If you're still reading this article, thank you. Like so many changes in schools, inclusion of children with special needs, and the co-teaching and other adjustments that accompany the policy, often arrive without appropriate preparation. Parents, teachers, administrators, support staff, children, and the rest of the community suddenly find out that someone who used to be bussed somewhere else for some vague reason will now be part of the class, part of the school, and thus more part of the community.

And, surprise! There is a backlash! Often, one of the first human reactions to any change is to be disturbed, and one of the first reactions to any disturbance is to blame someone, or to blame a system. I like to think that if all children had already been included in the class, school, and community, and there was a move to remove some children, there would be a similar backlash. Maybe.

The backlash may take many forms. There are several questions in people's minds. If these children were somewhere else before, wasn't there a reason for their exclusion? Are regular teachers skilled enough to teach these children? Will the presence of these children cause education to sink to a lower level? Will my child get less attention? All of these questions are people's honest reactions, and answers ought to accompany the advent of the new inclusion policies.

I don't read a lot of research; I read and listen to things written and said by people who have read a lot of research. So, of course, you don't have to believe me. (You wouldn't have to anyway) But what I've read and heard is that inclusion of children with "special needs" in the regular classroom does not have adverse effects on the achievement of anyone, and, in fact, sometimes results in unexpected improvements in both the academic and social environments of the classroom.

But regrettably, preparation is too often an afterthought. People ought to know what's going to happen, and why, and how, before it happens. Teachers should not think of the new child as their "included" child. Does that term imply that all the other children are "excluded?" Parents and children should know that there is now someone else who can come to birthday parties, join scouts, be on the team, and should know what adjustments are advisable. It can be extra work to make adjustments, but people already do it almost automatically. One child can't eat nuts. Another is allergic to beestings. Inclusion really is already part of our culture; we're just opening up a little more.(Back to Index)

New-Fangled Education

48.

I'm going to try to write this article from the point of view of a parent who has other things to do than keep up with the latest developments in education, and so is sometimes bewildered by the goings-on in schools. I will try not to make it a caricature, but there will be that possibility, and I apologize in advance if that's what happens. My purpose is to try some bridge-building. As a teacher, I did my share of assuming parents understood, and as a parent, I sometimes wondered what was going on. Please bear with me:

When my kids come home from school, I'm usually tired. I've usually had a full day, and try as I will, I can't always keep my mind on what their time was like. But I set aside a little time each day to ask them for a quick run-down - just the headlines, if possible. It's not usually possible.

My kids know, by now, that I don't want to hear a lot about recess, lunch, and what happened on the bus. If I let them, they'd give me detailed accounts of those items, and never get around to the part of their education that was planned by teachers. I've been in the classrooms, and I'm quite sure things happen there, too. That's what I want my children to tell me about. Not how they were safe and everybody said they were out. There's time for that later.

Well, when they do get around to telling me, some of it makes sense to me. Four times seven was twenty-eight when I was a kid, and (saints be praised) it still is (in base ten, at least). Words are still spelled and pronounced the way they were, and most of them still mean about what they used to mean. Every time I come across something familiar in the school curriculum, I feel a sense of continuity - I learned these things when I was a child, and now my children are learning them, and I can be a guide.

Then there's the other 90% of the curriculum. They learn about history, and even though they're looking at mostly the same years (My childhood is not history, no matter what the textbooks say), the past sure looks different now. Math seems to change every time I get the hang of it. People don't "carry the one" any more. I think they may have even stopped "regrouping," which looked the same to me. My kids get the same answers I do, but they say that's not the important part. The reading books are anthologies. They are doing "whole language." What did I do - half language? Even though words are still spelled the same, I'm not supposed to correct them. How are they supposed to learn? Or is learning an outdated concept?

That's how I imagine education looking to someone who hasn't been keeping up with what's happening. The bewilderment is one of the reasons I write this column. I hope understanding is one of the results of my efforts.(Back to Index)

Institutional Wisdom

49.

When I first heard about life insurance, I was quite young. I thought it was a neat idea. I knew that a lot of people in the past had died, and I thought the trend should be stopped. I asked my parents to buy me some, and they explained, as well as they could to a young child, that life insurance doesn't insure that you stay alive. Later, I learned that health insurance doesn't insure that you stay healthy. The companies providing insurance simply redistribute money. They do it with or without caring, on a personal level, whether or not you live and are healthy.

These companies are institutions. I checked a few dictionaries to see what "institution" means, and realized, after all, that those books are not semantic holy books. Meaning is personal, situational, and not something that can be ultimately defined. In a way, the dictionary is kind of like an insurance company; to the unsophisticated eye, it seems to purport to do what can't quite be done.

Most of us spend a portion of our lives dealing with educational institutions. It sometimes seems that there are people in these institutions who have been hired to not listen to us so that other people with more power don't have to be bothered not listening to us. Many of these people do, in fact, listen, but if you're the one trying to be heard, desperation can quickly replace trust. Just as the receptionist can quickly tune you out, so you can quickly decide that you are hearing policy, not a substantial response.

There's a kind of institutional "wisdom" that can get in the way of communication and problem-solving: if you make one exception, you're opening a floodgate. Don't get too involved in some one's problem. Don't ever admit that someone may have a point. I suspect that other kinds of institutions have their proverbs, too: when in doubt, put them on hold. Tell them to call another extension. Ask them to write down their problem and put it in a mailbox. Policy is often designed so that people who are supposed to serve the public don't have to serve too much. That can help preserve the public servant's sanity, but it can really bug you when you're trying to get a need met.

I challenge people who work in schools to reject some of that institutional "wisdom" - to find a way to see and hear the sincerity and individuality - the humanity - in each person who has a concern, and whenever possible, avoid replacing concern with policy. Think of that one person you got on the phone who heard what you were saying, and stayed with you until your problem was solved. Try to be another memorable exception to the bureaucratic rule. (Back to Index)

Blue's Stages of Development

50.

I don't know whether you've heard of Blue's stages of development. They refer to children's evolving perception of their parents. They are based on years of anecdotal data. Unlike many systems that describe human beings, they haven't been memorized by any undergraduates or discussed in seminars. You can decide, as you read, whether and how much this article is tongue-in-cheek. I haven't decided yet.

In stage one, the child wants to grow up to be just like Mommy or Daddy. In the child's mind, Mommy or Daddy is the best thing one can be. If you're Mommy or Daddy, it does wonders for your ego every time you hear, "I want to be an endocrinologist when I grow up," or whatever your work has inspired your child to dream. Someone has decided, albeit at a very impressionable age, that you represent the pinnacle of human excellence. Of all the misconceptions children verbalize, that's the one you probably feel least like correcting.

This stage lasts until preadolescence, which, I think, keeps happening earlier and earlier. I hope it never happens prenatally. In stage two, the child is never going to be anything like her/his parents. His/her parents are embarrassments. The child's friends may say, "I wish my parents were like yours," and really mean it, but that doesn't help. They only say that because they don't have the intimate, thorough knowledge of your faults that your child has. Those friends are probably embarrassed about their parents, who, your child thinks, are great models for you to follow.

As adulthood sets in, the young adult keeps thinking, in dismay, "I just sounded like my mother/father." Especially if that young adult has children or works with children. And so maybe there is a valiant effort to be different - maybe the adult works hard to weed out every trace of the inner parent. But it's no use; the parent is part of the person, and can't be removed. It gets more complicated disapproving of a trait when you house the trait within you. You can blame your parents for making you the way you are, but it's not very productive; sooner or later, you have the power to decide who you are, and you've got to take responsibility for the decision.

With stage four comes acceptance: I am like my parents in some ways, and different in some ways. I feel okay about the ways I resemble them, and okay about the ways I'm different. Or if I don't feel okay about it, I'm in charge of making the appropriate alterations.

Like all the other systems for dividing life into stages, this only works for the people for whom it works. If you're an adolescent who thinks your parents are wonderful, or an eighty-year-old who still hopes you're not like your parents, ignore this article.(Back to Index)

Sick Days, Part One

51.

You wake up. It looks like a good day. There's a lot to do, but you've got it under control. If you drop the kids off at school a little early so you can beat the traffic and get to work early, you'll get it done in time for that other thing you have to do. Strictly speaking, you're not supposed to drop them off early, but there's a few teachers who are always there early, and they have assured you that they'll keep an eye on the kids for you - maybe even put them to work sharpening pencils, or doing something more creative. Life ain't easy, but days like today are worth the struggle. And then one of your children enters the room, looking feverish.

It doesn't look like such a good day any more. Your spouse, if you have one, also has a day full of tasks that can't possibly be put off, and the old questions "Whose work is more important?" and "Aren't these your kids, too?" have led to too many dead-end arguments. Your neighbor has an au pair, but you have already asked for too many favors. And your parents live in Cincinnati. So now what?

Wait a minute. Get a thermometer! Aha! The temperature is only 100o. That's not so bad. Your child doesn't want to go to school, but that's not an acceptable symptom of illness. Here's the deal: the child will go to school, and if the fever doesn't break, you'll get a call at work. It's not the perfect solution, but it's better than knocking yourself out to find a way to stay home, only to hear, perhaps at 9:00, "I feel better now. Can I go out and play?"

So your child goes to school, and you go to work. School personnel see your child and form opinions of your commitment to parenting. Even the teacher who just sent a sick daughter to school last week sits back inconspicuously and shakes a head disapprovingly. Your child shows up in the nurse's office shortly after attendance is taken. There is a message waiting for you when you get to work.

I'm sure many of you have lived this nightmare. It's easier to have a rule of thumb about children who don't feel good if you live a relatively stress-free life. Simple - if the child has a fever or other obvious symptoms, the child stays home. School is so fascinating that your child would never fake it. Besides, if your child ever wanted to stay home just to hang out with you, or to take a break from routine, you'd allow that, so why feign illness? But most families have to balance several factors when a child is ill, and rules of thumb don't work.(Back to Index)

Sick Days, Part Two

52.

My last article concerned children's illness, and the issues children raised by getting sick when the time wasn't right. I said there were no rules of thumb. Well, teachers get sick, too, and there aren't any rules of thumb then, either. Let's look into the mind of the teacher who wakes up feeling ill.

"I can't stay home today. Today is the day I have two volunteers coming in to help with the science lesson. I was going to meet with them before school to go over the lesson. And it's Friday, so the kids will be bringing in money for the book club. And Jason is finally showing some progress. I know that shouldn't depend on my being there, but at this point, I think it does. It will take a week or more to get him back to where he was yesterday. I have plans in my desk for what to do if I'm out, but they tell what to do on a typical day. We've had 107 days of school so far, and only about three of them have been typical. I cannot stay home. That's final.

But I am really sick. If I go to school, I know it will get worse. And when I'm sick, I'm irritable and ineffective. I should stay in bed. It will take all the energy I have just to call in sick and explain the plans. In fact, I think going in and teaching would take less energy than explaining the plans. I wish it would snow. I wish they'd call off school. What do people do in other professions? They close the office for the day. Or they have their secretary or some other co-worker cover for them.

I don't want to take a sick day when I'm sick. It seems like such a waste of a day off. If I get a day off, I should be able to get errands done. I should be able to go to a restaurant and have a lunch hour that lasts an hour and a half. Lying here in bed, watching soap operas, drinking lots of fluids is not my idea of a fun day. When I was a kid, I used to hope I'd get sick so I could stay home."

Of course, every teacher is different. Some have very predictable days, and always have appropriate plans for a substitute. Some never get sick. There are teachers who only take sick days when they are sick, some who take sick days when their families are sick, and I've even heard that there are teachers who take sick days when they and their families were perfectly healthy - to spend good time with their families, or get presents for their children.

I'm quite sure teachers are not the only people for whom this is an issue. Many jobs make it hard to miss a day. But from inside the profession, it sometimes feels as if there is no substitute for us - that children's world will fall apart if we are not there to hold it together. When we return, unless they've had a phenomenal substitute, they are so glad to have us back. And so we partly hope the substitute isn't too good.(Back to Index)

A Print-Rich Environment

53.

When I first started teaching elementary school, a good friend of mine said the best way to teach reading was to give a child books that were interesting. I knew better. I knew that people had developed all kinds of sophisticated techniques to help children break the complicated code that was the English language. My friend was not a teacher, did not want to be one, did not even like going into schools

And so I paid lots of tuition, attended classes, wrote papers, read studies, sampled reading programs, and taught. I bet you've already guessed how this story will end. Last week, a good friend (not the same friend) told me about research showing that the best single indicator of potential success in learning to read is the degree to which the child's environment is print-rich. In schools, this means the quality of the school library, in particular.

My friend is a school librarian, so I did take the information with the obligatory grain of salt, but all the worksheets, basal readers, phonics workbooks, teachers' guides, new programs, and all paraded by my mind as I thought about all the teaching I'd done over the years. I think they were laughing at me. After the parade had marched by, a child was sitting on the curb, reading a book. I think this child was struggling with a word or two, but the book was interesting, and worth the struggle. It was embarrassing.

I always tried to have a print-rich environment at home and in school. I frequented libraries in and near the towns I lived in, and once a week, checked out twenty books for my class and twenty for my own children. When my children were in or near the grades I was teaching, there was plenty of overlap. But I didn't know this was teaching reading. I thought it was giving children a break from reading instruction.

I'd like to say that I knew all along that providing good books was the best approach. Maybe deep inside I did know, and that was my unconscious motivation for the approximately 1,000 trips to libraries during my career as an elementary school teacher. But I have to admit that all the forces advocating phonics, sight word drill, etc. made significant impressions on me, and I always felt a little guilty, a little paranoid, when I let children just read.

I apologize to that friend who was there when I started teaching young children to read. Your instincts were right. The best way to teach children to read, I think, is to make sure they have plenty of access to books they want to read.(Back to Index)

Groundhog's Day

54.

I was talking with a first grader about shadows, and I mentioned Groundhog's Day. He said he had seen it, and he liked it, but he didn't understand why the guy kept trying to kill himself. Fortunately, I had seen the movie with Bill Murray. Unfortunately, the child had seen it. I tried to think of scenes in the movie that were appropriate for children. There were a few, I guess, and in fact, it was easier to think about a child seeing that movie than many movies children see. But it was not the best way to hand down a tradition that has always meant so much to me over the years.

Groundhog's Day has been my favorite holiday for years. I'm Jewish, and Christmas always makes me feel like an outsider. Halloween has too much sugar, and brings out the greed in children. I enjoy Passover and Thanksgiving, but they don't give me hope the way Groundhog's Day does. Think about it. If he doesn't see his shadow, we have an early spring, and if he does, we have six more weeks of winter. That would bring us to March 16. I wouldn't mind waiting until March 16 for spring. This is New England. Either way, we win.

Children get so excited the first time it snows. So do many teachers. It's a magical moment. Pretty, fluffy things are falling out of the sky! Nature is doing something dramatic, and children haven't seen it do that since they were "little." They want to go outside right away, and it's not unheard of for some teachers to let them have an early recess, or at least let them stand by the window for a while. There's a buzz throughout the school. Some are thinking of holidays, some of skiing, some of "no school" days, some of snowball fights. The dreams of early winter are filled with merriment.

But the excitement doesn't last. Soon children and teachers recall that besides being pretty occasionally, winter is fairly reliably cold. Teachers who have been keeping children in from recess as a punishment find that it isn't so effective any more. Cabin fever sets in. Children who already had trouble concentrating have more trouble. Children who didn't before do now. The problem isn't insurmountable, but it's there. It happens to adults, too, but children haven't yet learned the fine art of repression.

We all cope, one way or another. My way of coping has been to take February 2 seriously. I know it's irrational, but whether we hang stockings for Santa to fill, open the door for Elijah to come in, or put teeth under pillows, most of us have our little myths we cling to. And so, I get through the first six weeks of winter waiting for February 2. I do whatever I can to stay cheerful, but warm weather would sure help. And then a little creature comes out of a hole in the ground, and I know, despite all evidence to the contrary, that Canada geese are headed up here, crocuses are pushing upward, and the highway department is getting ready to patch up potholes.

Happy Groundhog's Day!(Back to Index)

The Principal's Office

55.

I once got sent to the principal's office. I don't remember what it was for, but I remember that I didn't want to go there, I didn't like being there, and after I'd experienced whatever happened there, I didn't ever want to go back. And I never did go back, so whatever it was they were trying to get me to do or not do, I must have done or not done from then on. If you think like a diehard behaviorist, the experience was 100% effective.

I don't think he hit me, but I was so scared that I don't think he needed to do anything. In fact, he may have even been nice about whatever it was, but by the time I met him, I had already heard enough to form my image of him: he was the punishment bad people got for doing the bad things bad people do. I did not look at him except when he said, "Look at me when I talk to you!" The tiles on the floor were olive-green with white streaks in them. They were about one foot square, and shiny.

Later, I learned a mnemonic sentence to remember how to spell "principal:" "The principal is your pal." I was sure that would not help me remember how to spell "principal." He was no pal of mine. (Ironically, I think remembering that the mnemonic sentence was not true did help me remember how to spell the word.)

When I first started teaching, and for several years thereafter, I used the principal the way I thought principals were supposed to be used. It was common knowledge that the principal was the last resort for dealing with behavior problems. I would gently ask for appropriate behavior, then demand, then threaten, and if all else failed, send the culprit to the principal's office.

Since then, principals have come a long way. I have worked for principals who have not wanted to be feared. The principal's office became a place where children got some extra appreciation. This bothered some teachers. "Now where do I send children who misbehave?" For me, it was a relief. I liked having the buck stop in the classroom. Children grew to know that I would occasionally send someone to the principal's office to show off some excellent work, but I never sent them to the office with the shiny olive-green tiles on the floor.

The role of principal, one I have never wanted for myself, is to be many things for many people. Some teachers can be annoyed if they perceive this person as a "parents' principal." And vice versa. Some teachers want a demon in a dark cave called "the principal's office." Some, like me, want a principal who is a pal. And most want something in between. (Back to Index)

Respecting Children

56.

Human beings are supposed to respect each other, regardless of race, creed, gender, etc. Once, at a conference of people devoted to that respect, I got the feeling that respect for children was not part of the deal. People had their children with them, and though speaking with conviction about the rights of people around the world, these parents did not seem ready to bestow these rights upon their own children. They were, in effect, telling their children to sit down, shut up, and learn about respect.

Adults spend a lot of time and energy letting children know who's boss. I realize that part of this phenomenon is the result of practical considerations - we can't let children do A, because then they would do B. We have a responsibility to prepare children for all the rights we hope they will later enjoy. But I think this line of thinking is frequently used as an excuse for oppressing children. When children's best interests conflict with adults' best interests, we win because we're bigger, and we tell ourselves children need to learn that they can't always get their way. That lesson is quickly learned. I've never met a child who didn't know it.

I want children to respect me, as I want adults to respect me. I respect them, as I respect adults. Because I have lived on earth longer than children, I know some things they don't know yet. That qualifies me to help them learn those things. I probably also know some things they will later prove wrong, or at least not right for them. That qualifies them to question what I teach them. I've learned how to admit that I may be wrong, and I try to teach children how to admit that they may be wrong. If these various exchanges cause them to see wisdom in me and respect me, I'm doing a good job. I've already learned ways to see their wisdom, but I've had more time. And I'm not done discovering children's wisdom.

Because we adults have so much power, I believe we have a responsibility to be careful how we use it. Sure, we can demand respect. And we can establish dire consequences for those who don't seem to be giving us as much as we demand. But I think the most that can do is elicit behaviors that resemble respectful behavior. I don't think it teaches respect. I believe that modelling respect is the only way to teach it; if we want to earn children's respect, we have to show them what respect looks, sounds, and feels like.(Back to Index)

Teacher or Psychotherapist?

57.

I have sometimes been told that an elementary school teacher's job is to enable children to read, write, and compute, and to enhance children's database. I've been told that teaching children to relate to each other and dealing with children's various emotional issues is a job for another kind of professional - that teachers do not have the right or the proper training to do that job.

It ain't that simple, folks. There are two roads I could travel with this argument, and I think I'll take both. The first is that it's very hard to work with children and not care about the people they are. I've seen teachers who seemed "good" at it, and I've never envied or emulated them. I've heard people say, "I didn't like my fifth grade teacher, but that teacher made me learn." I think there may be a degree of truth in the statement; adversity teaches. But artificial adversity does not do the best teaching.

I think this road leads to a dead end. If I stay on this road, I'll convince people who agree with me that we agree with each other, but the people who really need convincing will be standing at that dead end, pointing angrily to teachers' job descriptions. "What right do you have to act as my child's psychotherapist? If I decide that my child needs therapy, I will pay someone to do that job. Your job is to teach."

The other road does connect with the highway. Emotional health enables children to learn. Children's difficulties with emotional and social issues get in the way of skill development and knowledge acquisition. This is true for all children - not just those who are emotionally ill. For the child who has self-confidence and relates well with other children, the challenges of a good school curriculum are adventures.

One of the best teaching experiences I've had was a three-day field trip on Cape Cod. With the help of many parents, I took twenty-four second- and third-grade children to a house on Cape Cod (one of the parents owned the house), and explored the natural environment of the Cape. We brought books, paper, and pencils. Children searched for the plants, animals, rocks, and stars on their Scavenger Hunt worksheets, used their guidebooks, used maps to navigate on their way to sites, calculated distances, estimated - applied the skills they had developed and practiced in class. I could go on and on about the academic gains.

Children also got to know each other better. When there were problems, we worked them out. There were times when we could gather together and sing , tell stories, read books, and there were times when two people could sit quietly and talk with each other, accompanied by the sound of an American woodcock. That field trip stands out in my mind as what teaching ought to be. Not that teachers ought to take their classes to Cape Cod and spend twenty-four hours a day with them. But the curriculum, for those three days, was the lives of the children, and the lesson plan was to enrich those lives.(Back to Index)

Life's Longing for Itself

58.

When I was in college, people were reading Kahlil Gibran, who wrote, "Your children are not your children. They are the children of life's longing for itself." And Sidney Poitier was coming to dinner. Many people became resolved to be more open-minded than their parents were. Some came home from college with people their parents hadn't expected, and parents had to either adjust or fight. I've heard many stories of the fights, and none of them ended in victory for anyone.

Your child probably won't come home with the person you had in mind. And it probably won't be Sidney Poitier, either. It could be someone with a gender you hadn't expected. Maybe it won't be anyone. Maybe your child will spend vacations away from you, and then end up living in San Jose. Maybe your child won't go to college.

Which of these possibilities is the scariest for you? You may have tried hard to clear your mind of preconceptions about your child's future, and if you've succeeded, I applaud you. I thought I had, and I came close, but one of my daughters caught me voicing a disappointment born of a preconception. She challenged me on it, and she was right. If this paragraph has left you curious, good for me.

One of our roles as parents and educators is to prepare our children for the future. In part, that means making sure they know what they may discover about themselves, and know that who they are is more important than how they choose to live. It also means making sure we are aware of the possibilities, and ready to respond rather than react. Our children ought to know what is important to us, but they need to know that they are important to us. For me, that means if one of my daughters decides to join the army or become an executive in some corporation I deplore, she must know I will still love her. You may have some other nightmare about your children.

But that child of yours, whether championing a cause you oppose, living a life that baffles you, or disorienting you in some other way, is also the person who ran to you crying, looking for and finding comfort. He/she is the child who drew a picture just for you. She/he is the child you loved and love.(Back to Index)

Dick and Jane

59.

Every day, I read the notes from teachers around the world on Internet. One teacher was annoyed by the "whole language" approach to teaching reading, and longed for a return to basal readers. This teacher ended the note with the question, "Where are Dick and Jane when we need them?" Here's the answer I sent:

I was beginning to think no one remembered us. Spot was run over by a car years ago - 1968, I think. The driver didn't even stop. Spot was a good dog. I remember the way we used to play on the lawn. Sometimes, in my dreams, I can still see Spot run.

It's funny you should mention Jane. I just got a letter from her last week. We write to each other occasionally. I'm trying to convince her to get on Internet, but so far she isn't even interested in getting a computer. She says she's committed to getting back to basics. After hitching around Europe for three years (1970-73), she went to UCLA, and majored in Chinese medicine. Then she dropped out about a week before she would have graduated. Typical of Jane, I think. She has a health food store in LA. It's called "Peacemeal."

I've been teaching third grade since 1968. I do use the whole language approach. Children seem to get more involved in what they read, and reading fits in more with the rest of their lives. I've used basals (because I've had to), and with the exception of the classic one about me and Jane, they aren't worth the ink used to mass produce them. They're mostly good at providing jacuzzis and Saabs for Scott, Houghton, Foresman, Miflin, and the like. I used to call the stories in basal readers "Saab stories."

I know the old controlled-vocabulary stories were supposed to cater to children's ability levels. But it's strange how much more a child can read if the stories are interesting, even if the words aren't necessarily from some prescribed list. I could go on and on about this issue, but I won't. But I guess you can now say whole language is better than basals, and you've heard it from the horse's mouth.

Thanks for asking about us. When I read your question, "Where are Dick and Jane when we need them?", I just had to answer. Jane is alive and well, and selling tofu and sprouts in LA. And I am using the whole language approach to teach reading. You've inspired me to look for Tom and Sally. I can't help wondering how they're doing. If you find either one of them while you're exploring cyberspace, please pass on my address.

Fondly,

Dick(Back to Index)

House or Apartment?

60.

Some families live in their own houses, and some have to rent living quarters. This is a simple, well-known fact of life, but it's important to be aware of the effect of this dichotomy on children. Children who live in houses usually think of that as normal. Some can't imagine why anyone would choose to live in an apartment. There's not much privacy, you usually can't have a pet, you don't have your own yard, ... I could say a lot about the drawbacks of apartment life.

In school, children often make friends. They invite their friends to their homes, and have good times there. If a child lives in an apartment in a town like Wellesley, it can be an immediate social disadvantage. Most people in Wellesley live in houses, and there is concern about what "kind" of people live in apartments. Children are quick to sense the dichotomy, but they usually make friends without regard to it.

Let me tell you what I know about the "kind" of people who live in apartments. They are mostly the kind who can't afford to buy or rent houses. Few families with children choose to live in apartments. There are all kinds of reasons for being unable to afford houses. Seldom is the reason that the parents don't want to work for a living. More often they're working hard, dreaming of some day escaping apartment life and buying a house.

If you have children, you want to make your children's lives as pleasant as possible, and to keep them safe. You may have heard or read about unfortunate things that have happened in apartment buildings that don't seem to happen as much in houses. You don't want to be unfair, or teach children prejudice, but you don't want them to be part of the unfortunate things that happen.

I worked in Wellesley for twenty years, and lived there for two years. I know many families there, and I believe Wellesley is filled with people who want the world to be more fair. There is no easy way to eliminate the dichotomy between those who can afford houses and those who can't. I ask parents to be aware of the implications of that dichotomy for children. Two children meet in school, become friends, and soon discover that "you can come to my house, but my parents won't let me go to yours." It hurts the parents who wish they could afford houses. And it hurts the child who lives in an apartment. (Back to Index)

Gifted?

61.

Sometimes a child seems to learn something ahead of schedule. Most parents I've known, including me, react to the learning by thinking this child has "the gift." As a member of a group sometimes called "the chosen people," once persecuted by a group sometimes called "the master race," I like to think everyone has "the gift," is "chosen" and to some degree, is able to be in charge. Nevertheless, some children do seem to be precocious, and unless this is recognized, respected, and taken into account in planning curriculum, extraordinary intelligence can actually be a learning disability.

If a teacher's basic approach to teaching is to find out what children know and can do, and then help them take appropriate steps toward further knowledge and skill, no one is left out - neither the child with perceptual or conceptual problems, nor the child who is dealing with quadratic equations in first grade. But that approach is easier for a retired teacher who volunteers in a classroom than for a teacher who has a host of requirements, responsibilities, and limitations.

It is common for teachers to be irritated with precocious children. These children often answer questions before other children have a chance to think. They say, "That's easy," which is painful to hear for other children who are struggling. The whiz kid often becomes the way to find the answer. This becomes less of a problem as teachers move away from the "right answer" mode of teaching, but it will probably always be a force to be reckoned with.

And the "brain" is often ostracized. Other children, who have difficulties learning, see this child as a show-off. And so the child doesn't have many friends, which hurts the child's self-esteem. And so the child "shows off" more, to compensate for the self-esteem deficit. It's a vicious cycle. I've known many very unhappy children who've wished they weren't so smart. I've also known children who were secretly precocious; they had figured out the social scene, figured out their own priorities, and decided to use their intelligence to fit in rather than stand out.

There was some study years ago showing that "gifted" children were the most neglected group in schools. I don't buy that. I think neglect is all over the place, not concentrated in one corner. But I do think we need to make sure we don't teach children things they already know, and that we do offer things they're ready to learn. Any child who is given this custom-built education is a gifted child. (Back to Index)

What's Important?

62.

Children can get quite upset about things that may not seem very important to us. Having the right pencil, sharpened just right. Being called on in class. Getting to show the class the thing you found outside yesterday. All of a sudden, there is a distraught look, a gush of tears, or a fight. And all for some detail that looks trivial to us. Our first reaction may be to try to get the child to see the triviality we see. But such attempts are usually doomed to failure. They will only serve to prove that you just don't understand.

For they are in a different world - a world where it really doesn't matter whether a certain expense is deductible, whether a certain procedure involves a co-payment or is completely covered. What matters is whether a certain pencil, purchased after a long stretch of agonizing, and perhaps some persistent and skillful nagging, is now sharpened and available for use, or has been expropriated by some evil character.

Of course, parents and teachers can't spend all day mediating pencil custody disputes. There really are issues that, from an adult perspective, are much more important. But I believe something important is going on beneath the trivial-looking trauma. The child is finding out whether he/she is important. That pencil is more than a pencil; it is the child's right to own something - to be seen as a person with inalienable rights. If that pencil (or rock, toy, or whatever) is important to the child, then we do damage when we say it's not important.

So what do we do? Spend each day obsessing with the children on every issue that comes up? I don't think so. As adults, we know that some issues important to us have to wait. I don't think we ought to give children the impression that all of their issues are top priority items. At least some of our teaching and parenting should help children prepare for the cold, cruel world that doesn't care a fig about whose pencil is whose.

But I do think we ought to recognize that they perceive things differently. That pencil that is just a writing implement to us may be an important part of the world of the child. We don't have to live in that world, but when we deny or belittle it, we are not just throwing out bath water.(Back to Index)

Wait Time

63.

When you ask a child a question, and you don't seem to be getting an answer, it's seems natural to deduce that the child doesn't know the answer. Rather than prolong the agony, you quickly ask someone else, provide the answer yourself, or change the subject. Part of that reaction may be concern about the child's self-esteem. Part of it may be vicarious anxiety. You remember how hard it was for you when you didn't know an answer, and you assume that this child is going through the same ordeal. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. There are also some who would have other, less gentle responses.

But there is another response teachers are using nowadays. A new kind of patience, based on recent findings about the way children learn. A child may take several seconds to process a question, and several more to retrieve the words necessary to answer. The final product may be as good as, or better than someone else's answer. We call it "wait time." Like all discoveries about children's learning, there are probably a few insightful people who knew it all along, but for most of us, life is a "Jeopardy" game, where the winner is the one who answers correctly before anyone else has time to think.

This pattern continues into adult life. There are times in anyone's life when answers don't pop out as quickly as they do at other times. Early childhood and old age are the two legendary such times, but there are other times when it takes a little longer to figure things out. And there are differing personal styles. Some people's brains are crockpots, some are microwave ovens, and most are somewhere in between. But there are too many situations where the early bird catches the worm, flies off, and leaves the late bird scrounging around for leftovers (I hear Mr. Dunlap, my eleventh grade English teacher, telling me to stop mixing metaphors. He's right. I'll stop).

So when you ask a child, "What is seven times eight?" or "Do you have any homework?", a delayed response may not indicate that the child doesn't know, or is trying to get out of answering. Wait a while. At first, waiting can be hard. It's not common practice, and it may not feel right at first. But it may be exactly what a child needs, and the result may pleasantly surprise you.(Back to Index)

Look at This!

64.

Sometimes, a child may come to you and say, "Look at this!" or "Listen to this!" The child has just created or discovered something. Whatever it is may or may not be amazing or even recognizable to you. I have mostly seen and given three categories of reactions.

The first type of reaction is typical of adults who don't have time. The adult says, "Nice," or even, "Beautiful," with an unimpressed tone of voice that belies "nice" and "beautiful." Or the adult doesn't even acknowledge the event. The message to the child is that the creation or discovery, though seeming, at first, to be earth-shaking, is not even worthy of attention, or this particular adult is not interested. Often that adult is an important person in the child's life (e.g., parent, teacher), and sometimes the effect of the non-interest is devastating.

The second type of reaction is fake, but well-intentioned. The adult, who wants to build up the child's self-esteem, reacts with dramatic words, intonations, and gestures. The very young child may be satisfied - even thrilled, with this reaction. The message is temporarily great for the child's self-esteem. Not only is the item as good as the child thought; it's even better. It's worthy of some high honor. The President of the United States should know about it.

It doesn't take long to see through this reaction. In my experience, some precocious first-graders do, and most third-graders do. There is a backlash in the child's self-esteem level: "Adults say they like anything I do; they probably don't like any of it. And I don't blame them. The people I draw don't look like people. The music I make is off-key, out of rhythm, and boring. No wonder adults pretended to like it. If they had been honest with me, I would have realized how little talent I have." It may be hard to believe that children can perceive us and themselves this way, but I believe many do.

Another common adult reaction is negative criticism. It is easy to fall into the pattern of fault-finding, especially if the child seems headed for adolescence. Fault-finding can feel like teaching, and in the right context, can be educational. The right context is the one good teachers and parents try to establish - a relationship in which trust and approval abound. But adults often bypass the building of that relationship, and head straight for the faults.

There is another way. I call it a response, not a reaction. The child has said, "Look at this!" or "Listen to this!" In many - maybe most - instances, the child is asking for exactly that. If you take the time - even sixty seconds - to look or listen, you may be giving a great gift. You haven't been asked for positive or negative criticism. Those seconds of really looking or listening give the message that the child is worthwhile. If anything else is wanted, you'll hear about it, and then is a good time to give it. Besides, it's easier to give sincere feedback after you've looked or listened. (Back to Index)

Anachronisms

65.

I don't have a CD player, and don't want one. I'm irrationally angry at compact disks. They became instantly popular about a week after I released my first recording - an LP. The CD is probably an improvement, and the LP, an anachronism. (Actually, at this point I don't have a record player either, and don't want one. I listen to tapes, and to the radio.) I'm not doing anyone any harm by sticking to my old ways.

In education, there is a strong tendency to stick with anachronisms. At the end of sixth grade, my teacher advised me to take Latin. He knew I wanted to be a doctor, and he knew I liked learning foreign languages. He said Latin would provide a good basis for learning foreign languages, and would be very important for a doctor. I now know Latin better than most doctors do, I think, but I wish I had taken Spanish, or some other language spoken by people born after the fall of the Roman Empire. Later, I took Russian, and I occasionally get a chance to speak with Russian people.

There is a debate going on over the Internet: Is Long Division a Useless Skill? While I don't think it's useless, I do think it's often taught at the wrong time and for the wrong reason. It's taught to children who have no idea why it works; they struggle to learn the algorithm, and many learn how to get the right answer. I think the reason they learn it is that their parents had to, and their teachers had to. Very few adults ever use long division.

Anachronisms abound in school curriculum. Not as much in Wellesley, but even Wellesley has some, or did back when I taught there. Children spend an inordinate amount of time learning how to tell time by looking at a circle with numbers and hands on it. They also spend lots of time learning how to form letters. I don't think that's an anachronism quite yet, but let's keep an eye on it. If something takes a lot of time and energy to learn, it ought to prove useful later.

There are things we learned in school that children should learn. There are things we didn't learn that they probably should. And it will be easier for them to learn those things if we provide extra time by weeding out the anachronisms, or at least making them optional. As we prepare children for the twenty-first century, it's good to stop once in a while and make sure we're not wasting time preparing them for the twentieth century.(Back to Index)

Requirements

66.

Most things are optional. Death and taxes have been rumored to be the only requirements, but, in fact, even taxes can be waived, and often are. But before most people realize how free they are, they go to school. There have been times when I've been able to get a budding rebel to acquiesce by saying, with a sympathetic look on my face, "You have to." It was a strategic lie, and I always rationalized it, thinking, "This child will thank me later." I've been thanked often, but rarely for that.

But the worksheet got done, and the "requirement" had been successfully transferred from me to the child. I had become resigned to "having to" use the worksheet, and now the child had become resigned to "having to" do it. All the arguments, "This is boring," "I already know this stuff," etc., had been temporarily laid to rest.

Most of what we call "requirements" are actually prerequisites: if you want to do B, you have to do A first. And not all of the prerequisites necessarily make sense. Often, they are only there to help the teacher stay organized. It is possible, often preferable, and often more sensible, to learn multiplication before learning subtraction; multiplication is just a special kind of addition, while subtraction can be disorienting at first for some children. But that's not the way it's usually done because...because...just because. Because I'm the teacher, that's why.

In March of 1969, I petitioned my college to waive one requirement (my third science course - space/time physics) so that I could take an extra unrequired education course. My reasoning was that I was going to be a high school English teacher, not a physicist. My request was denied. The letter of denial said, in effect, "Three science courses are required." I started a petition to demand that the academic policy committee be required to respond more substantially to people's petitions. Lots of students signed the petition. We won! Now they had to respond more substantially! In August of 1969, I was offerred my first teaching job. Before I graduated and started my job, I had to finish that course in space/time physics. But at least I'd gotten a substantial response. I don't remember what it was.(Back to Index)

Needing

67.

Many creatures great and small, but not all of them, start out needing their parents. I'm not sure, but I think the complicated creatures need their parents longer than the simple ones. Human beings need them for years. The actual degree and duration of this dependency among humans varies greatly. Bill Cosby, in his book Fatherhood, points out that we are probably the only species that will let our offspring move back in with us after they leave.

Besides needing, people need to be needed, and for some people, this is one of the reasons to have children. To varying degrees, we want our children to need us, and also to varying degrees, we want them to stop needing us. If you watch parents bringing their children to day care centers, you can see a variety of dramas: The child who clings to the parent who is trying to leave, the parent who clings to the child who wants to go play, the two clinging to each other, the ones who don't cling, and the mixtures of all these patterns.

The dramas can be comedies, tragedies, and/or melodramas. Seldom is there a neat arrangement wherein all players get precisely as much as they need and get needed precisely as they much as they need to be needed. Some people say that ideal situations like that would be boring. Maybe they would, but just once, I'd like to be part of one just to see for myself.

More typically, a parent is disgruntled because a son or daughter is too needy, or not needy enough. The son or daughter is annoyed because the parent is too needy, or too indifferent. Of course, ideally one grows up, and then afterwards becomes a parent, but growing up is not as clear-cut a process among us complicated creatures. A friend of mine once thought of starting a group called "Adult Children of Adult Children." If we look carefully, most of us can find aspects of our parents that can remind us that they are models for us, but many of our parents grew up in a volatile world, and many of us grew up in another volatile world. Adults frequently describe each other and themselves as children, and the descriptions are sometimes flattering, sometimes not.

People do need each other in some ways, and they do need to be independent in other ways. For some people, the dependency/autonomy struggle, one of Ericson's stages of life, is all of life. I hope you weren't hoping for a profound statement at the end of this article. The closest I can come is that we ought to look at each person and ourselves closely, and try to notice what is needed and what isn't. (Back to Index)

"Good with Kids"

68.

Sometimes a person is said to be "good with kids." I think the phrase implies some special talent or insight. A friend suggested that I write an article examining what makes people "good with kids," and I searched my soul for "the" answer. I thought about my childhood, and tried to remember whether there were adults I particularly liked. There were, but I don't think it was because I was a kid. Oh, sure, there were adults who would tickle me or give me candy, but those approaches were not keys to my heart; they didn't make those adults more memorable or likable.

I think being "good with kids" is like being "good with Presbyterians" or "good with pedestrians." Children are not a homogeneous group. They all share some characteristics (e.g., youth, lack of voting rights, relatively limited material for nostalgia), but you can't define any person by an arbitrary set of traits and thereby come closer to knowing the person.

People do try, though. The tendency to approach certain groups that way, and the resulting behaviors, are sometimes called bigotry. Everyone has a little bigotry; there are billions of people in the world, and try as we may, we don't give them all equal consideration.

But there is something unique about the group called "children." Everyone will have the same answer to "Are you now or have you ever been a child?" So maybe being "good with kids" is about remembering. I've often suggested that people who do work with children work best with the age child they enjoyed being, and my informal research so far confirms the hunch. And people who would prefer to forget their childhoods often also prefer to avoid spending time with children.

I can't separate being "good with kids" from being good with people. It means listening, respecting, caring - being aware of their humanity. Everybody likes to be heard, respected, and cared for. We can stop liking candy, and realize that we don't want to be tickled, but the confection and the giggling are not the essence of childhood. Jane Wagner, creator of some of Lily Tomlin's Edith Ann monologues, writes, "Some people drive by our school and see children laughing and playing. They think that's all children do, but it's not. That's just recess." (Back to Index)

Your Financial Life

69.

How's your financial life? It's a question that's often complicated in its own right, and it's made more complicated when you have children who are curious about it. There's a few generations whose parents experienced the Depression, and for many of them (myself included), talking about finances with the children was a no-no. Children grew up with no idea how much money their parents earned, how much their homes cost, and so on.

I think there were a few reasons for the secrecy. One was that parents did not want to raise children's anxiety levels. Parents figured that children who didn't quite understand what a thousand was would worry needlessly when they heard that their parents owed thousands of dollars to some bank, which owned more of their "secure" home than the parents did.

Another possible reason is that adults worry that children will talk to each other, and then other parents will get wind of private financial information. As a child, I once told a friend how much my house was worth. Actually, I had no idea how much it was worth, but my friend was impressed. So was his father, a real estate agent who was instantly eager to help my parents sell the house, and called them right away. That night, I learned that my parents would rather not have me discuss family finances with people. That meant I should stop making up stories; I had no idea what the family finances were.

And then there's the Jones family that we're all supposed to keep up with. If children know about their parents' finances, it won't take long for them to figure out which are the Jones families, and which are the families that are supposed to try to keep up with them. Neither is a good position to be in, and the complicated social world of the child could get even more complicated if financial matters enter the picture.

When my children were growing up, of course I was very open about our finances. When people experience what they consider the wrong approach, the tendency, among some, is to figure out the opposite approach, and use that. Perhaps one of my daughters will some day write an article letting me know about problems that may have caused.

I think children should get a sense of how money works in our society. They should learn it as they learn many other things - by asking questions and getting answers based on the actual substance of the questions. The old-fashioned lecture about the birds and the bees didn't work for sexuality, and a similar approach wouldn't work for finances. The children will get curious about our own finances, and each of us will have our own take on the privacy issue, but I think it would be destructive to let the subject of money remain taboo. (Back to Index)

Neatness

70.

Some children are just naturally neat. They don't seem to have to put any effort into it. They're very lucky. They end up with lots of free time while others are busy straightening up their desks, rooms, or whatever. And they get lots of appreciation; neatness is a quality that pleases adults more reliably than creativity, sensitivity, curiosity, resourcefulness, and all those other mixed blessings.

So the rest of us either find ways to become neat, learn to conceal our messes, or cope with the consequences of being conspicuously messy. I am a naturally messy person who has developed ways to stay neat most of the time. I think part of my problem, and part of my solution, is that I enjoy straightening up - making order out of chaos.

This has been true since my childhood. For me, it was always fun to start with a room that had toys, crayons, books, and clothes scattered all over, and end up, an hour or so later, with everything in its place. The problem with liking that process is that it starts with a messy room. I liked neatness, but it wasn't enough. I needed some chaos to make order out of.

I can speak with personal authority about that type, but the others - the naturally neat ones, the secret slobs, and the overt slobs, are mysteries to me. Someone else will have to explain what makes them tick.

Adults fall into the same categories, and problems arise when adults' and children's styles don't match. There aren't too many adults who try to convert the neatniks. In my experience, usually those adults teach art, and even the most flamboyant art teacher eventually likes to have help cleaning up the mess.

More typically, children spend time with adults who want them to be neater. Adults get reputations for "training" children to be neat - keeping after the children, establishing standards, providing a good model. I believe that those adults are only creating neat situations; I don't believe they are training children to be neat. I think when children move on to other situations - their own apartments, for example - their styles are fairly intact (unless Mom and/or Dad will be coming to visit soon).

My kitchen cabinets are labelled. A stranger coming into my kitchen could find the glasses, dishes, coffee mugs, etc. in a matter of seconds. There are some things in my living room that I'd put away if my parents or one of my daughters were coming tomorrow. And the pile of papers in the bag near my file cabinet? Well, some day maybe I'll put them away. (Back to Index)

Honesty

71.

Honesty is a good thing. People feel irritated, furious, disappointed - all kinds of bad feelings - when they discover that someone has lied. Sometimes we get cynically used to dishonesty. We expect politicians, salespeople, any people who stand to gain by hiding things, to lie whenever the truth doesn't fit. It makes us feel powerless.

But we do have power over our children, at first. So we are going to do everything in our power to make sure they are honest. The problem, as I see it, is that children are often even less able to distinguish between truth and fiction than are politicians and salespeople. This means that the adults who insist on absolute honesty may be asking for something they can't get. I've fought the "good fight," and I've lost.

Imagine a child following this line of reasoning: "I am not lying. Lying is a bad thing to do, and I am not a bad person. I am a good person. Good people tell the truth, and since I'm a good person, what I am saying must be the truth." Of course, this syllogism is neat and oversimplified, but I do think it is part of what is going on when a child clings to a lie. So in the child's mind, the question may not be so much about truth and fiction; it may be more about good and evil.

I remember one time I succeeded with this issue. We were on a field trip. Each child had been allowed to bring five dollars. Towards the end of the field trip, one child accused another of stealing his money to buy a souvenir. I led the accused child, whom I knew to have a history of stealing, away from the others, and had a private conversation with the child. We looked at the souvenirs the child had, and the money left. It added up to seven dollars. The child said, "But I didn't steal anything." I said, "I know that you didn't want to steal anything, and I admire you for that, but sometimes, when people really want things, they do things they don't mean to do." I left the ethical issue behind and focussed on the math. Three plus four, no matter how you slice it, adds up to more than five. The child eventually had to agree. He then applied the results of his calculations to the ethical issue; he may not have stolen the money, but three plus four is seven, not five. He returned the two dollars, and even apologized.

I don't quite know how this worked, or how to apply it to other children (or to politicians, salespeople?), but it had something to do with a reality check, with avoiding the kind of confrontation that comes with accusation, and with the difference between teaching and proselytizing. (Back to Index)

Exuberance

72.

I've been waiting for the right moment to write about coping with children's exuberance. I wanted to pick a moment when I was feeling exuberant, and could think about how it might be difficult for other people to deal with me. But as most writers know, ecstatic moments don't make you feel like sitting around and writing. So when I woke up this morning to some rare, cool July air, I had breakfast, got on my electric scooter, travelled under the bluest sky you could imagine, past precocious autumnal flora, to Amherst center, and had coffee and chocolate cake. I acted kind of giddy, because that's how I felt, but I didn't get the disapproving looks that would have helped me write this article. Amherst is a college town, and has more than its share of exuberance, even on rainy days.

But I've had plenty of times when my enthusiasm bothered people. And there have been times when I've wished children would cool it ("chill out," I think they call it, nowadays). Emotions - even popular ones like happiness - can be pesky little things when there are tasks to accomplish, issues to deal with. And so there have been times when part of me told a cheerful child to sit down, quiet down, and get to work, while another part of me wanted to celebrate with the child.

This won't be one of those articles that spell out problems and then point you in the direction of solutions. It's more of an apology. I apologize to that child who felt too good to be part of a regular old school day. Your joy really was contagious, and I did feel it. When I told you to sit back down and finish your work, it's not what I really wanted to say. We're supposed to say all those things, and we teachers, parents, and administrators often have good reasons for asking you to control your enthusiasm. But many of us also feel the same excitement you feel. When you say something funny, we sometimes want to laugh - even in the middle of a lesson that isn't supposed to be funny.

But really, please try to control yourself. There is work to be done. There will be time for you to celebrate. And maybe some day, like me, you'll retire, and then only work when working is exactly what you feel like doing. (Back to Index)

Safety

73.

Every year I taught second grade in Wellesley, we took children to Nahant to explore the tidepools. They loved that field trip, and it was a great way to close our unit on ocean life. But there was something else going on in the mind of at least one nervous teacher. I counted the number of children we started out with. I counted again every ten minutes. I got nervous when one child was behind a rock. I counted when we got back on the bus. I considered it a successful field trip if we ended up with as many children as we started out with.

I'm pretty sure I was more nervous about doctors than about lawyers; I wanted the children to live to be adults. In sixteen years of teaching the second graders of Wellesley, the worst thing I saw in Nahant was a scraped forehead. The best thing I saw there was a child discovering one of the creatures of a tidepool, observing it, discussing observations with other children or one of the adults. I saw that often, and I saw very few scrapes. But I never stopped being nervous.

Children often think we're silly to be nervous. They know they won't get hurt. If they do get hurt, they know next time they won't. And they certainly won't die; they've never done that. As far as immortality, they have a perfect record. So they think any safety rules we come up with are only there to stop us from being nervous and make sure they don't have fun.

Safety is the one issue that brings out the authoritarian in me. Instead of "I'd rather not have you run on the rocks, because the seaweed is very slippery, and you could get hurt," it's "DON'T RUN ON THE ROCKS!" I've already given the non-authoritarian explanation in class. If a child runs on the rocks, that child stays with me, not exploring the tidepools.

Every adult I know has a different idea of what is safe for children. There are things I've seen adults allow that scare the bizelfers out of me. There are other adults who think I should set more limits to keep children safe.

I have known many children who have liked to do things I've considered risky. I have seen them slip, fall, and get hurt. I've seen them fall out of trees. They're very resilient; of course they'll get hurt sometimes, but you can't live your whole life just trying not to get hurt. They have the right to decide to take risks. And I have the right to worry about it.(Back to Index)

July 4

74.

I'm writing this article on July 4, 1995. You're reading it later than that. Today many people will be celebrating a time when lots of people got together to make a statement that was quite bold. There were also a lot of people who probably thought the rebels were trouble-makers: These are a bunch of English colonies; love 'em or leave 'em.

The last time I pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands was in 1960. I was twelve years old, and the words didn't seem to say what I felt. I also had trouble thinking about "rockets' red glare" and "bombs bursting in air" giving proof that our flag was there. I preferred to think I lived in a country that had "spacious skies," "amber waves of grain," and majestic "purple mountains," as Katherine Lee Bates, another Wellesley teacher who dabbled in songwriting, put it.

It's not that I don't love this section of earth that we live on. I do. Especially one section of the bike trail that goes from Amherst to Northampton. The wildflowers, dragonflies, joggers, bikers, chipmunks, the foothills of the Berkshires in the background, all make me feel like pledging allegiance to them. I know there are probably fantastic places in Zimbabwe, Uruguay, Nepal, and Manitoba that would stir up similar feelings of allegiance in me.

The people who got together to form the United States had some good ideas. Leaving room for amendments to the Constitution was a stroke of genius. It was a way of saying to the people of the future, "We may not have taken all possibilities into account." So some of their mistakes - leaving out women, leaving in slavery - could be corrected without undoing the whole thing.

But in 1960, I decided that I could not pledge allegiance to the flag or the republic. It would be a promise I couldn't keep. What if the republic did something really dumb? Was I supposed to pretend it was okay? And though I stood up at assemblies, put my right hand over my heart, and moved my lips, I didn't say the words. If I had, I would have been lying. I pledge allegiance to the truth as I see it.

I also pledge allegiance to the earth, the only planet I've ever lived on, and being somewhat provincial, the only one I feel like living on. I pledge allegiance to the plants and animals here - the animals more than the plants, and the humans more than the mosquitoes. I'm a little embarrassed about my anthropocentrism, but so be it. So I'll be thinking these thoughts when I see the fireworks this evening. I'll be thinking about the beautiful thunderstorms I've witnessed, and not the rockets' red glare or the bombs bursting in air. I don't like them. But I'm glad I live among the amber waves of grain. (Back to Index)

Dulcinea

75.

In 1969, having recently seen "Man of La Mancha," I was full of zeal and commitment. When I heard my first speech welcoming new teachers, I was all ears when the speaker, an eloquent nun, said we must see the Dulcinea in every child - the inner person who can be so much better than the outer person we already saw. We had a sacred mission to reach the unreachable child. I was inspired by the speech, and recalled the words of John F. Kennedy: "I do not shrink from the challenge; I welcome it."

I hurled down my gauntlet and began my quest. I would travel the road of the knight errant, ready to right all kinds of unrightable wrongs. Somewhere along the road, though, I met some other knights. Like me, they strove for a better world. Like me, they wanted to be sure to see the potential for success in every child. Unlike me, they could distinguish between a giant and a windmill.

Though I'm enjoying this allegory, it will have to pause here. I'm talking about the real world. In it, the search for a child's (or adult's) inner light may distract us from clearly perceiving who the person is. If you're like those of us, 50% or more, who have misread people and made important decisions we wish we hadn't, you probably have an idea of what I mean. There are lots of things going on inside people, and we need to see as much as we can - even the parts we may wish weren't there.

I truly believe that inside every child is someone who wants to find out about the world, wants to become better at doing things, wants to find more and more effective ways to reach out to other people. That's the faith that keeps me going sometimes when my teaching doesn't seem to be doing what I want it to do. It must be hard to get through a day of teaching or parenting if you don't have a little of that faith.

But there is also a necessary awareness that the vision of the child as eager learner does not encompass the whole child. Some teachers, especially some young teachers (including myself, as a young teacher), let the impossible dream take over. They are deaf to "I can't," blind to discouraged looks. I suggest that our idealism stands a better chance of reaching our goals if we avoid the windmills, and make sure we spend our energy dealing with the real giants. (Back to Index)

Research

76.

I was never good at research. No teacher ever taught me how to do it. I have a sister who's great at it. A brother who's great at it. Daughters who are great at it (they got that from my ex-wife, not from me). Every year, I taught children a little bit about research, but I was never more than a step ahead of them. The research skills I taught the third graders in my final class, from 1993-94, were all the research skills I knew, and luckily, their parents helped a lot. I was very impressed with the work they did, but I'm very glad nobody asked to see some of my research. There isn't any I'd want to show anyone.

My introduction to research was similar to my introduction to football. It was assumed that I had already learned it, and I was told to do it. So football, to me, meant standing across from someone who was supposed to knock me over when the coach blew the whistle. And research meant going to the library, finding books and articles all about the same subject, and keeping them all near me as I wrote about the subject.

I wrote a paper about the Green River Ordinance, a law forbidding door-to-door peddling in the town of Green River, Wyoming. I think it was the best research I've done, but my teacher gave it back to me, telling me that it lacked historical context. With an extra week to rescue a project that had taken a month, I turned it into a history of peddling in the United States. I kept showing it to my teacher to make sure it was coming out okay. But as I worked, I had a growing conviction that I had no idea what I was doing.

Not knowing how to do research, or not believing that I knew how, did not get in my way very often. A few times in college, I got some bad grades. Mostly, I took courses that did not involve research. When there was writing to do, it was usually the kind you're reading right now. Once in a while, I'd refer to something I'd read, but it was already at the top of my head; it wasn't the result of research.

It's hard to teach what you've never learned. Somehow, in my twenty-fifth year as a teacher, I think I outdid myself in helping children learn to do research. But I still feel that I could have done better. There is something about the process that has to be taught better. I don't think I'm alone among teachers in my insecurity about research. I think it's been a gap in schools for a long time.(Back to Index)

I Don't Know

77.

When you don't know something, do you consistently admit that you don't know it? If you're like most of us, there are times when you sort of know it, but not quite, and you stick your neck out. There may even be times when you have no idea, but you offer an answer with a tone of authority. There are times when someone else makes a reference, and though you haven't a clue what it refers to, you silently nod. I know I'm not the only one who does this; I've seen adults and children do it plenty of times.

Once, my cousin mentioned Scott Nearing. He spoke the name as if everyone in the room would know who Scott Nearing was, and almost everyone did. I kept quiet. But the discussion became quite animated, everyone chiming in with little known facts about Scott and his wife, Helen. For a while, I nodded my head, mirrored the facial expressions I saw around the room. But soon, I could keep my silence no longer. I said, "Who's Scott Nearing?"

There I was, almost forty years old, and I had just admitted that I didn't know who Scott Nearing was. And up till then, everyone had thought I was so intelligent, so knowledgeable. There were seven-year-olds in the room who had their mouths wide open. Can it be that this grown man doesn't even know who Scott Nearing was?

Well, let me get on with my point. I'm sure I don't have to tell you who Scott Nearing was - you're all learned people who read newspapers, magazines, books. And since that embarrassing episode, I've read Living the Good Life, and I've come to admire the late Scott Nearing. I'm sure you do, too. You probably think of him as a twentieth-century Leona Purcell. And I'll bet he would have been flattered by the comparison.

There's a certain risk we take when we admit that we don't know something. I've seen teachers, parents, and children who were afraid to take that risk. We don't want people to think of us as ignorant. Our self-consciousness can supercede our curiosity: "Oh, Scott Nearing? Quite a guy. Quite a guy."

I'd like to propose a truce. I'd like to live in a society where people feel free to admit that there are things they don't know, and know that they won't face ridicule or embarrassment. Because that emperor, though he may be wearing fine clothing the like of which has ne'er been seen in this land, may also be stark naked. And some one's got to tell him.(Back to Index)

The Myth of the Permissive Parent

78.

I'd like to try making some dents in what I consider the myth of the permissive parent. In my mind, a permissive parent is someone who lets his/her children do things you wouldn't let yours do, or at least hasn't figured out how to stop them yet. What you allow your children to do is so individual that two parents next door to each other may be shaking their heads all the time, disapproving of the absence of limits next door.

Take television (please), for example. Unless you have an active civic association that comes up with strict guidelines, each family has separate rules about when, how long, and which programs children are allowed to watch. If some family has no rules about it, that's still only one pocket of permissiveness; there may still be limits galore when it comes to other issues.

Benjamin Spock's name comes up in many people's minds when they hear the word "permissiveness." There are people who seem to believe he single-handedly caused the political unrest in the 1960's by advising parents not to spank their children. If it weren't for Spock, teenagers would have marched off dutifully to Vietnam instead of marching in picket lines. Personally, though I admire Spock, I think that's giving him a little too much credit.

I know many parents who set very strict limits without resorting to spanking. I think setting limits is important in all relationships, and I don't think it's ever necessary, appropriate, ethical, or ultimately effective to use violence (spanking, for example) to set those limits. If you want to get along with someone, there's certain behaviors you have to agree to. If not, you have to deal with the consequences. But getting hit should not be one of the consequences.

I think it would be useful to relinquish the label "permissive parent." It sets up a very arbitrary and unnecessary boundary. If your neighbor allows her/his children to do things you don't allow your children to do, you can just accept it or engage in dialogue with your neighbor if you think that would be useful. But I'll bet limits are there, whether you see them or not, and it may even be that your neighbor would like help setting limits, or figuring out where limits should be set.(Back to Index)

Growing Up

79.

Last week, you may have read my article about permissiveness/limit-setting. George Bush once got some laughs by announcing that he didn't have to eat broccoli any more because he was President of the United States. I do like broccoli, and I'm not a Republican, but the guy did have a point. I sometimes don't clear the breakfast dishes off the table until dinner time; I'm almost forty-eight years old, and no one can make me.

My parents seem to have accepted the fact that I am in control of my life, and I think I realize that my daughters are in control of their lives. But neither realization came easily. The transition from the role of limit-setter to the role of serene, unobtrusive consultant can be rough. There are some parents who do it gracefully, but in my experience, most don't.

Pre-adolescence and adolescence are the years when the transition is roughest. It sometimes seems to our daughters and sons that we see them as adults when it's convenient for us. And to us, it seems as if they want to be treated as adults when it suits them. The same person who says, "I'm fourteen! I should be allowed to decide for myself!" may later say, "Come on! I'm only fourteen!"

Many cultures have rites of passage that indicate when a child becomes an adult. Mine defined me as a man at age thirteen. But I was somewhere in my late twenties when I started feeling that the definition really applied to me. I still forget sometimes. I'm going to a friend's bat mitzvah soon (I almost wrote "two friends' daughter's bat mitzvah") and I wonder at what point she will see herself as a woman.

When our children are young, their moves toward independence are more likely to delight us. The moment when the child learns where to excrete. The tying of the shoelaces. The first book read independently. We feel that we are doing it all right - we created or adopted and nurtured a human being, and we are doing our part to help build the future.

It's not as easy to rejoice about some of the later milestones. For a while, I think I was unconsciously angry at my daughters for destroying the little children they once were, by growing up. I think my parents probably had similar difficulty seeing their children grow up. Now, when one of my daughters comes to visit, I see the child in her, see the adult, and love the person. Sometimes, I make a suggestion. That's all. And she does the driving; I'm not as good a driver as I used to be. (Back to Index)

Combined Classes

80.

In most classes in the Wellesley Public Schools, children are all about the same age. But sometimes, there are too many children in one grade to have two classes, and not enough to have three classes. That's usually when people are suddenly reminded that it isn't so important to make sure all the children in a class are precise contemporaries. "Combined classes," also called "multi-age classes," are created.

There's usually some to-do about it. Because the situation is different from what people are used to, it conjures up images of all the experiments people remember - integrated day, open classroom, individually prescribed instruction. If the memories are pleasant, the "combined " or "multi-aged" classroom seems like a blessing. If not, it is avoided. I've seen both kinds of reactions in parents and teachers.

I used to volunteer to teach these classes whenever there was an opportunity. I liked to transcend some of the arbitrary boundaries we set up in schools, and age was one of the boundaries. I enjoy working with diversity, and expanding the age range adds a little diversity. I have many fond memories of my years as a teacher, and many of them are memories of times spent with combined classes.

I was able to produce Shakespeare's "The Comedy of Errors" with a class of third and fourth graders. I did a unit on the natural environment of Cape Cod with second and third graders. With first and second graders, I created a unit about the night sky. It was exciting. It was not an experiment, in my view; if anything, putting twenty children together because they all happened to be about the same age was the experiment, and it was not a very scientific one. But it was what people were used to.

Sometimes I dreamed of teaching in a one-room schoolhouse, with children of all ages. It would feel more like a family. I couldn't do a large-group lesson on fractions, but I don't think a large-group lesson is the best way to teach fractions. It assumes a common denominator that usually isn't there.

Think about the people in your life from whom you have learned the most. How many of them were born the same year you were? When was the last time you met with twenty people who were all your age? Probably at a class reunion. We all went on to a multi-age world. Maybe that's as it should be all along. (Back to Index)

Teacher Burn-Out, Part One

81.

It's no coincidence that I'm writing about teacher burn-out right after I wrote about combined classrooms. I've had years when defending the combined classroom was more trouble than it seemed worth. But looking back over my teaching career, I think I suffered from burn-out less than the average veteran teacher. In fact, the stress of teaching got on my nerves literally - somatically - before it got a chance to really get on my nerves figuratively - psychologically. So I can't write with great personal authority about teacher burn-out.

Let me tell you a story first. It's a story I've told several classes, and it's an introduction to the issue of burn-out, among other issues. I'll actually focus on the issue in my next article, but I'm hoping this story will set the stage. Besides, I feel like telling it, and it's my column.

Laboria was a queendom very much like other queendoms and kingdoms. People went to work, raised their children, and occasionally, took holidays to celebrate being able to be who they were and do the things they did.

But one day, Queen Emily the Thoughtful was thinking. She did that often (that is why they called her "Queen Emily the Thoughtful"), and often thought important thoughts. On this particular day, she was worrying that the only reason people in Laboria went to work was to earn money. Since she never had to earn money, she didn't like this possibility. It didn't seem fair.

So Queen Emily the Thoughtful made a decree: from then on, people would get money whether they went to work or not.

As you've probably guessed, people were surprised by the new decree. They immediately thought the queen had gone off the deep end. But not a single one of them went to work the next day. "Make hay while the sun shines," as they say, but even the haymakers stopped making hay. People sat by the river that meandered through the town. They ate bread and cheese. They washed it down with delicious, fruity drinks. They sang, told stories, and danced.

But after a few days, people started going back to work. Why?

The children in my classes invariably wanted me to finish the story, but I told them I'm a teacher, not a storyteller. I wanted them to think about why the people of Laboria started going back to work. Their answers said a lot about them, and probably a lot about some of you. In my next article, I'll discuss burn-out - the reason some teachers chose to leave teaching and become artisans, tinsmiths, and wandering minstrels.(Back to Index)

Teacher Burn-Out, Part Two

82.

Having been a teacher for so long, and not having experienced much burn-out, I'm not sure how teacher burn-out is different from banker burn-out or baker burn-out. But I have some hunches.

When we are hired by a school system to help young people learn, we have many bosses. Practically speaking, we are hired not only to help children learn; we must also say and do things that let all our bosses know that we are really teaching, and doing it well. That is a big part of the job. We may be or become very good at actually teaching, but our own competence, confidence, and commitment, though possibly impressing some of our bosses, do not suffice for all of them.

So teaching the children in our classes can be one of many jobs we take on when we choose to be teachers. We must write and say things to adults to prove our worth. We must teach children to flaunt their learning at the right times and in the right way. Parents say "What did you learn in school today?", and if a child says, "Nothing," some parents take that quite literally. Parents, some of whom are also teachers, and administrators, many of whom have been teachers, want to know why you aren't teaching the way they do/did.

I thought it possible that I would retire and never teach again. In fact, for the first three weeks of September, 1994, I tried not teaching. But then I started volunteering in a school, and discovered something else I'd suspected - that I love teaching, and can't not do it. I've escaped from the part I wanted to get away from. Since I don't get paid, I don't have to put up with the non-teaching parts of teaching. I work with children, and sometimes with teachers and parents, but I never have to prove that I'm not just there for the paycheck. I never have to prove that I deserve to be paid.

I'm sure there are teachers who would quit tomorrow - maybe today - if Queen Emily the Thoughtful (see last week's article) made her legendary decree. But many, I think, would find what I've found - that teaching is exciting, important, rewarding, and one of the best ways to spend time. The burn-out may only last a moment.(Back to Index)

"When I Was Your Age"

83.

Children probably don't want to hear too many times about how we used to have to walk miles through the snow, barefoot, to a one-room schoolhouse. For most of us, it wasn't true, and even if it was, one can get tired of hearing it. Occasionally I enjoy telling children that when I was a child, I used to have to walk all the way across the living room to change the channel. But I try not to say that too often.

Notwithstanding some memories we may have of speeches that began "When I was your age...," children are curious about what life was like for us as children. It may seem, at first, like fiction. We could never have really been their age; we're grown-ups, and always have been. But once the world of yesteryear takes hold, it can be fascinating for children. If the curiosity and fascination are respected and addressed, they can build a bridge from the adult to the child, and they can also grow into a love for history.

We all do have stories to tell. Our stories may be way in the backs of our minds, in an old box in some dusty corner, but it is worthwhile to go back there occasionally and show them to our children. Even the stories that may embarrass us can help our children. It's nice for a child to know, as he/she is struggling with an issue or challenge, that her/his parent struggled, too.

When I was a child, there was a boy named Buster who lived near us. I wasn't allowed to go on Woodfield Road with my tricycle. It was a busy road. I think Buster wasn't allowed to go on it either, but I'm not sure. I'll ask my parents next week - see if they remember. But Buster was an adventurous lad. I remember him as our local Tom Sawyer. And one day, Buster led me up to Woodfield Road. Buster was a born leader, and back then, I was a follower. My parents were authorities, too, but Buster was right there, and my parents weren't. So whose lead do you think I followed?

I got punished. And I wasn't allowed to play with Buster for a while after that incident.

I could have attached a moral to this story: "So always do what your parents say," or "Don't act without considering possible consequences." But I didn't. When I tell children this kind of story, I'm not trying be a latter-day Aesop.

It helps children to know that we really were children once, and that we faced some of the things they face. We liked to have fun. We liked testing limits. In some ways, we're the same kind of creatures they are. And as long as we don't tell the same stories too often, children want to hear about our childhoods. (Back to Index)

Student Teachers

84.

I think there's an important extra job for adults who relate successfully with children - teaching other adults how to relate to children. While some adults spend their lives away from children, most have some contact with them, and many, like me, decide to spend major portions of their lives with children.

I've had many student teachers over the years. Usually, student teachers start with some preconceptions and convictions, some of which stay with them, and some of which give way to new conceptions and convictions. Their experiences with children, teachers, and parents teach them. This phenomenon should not differentiate student teachers from teachers, but there's extra intensity, and often extra insecurity among student teachers.

To some parents, children, and teachers, the presence of a student teacher in a classroom is a bonus. Children can receive closer personal attention. If a child has a problem, there's a greater chance of getting prompt help with it. Teachers are more likely to notice details if they can just sit back and observe once in a while, or if a student teacher does so.

Having a student teacher is also an opportunity for a teacher to grow. Teaching is not the kind of job you just learn to do, and then do. There can be insights teachers have and forget, and others that are brand new, even after years of teaching. I've often said that working with children is a review course in life. Working with student teachers can play the same role.

But there is a down side. There have been years when I did not want a student teacher. Having another person in the room who had questions was too much for me. In peaceful retrospect, I think my reticence to work with a student teacher had a lot to do with what was going on for me. But what is going on for a teacher counts, too. Some teachers never want to work with student teachers, and I don't think that means they're bad teachers.

And there are student teachers who are not ready, and may never be ready, to work with children. To some extent, it's the luck of the draw. If a student teacher is not doing well, and doesn't seem ready to learn, it's difficult for everyone involved.

But I've been lucky. I think most teachers I know have been lucky. Student teachers we've known have come to us with skill, eagerness, and openness, and have enriched our classes. They've brought fresh insight to parents, children, and teachers. I miss the children I've taught, and wish them well. But I miss the student teachers, too. (Back to Index)

Mistakes

85.

What about the mistakes we've made? How can we make sure our children don't make them? We don't want our children to have to deal with the awful consequences we've had to deal with. True, we've learned from our mistakes, but what is the ultimate use of all that learning if we can't pass it on to the next generation?

I'm afraid that a lot of the time, we can't. We can protect our children when they are infants, and then less and less as they grow. It's frustrating hearing words and witnessing deeds you said and did long ago and long ago learned that they didn't work, and then wishing you could give young people your experience without their having to experience it.

But there's another way of looking at this. The consequences of what we now call our mistakes, and whatever wisdom we've gained, may be prevalent in our minds, but the reasons for those mistakes may also have been formidable. If I remember correctly, some of the mistakes I've made were fun, and were made at times when fun was a top priority for me. I didn't try psychedelic drugs during the sixties (No, really - I didn't! You don't have to believe me.), but many of the people I knew who were trying them seemed to be enjoying them. Some of them have children now, and don't want their children to have anything to do with those drugs. Some of them don't want their children to know that part of their parents' history.

I think the children should know. They should not only know that we've made what we consider mistakes, and that we've dealt with consequences; they should even know why we made those mistakes. Perhaps peer pressure played a role. Perhaps it was part of our assertion of independence. And maybe it was fun.

It's too bad that some mistakes are so much fun. When people ask for a quick summary of the dietary restrictions I follow to try to control MS, I say, "I don't eat anything that tastes good." While this is an exaggeration, I'll bet many of you identify with the statement. Life isn't neatly arranged so that doing constructive things makes us feel pleasure and doing destructive things makes us feel pain. Too bad. But I don't think we stand a chance of tricking our children into thinking so. (Back to Index)

Peer Pressure

86.

There are things you'd like to do all the time, but you don't do them in public. And things you never want to do, but you do them in public. There may even be behaviors you rule out entirely in both public and private, but you harbor secret fantasies. And the reason? It's against the law, or at least it flies in the face of one of society's behavior codes. It just isn't done.

That's called peer pressure. Hammurabi's Code, the Constitution of the United States, and all the other things written and said to tell us what to do all rely on peer pressure to keep us in line. And if the pressure is effectively applied, those who don't yield to it are arrested, disbarred, impeached, court martialed, etc. You might say we take peer pressure pretty seriously.

But somehow, when we see our children giving in to peer pressure, it often rubs us the wrong way. I am appalled by some of the things I see children do "because everybody else does," or not do because "only geeks do that." Like most adults I know, I try to get children to resist the temptation to follow the crowd - to stand on their own two feet and do what they think is right.

It's important to me, on several levels, to be sure children develop a way to make decisions that are in keeping with their principles. I was arrested once for protesting against a government policy I thought was immoral, and I'm proud of my decision to disobey authorities. Society was telling me to leave the immoral policy be, and I was saying no. I was scared. This was bigger than wearing a button-down sweater when everyone else was wearing pull-overs. And I'm not sure I would have had the courage to participate in the protest if I hadn't had lots of peers protesting with me.

Peer pressure plays a legitimate and important role. It may bother us, because children start out thinking of us adults as the ones to please. It's hard to give that up. And we hope some of what children learn from us will stay with them always - their moral principles, their sensitivity to other people. But we have to be ready to accept that they may pierce pieces of their epidermis that we wouldn't pierce, to make a place for jewelry. Everyone else is. (Back to Index)

The Different Drummer

87.

I've gradually discovered that most children, and most adults, march to the tune of a different drummer. Nobody is like everybody else, and yet most people, at various points in their lives, feel isolated - wish that they were "normal," like everyone else. It may be that the only one who really is isolated is that one poor soul who is marching to the "same" drummer. In fact, maybe the drummer is marching alone.

Each one of us has a different combination of ideosyncrasies that make us feel isolated. Of course, there's the boy who doesn't like "boy things," and the girl who doesn't like "girl things." The truth is, everybody has different ideas about what the "boy things" and "girl things" are, and however hard advertisers try to create and perpetuate stereotypes, publicly or privately, people like what they like. When I was five years old, I wanted to play house - especially play kitchen. Since I was the only boy playing house, Barbara, who was in charge (it was her house), told me that I had to go to work, which meant I had to go to the other side of the house and sit there; I didn't know what people really did when they went to work.

In school, there is a large enough group to create what seem to be norms. Some children have charisma, and seem to be able to define the norms. But I've had private conversations with many children over the years, and though occasionally I've spoken with children who knew they had charisma, they usually felt that the charisma was just an effective disguise, hiding the person inside who was weird.

I have many adult friends now, and knowing the secret I'm telling you now has made it easy to make friends. I don't have to worry that someone will think I'm unusual. Occasionally, someone will be annoyed by my "strangeness", but most will be relieved by it; they're unusual, too, and a lot of them thought they were the only ones.

As you march to the tune of whatever drummer you march to, I hope your children can see what's happening. They may be embarrassed at first, and that's got to be respected, too. Children don't liked to be embarrassed. But I think it's even more important to give children the message that everybody's different. (Back to Index)

Memory

88.

Memory doesn't light all the corners of our minds equally. There are several different kinds of memory. I taught about six hundred children, and I think I could identify about 300 by their pictures (taken at the time I taught them). That's pretty good. But I'm taking a course in Feldenkrais movement, in hopes of finding a new way to manage MS, and yesterday, I forgot to bring a pillow.

This is not a function of age; in fifth grade, my parents conspired with my teacher to try to get me to remember homework. I wasn't allowed to watch television any night I didn't bring home a note from the teacher indicating that I'd remembered my homework. I didn't watch much television that year.

When my daughter Lara was three years old, I couldn't beat her at the Memory card game. Her visual memory was great. I have a good memory for faces (see above), but my short term visual memory for pictures is nothing to brag about. But my auditory memory makes up for it.

There is a common tendency to lump all the types of memory together. You may ask your lawyer spouse, "How come you can remember all the legal precedents you need to, but you can't remember a simple thing like ______?" Of course, it may be that this lawyer spouse doesn't consider _______ as high a priority as you wish, but it may also be that remembering _______ requires a completely different kind of memory. Ask this spouse to try proving her/his love by memorizing some fictional legal case you write, and maybe you'll find out that you are indeed loved.

There are ways to compensate for memory deficits. If there is something I want to be sure to remember to do tomorrow morning, I tie quadruple knots in my shoes. The next morning, I can't put my shoes on. So I do the thing. Then I untie the knots and put my shoes on. Or if the thing can't be done until later in the day, I come up with another mnemonic device - put my keys in the wrong pocket, wear a hat I know I'll remember to take off. These strategies work for me because I'm good at another kind of memory - remembering why I tied quadruple knots, etc.

As I've tried to help children develop strategies to compensate for memory difficulties, I've come to know more and more that there are many kinds of memory, and that all these are still only a small portion of what intelligence is. (Back to Index)

Non-Thespians

89.

I was going to write an article about the joy children feel when they get to be in a play. I was all set to write it. Then the anxious faces of several children appeared in my mind, and these children seemed to be asking me to write, first, about the joy of not having to be in a play. Usually, there were only a few children in my classes who didn't want to be in plays, but their voices (or silences) deserve to be heard.

I don't think I've ever had stage fright. When I've been on stage, my only fear has been that someone might not notice me. So I didn't learn about stage fright firsthand. I didn't learn about it from children, either; at first my approach with children was to try to convince them that once they tried standing in front of people and acting, singing, dancing, they'd love it. After all, I did.

I learned about stage fright by hearing the early childhood memories of adult friends. Theatre wasn't, for them, what it was for me. At first I tried to convince my adult friends that the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd was one of life's joys, and shouldn't be missed by anyone. But gradually, I learned that there are people for whom there is much greater joy in the freedom not to be on stage.

Then I applied this insight to children. I decided not to require any child to be in a play. Sometimes, for the sake of classroom management, I required a child to stand with the cast, but no one had to speak lines, sing, or dance if they didn't want to. Usually, by the time we were ready to perform, all of the children had roles in the plays, but only because they wanted to. Possibly the freedom not to helped clear away some of the stage fright. Maybe children were so grateful that they thanked me by participating a little.

Stage fright is a phenomenon I can't quite comprehend, but if it's out there, I suppose I've got to recognize it and respect it. Now that I've spoken for the non-thespians, in my next article, I'll feel freer to talk about that passion I share with many children - the thrill of knowing that all those people out there in the audience have their eyes and ears directed this way.(Back to Index)

Thespians

90.

Last week, I tried to speak for non-thespians. I'm not a non-thespian. I've worked with many children who've shared my love for drama, and I think I can write with more confidence about what's going on for us when we rehearse and perform.

When we do things well, we like to be appreciated. Sometimes all we want is for someone to acknowledge what we've done, and maybe smile, or say, "Thanks." But sometimes, for some of us, we want a little more. We want hundreds - maybe thousands of fans to stand up and applaud. When the curtain closes, we want them to keep applauding, and shout , "Encore!" It's along the same lines as the smile and thanks, but to those of us who want it, it sometimes does the job better.

Microbiologists and accountants tend not to get those thunderous accolades. But I think most of them don't consider applause a high priority. If they do, maybe they moonlight in community theatre. And some people would love to get the applause, but not if it means they have to stand on stage and be noticed.

Enjoying recognition is only one of the reasons for enjoying acting. In our everyday lives, we usually settle into fairly consistent personalities. To do this, sometimes we conceal some of our selves. Part of growing up is learning not to express everything we think and feel as we think and feel it. When we play roles on stage (or off stage), we try on ways of behaving, speaking, moving, and relating that may teach us and others about ourselves. There is more to everyone than we necessarily see.

It's hard for some non-thespians to see us as anything more than narcissistic show-offs. Many of the plays and movies about actors highlight their neuroses. We get bad press. The children who have theatre in their blood, though taking curtain calls and getting flowers, also sometimes have to put up with the down side of publicity, and it hurts.

I think all children should have opportunities to try out acting, both on stage and off. The shyest children I've known have liked pretending as long as they didn't have to do it in public. Try this line of thinking (just taste it; you don't have to swallow the whole thing): when we are children, we pretend to be grown-ups. As we grow, we get better and better at pretending to be grown-ups. Finally, when we get so good at it that we believe ourselves, we're grown-ups. (Back to Index)

Religious Holidays

91.

The Constitution says there aren't supposed to be any laws abridging freedom of religion in this country. Considering the way religion has been treated around the world throughout history, I think we've done a relatively good job so far. But that same document was written "to form a more perfect union." So I guess we've got some more work to do.

There's a Friday just before Easter when many teachers and children either go to school instead of practice their religion, or miss school to practice it. My religion has three important holidays in the early fall, and I missed a total of about 36 days of grade school over the years. (Could that be when football rules and research skills were taught?) In an honest attempt to respect these religions, school officials today sometimes remind teachers not to teach anything new, significant, or especially interesting during these holidays. If teachers comply with this policy, they will teach relatively boring, old, trivial things.

According to teachers' contracts, teachers are usually allowed a few school days to tend to their personal business. Religious holidays, unless they are observed by the whole town, often fall into the category of personal business. There is never school during Christmas or Easter, so at least two Christian holidays are protected. And the most important Jewish holiday, the Sabbath, is also protected.

But there are four important holidays left, by my count - Good Friday, two days of Rosh Hashanna, and Yom Kippur. In many towns, school is in session during these holidays. This means teachers who don't celebrate these holidays can use their personal days to do personal business, those who celebrate Good Friday can use fewer, and we can use even fewer.

This is a problem for many teachers every year. Some towns have recognized the problem, and decided not to have school on these days. Of course, towns with large Jewish and Catholic populations tend to do so more than towns that are predominantly Protestant (I realize that Catholicism does not have a monopoly on Good Friday, but I haven't yet learned about its importance in various Protestant traditions). But there are even towns with only a few Jews and Catholics who decide to honor their minorities.

I realize that in a way, I'm oversimplifying this issue. I don't know about Tet, Bodhi Day, or any other holidays celebrated by religions that are even more in the minority than mine. And I don't know how important it is in each religion to observe the various holidays as full days of worship or celebration. I'm sure that we could just about eliminate school altogether if we tried to include all religious holidays. But I do think the issue needs attention in towns that have Catholic and/or Jewish populations.

(Back to Index)

Apologies

92.

Life is partly having to say you're sorry. I'm sorry, but it is. So is love. Sometimes we do things we don't mean to do, or things we mean to do that have effects we don't mean to have, and someone else is hurt, annoyed, embarrassed, angered - someone wishes we hadn't done it. Sometimes we aren't sorry, and we are free to not apologize. Other times, we have to apologize whether we feel sorry or not. And there are people who never apologize. Some claim they don't regret anything they've ever done, but I don't believe it.

Many children feel sorry for things they've done, and need to learn how to apologize. I believe that modelling is the only effective way to teach them. I think they need to see us apologize for things we do or say that have effects we don't mean to have.

Someone I know and respect disagrees with me on this point, and I don't want to continue arguing my case until I have summarized her point of view. She says that apologizing, and knowing when to apologize, are skills that some children must learn through instruction - that modelling is important and effective, but not sufficient for some children. Some children, after doing or saying something hurtful, need to be told to say "I'm sorry." They don't know when that's an appropriate thing to say, so they have to be made to say it.

I hope I've done justice to this point of view. As I said, I disagree with it. I think children start out knowing their own feelings, and in our culture, they gradually lose touch. They are given all kinds of messages by adults that say, in effect, "You don't feel what you think you feel. You feel what I say you feel." Told this by the primary adults in their lives, they begin to believe it.

So when a child is told, "Say you're sorry," the child may think, "But I don't think I'm sorry. I am being told to say something that I don't think is true." It's a dilemma. Usually, there doesn't seem to be any choice, and the child says the required lie.

When I see that a child has hurt another child, I do insist on facing the issue. I ask whether the hurt was intentional. If it was, I explore the issue further, hoping to uncover some misunderstanding. If it was unintentional, or if the intention has changed since the incident, I talk about the importance of apology. But I never force a child to apologize. I may be wrong about this. What do you think? (Back to Index)

Time

93.

We have more time than children do. Sometimes it feels as if we have less time, but that's only when we're thinking about time that hasn't really happened yet. They probably have more of that, but so what? It hasn't happened yet! To children, a year seems like forever. We sometimes talk about the impatience of youth, but to me, it's something like talking about the stinginess of paupers.

Whether or not you buy this point of view, I think it can be useful in trying to understand how the world looks to children. When you tell a child "maybe later," or worse, "maybe next year," the child may hear "never." "Later" and "next year" are in that nowhere land called "the future." Unless you've had a lot of future in your life, it's awfully hard to believe it really exists.

I like playing with words, and time is a subject with lots of word-play potential. The Latin word for "wait" is "patior," the same as the word for "suffer," which is why a doctor's client is called a "patient." I wonder how "wait" and "suffer" came to mean the same thing. In the last paragraph, I wrote "unless you've had a lot of future in your life." Of course, as soon as you've had it, it no longer qualifies as future. I once told a friend that time is worth more than money; no one dies by running out of money, but everyone dies by running out of time. No wonder children are confused about time.

I prefer to think about the impatience of adults. I see more of that than I see impatient youth. Maybe we get impatient with children because we obsess on time that hasn't happened yet. We think they're wasting it, and later it will be too late. I've often heard adults voice this frustration. I've often voiced it myself.

There may be a few things people have to learn when they're children, but I think nowhere near as many as some adults think. Maybe some skills that require physical dexterity and flexibility - ballet or virtuoso piano. But I know of adults who learn to read, write, and compute, and have a much easier time of it than children do. I think the mad rush to make sure they can do all of that by a certain age is unnecessary. There's time.(Back to Index)

Beginnings

94.

Beginnings can be fun. They can also be scary and disorienting, but that's not what this article is about. If you watch people at the beginnings of careers, school years, or romances, you are likely to see eager, excited faces. At beginnings, major mistakes haven't been made, reputations haven't been formed, and all things seem possible. That's one of the reasons beginnings are celebrated, and remembered fondly.

Another reason beginnings are celebrated is that they're easier to pinpoint. It's easier to celebrate the fact that on July 4, 1776 there was a declaration of independence from England than to celebrate the fact that on September 26, 1933, we were still not a group of English colonies. Or to celebrate the day you were born, rather than August 8, 1995, a day when you were still alive. Though I now have time to enjoy and celebrate each day, before I retired I mostly celebrated beginnings.

If you're a child, some time around the end of August or the beginning of September, the school year begins. Notebooks are neat, and there are no wrinkles or smudges on the pages inside. Pencils are long and sharp. The graphic designs on lunch boxes and notebooks may remind you of the movie you saw last month. You may have heard some things about the grade you're beginning, or the teacher, but you're free to form your own opinion.

If you're a teacher, you have fresh, new materials that no children have marked or lost. Bulletin boards that show children and parents what a neat, thoughtful, sensitive teacher you are. You haven't made any mistakes yet, and even the most severe critics are waiting, giving you some time to show that this year, you'll be a better teacher. There isn't one need you haven't noticed, and you've responded appropriately every time.

And if you're a parent, you have a new chance to show that you can indeed be there for your child. When your child leaves for school, you have time to make sure your child is really ready. When your child comes home, you are ready to listen. Perhaps you hear some things you don't like, as the children and teachers may have heard things they'd rather not hear, but it is a new year, and all things are possible - even compromise.

So what if later you find out that the new romance, job, or school year isn't quite what you thought it would be? The beginning is a special time to be treasured, remembered, and maybe occasionally emulated. It's nice to take fresh looks once in a while. (Back to Index)

Playing

95.

When I was in second grade, after school, I went home. So did most of my friends. We played. One time, we put together a pet show. I didn't bring Chipper, my dog, because he was just a regular dog, and didn't know any tricks. It wasn't his fault; we didn't teach him any. I brought a weird-looking worm to try for the "Weirdest Pet" prize. Another time, we did a Three Stooges show. I never watched the Three Stooges, but my friends did. We found little pebbles, and we put them in our mouths so that when we pretended to hit each other on the head, it looked like we were spitting out our teeth. And of course, we played war. I don't mean the card game; I mean real John Wayne-type war. I wasn't a pacifist till later.

David Newman, who lived way across Jericho Turnpike so I couldn't play with him much anyway, took piano lessons and was on a little league team. He could play piano like a real piano player. My dream was to some day take piano lessons and be as good as David Newman. As for little league, who needed it? We played baseball any time we felt like it, and once in a while, we even played against David's team. We never won, but sometimes we got some runs. Glen usually got a home run, and once, on a really windy day, I walloped that ball into the potato field near Oakwood School, and got a home run. I've liked windy days ever since.

So what's my point? My point is, the free time I had then, like the free time I have now, was the stuff the good life is made of. Later, I did take piano lessons, and as soon as I realized that I didn't want to practice enough to play like David Newman, I stopped taking lessons. For a while, I took voice lessons instead, but only until I lost interest. And I was never on an organized little league team, so no adults were yelling at me to choke up, keep my eye on the ball, etc. I was free to be a child.

This sounds like pure nostalgia now. But I challenge the givers and takers of lessons and the coaches and parents of teams to find a day when they can all agree to offer nothing, so children can go home and play. And teachers shouldn't give homework on that day, either. Imagine a child coming home on, say, Tuesday, and thinking, "Let's see...who should I play with today? Or should I just go down to the brook and watch dragonflies?"(Back to Index)

Self-Esteem

96.

I think I'm wonderful, and have thought so pretty consistently for the past five years. Before that, I thought so many times, but not as consistently. Many friends, family members, teachers, and one psychotherapist seemed to want me to feel good about myself, and whatever they did worked. I could elaborate, but I don't want to be obnoxious about it. Suffice it to say that what I used to think were my delusions of grandeur turn out not to have been delusions.

Probably some of you are annoyed by my first paragraph. Most people are taught either not to think they're so great, or if they do, not to let on that they think so. As I've worked with children, I've tried to help them see how admirable they are; I'm not the only one I consider wonderful. If I were, I'd be arrogant, and that wouldn't be wonderful.

I'm not like Will Rogers; there are people I don't like. None of them are children; children haven't had time to develop the traits I don't like. As a teacher and parent, I've tried to help them develop into likable, capable adults.

Counting this sentence, I've used forms of the first person singular pronoun twenty times so far in this article. The rest of this article will not contain any forms of that pronoun. Using it too much can start to seem egocentric. This mental exercise is challenging, but it will help direct the focus toward people who need help developing self-esteem.

If we want to teach children to value themselves, we need to learn to enhance our tendency to respond positively to them, and to rethink our responses to signs of self-esteem. We have to redefine "bragging," or do away with the use of the word altogether. The only kind of self-appreciation that is destructive is the kind that hurts others, either by putting them down, or by perpetuating some antisocial behavior.

Our culture and most of our religions teach the virtue of humility. But isn't humility the belief in our fallibility? If we are fallible, it's hard to fault other people for being fallible. And if we're all fallible, then fallibility doesn't seem so bad. And if people are able to overcome whatever guilt or shame they've come to feel because of their fallibility, good for them, and good for the people who helped them in the struggle. (Back to Index)

Adult Crises

97.

No matter what your job is, it's probably not the only thing you think about when you do it. Depending on the job, the other things you think about affect your performance to varying degrees. If your life is in order, and everything is going well (but not so well that you can't think about your job), your work is usually done better. If there have been bumps in your road, your work is usually affected.

In some workplaces, in response to some kinds of crises, there is a supportive atmosphere. People know something's wrong, either because you've told them, or because they know you, and you don't have to tell them. They say and do what they can to let you know they care about you. The fact that people work in the same place may start out as a casual coincidence, but people do have a strong tendency to care about each other.

Adults who are having hard times have to be very careful about what they say to children, how they behave when they're with children. There are normal, everyday ups and downs, and children can often tell whether an adult is having a good or bad day. But when something is really wrong, children may or may not know, and if they do know, they may be curious about what it is.

I'm not a psychologist, and I think I'd better watch what I say on this subject. I've been able to write authoritatively on some subjects, be opinionated on some, and sometimes write for fun, using humor when I think it's called for. But this subject is heavy, and the most I'll do with it is ask some questions. If there are right answers, I don't have them. The questions are for you to think about.

When an adult is having personal problems, how much, if anything, should children know about the problems? A teacher who is ill is supposed to stay home. What about a teacher who is going through a personal crisis? What about a parent who is having trouble? Who will mind the children?

I know that the serious personal problems adults have are not for children to deal with. Children may be precocious. They may be unusually perceptive, thoughtful, sensitive. But they are children, and it's important, in times of crisis, to remember that they are children. There are adults to talk to. If you're alone, and there are no friends to talk to, there are professionals. If you can't afford professionals, there are people in religious organizations, or other community service organizations. But children, however much they care about you, need to be children.(Back to Index)

Recess

98.

Ask a child, "What's your favorite subject in school?", and you're likely to get an answer that may be disconcerting: "Recess." Teachers take pride in preparing materials, activities, and experiences that are exciting, and yet the average child seems to prefer that one part of the day that was not planned by teachers. Recess is not a "subject." It's not math, science,

or social studies. Those "subjects" and others can be part of recess, but most children are protective of their break, so integration of teacher-planned curriculum into recess is best done subtly. Parents may wonder why they pay tax dollars so that their children can do what they take such pleasure in not doing.

Not all children like recess all the time. For some children who have trouble making and keeping friends, recess can be a painful reminder of the problem. It can resemble the kind of situation depicted in "Lord of the Flies." With two adults, approximately one hundred children, and a large area, children who want to be in charge can have more power than they do in class. The teachers are the ultimate authorities, but they can't be

everywhere at once.

But it's a short time, and the teacher is never far away. Children build their recess societies, and face the various social issues, but they know that they are ultimately safe from the tyranny of the charismatic despot, or the mob; the grown-ups are nearby. The grown-ups won't let them be excluded or tormented. It's not a fail-safe system, but it usually works. When it doesn't work, there are more grown-ups at home, and sometimes

they get involved.

I once had an education professor who defined "curriculum" as "everything that happens at school." I like that definition. Since recess happens at school, it is part of curriculum. Teachers are responsible for the learning that goes on during recess, and although, as I said, they can't be everywhere, they can notice when and where adult intervention seems to be most needed, and they can direct the learning that happens during this unstructured time.

As a teacher, I must admit that although I rarely chose to be outside during recess, I enjoyed recess more than I thought. It was a time to get to know the children, and getting to know them was the "subject" I liked most. (Back to Index)

Violence in Media

99.

I'd like to do a little reality check with you. When I started teaching and parenting, there seemed to be a big movement to de-emphasize violence in our culture. I thought it was the dawning of the age of Aquarius. There was a group in Newton called "Action for Children's Television," and articles and books written about the effect of violence in the media on child development. I thought we were headed for a time when our concern for children would take its place in the sun, and media violence would stop.

What happened? There is more media violence now than I can remember from the days when we worked to eliminate it. Children are bombarded with violence on television, in the movies (which can be purchased and watched over and over at home), and they play video games that were our worst nightmare. They make the violence I remember protesting seem relatively docile.

I wrote a letter to Bill Bixby in 1976. I asked him to consider refusing to be part of "The Incredible Hulk." I told him about a child in my second grade class who threw an incredible temper tantrum, kicking and throwing his fists around. This child, a devotee of the Hulk, said, afterward, "I am powerful when I am angry." I answered, "You are more powerful when you control yourself." Bill Bixby seemed like a gentle person who cared about children. I remembered his role in the series "The Courtship of Eddie's Father." I asked for a final episode of "The Incredible Hulk" in which David Banner learns to control his temper, and stops turning into a monster when he gets angry. I didn't get a letter back from Mr. Bixby.

I am a pacifist, but my objection to violence in the media goes beyond my pacifism. I know and respect people who are not pacificists. They consider war and other forms of violence an occasional regrettable necessity. As a pacifist, I, of course, take issue with that position, but most of the violence children see in the media is not even presented as an occasional regrettable necessity. It is presented as the good life, and it is made to appeal to children. It's scary.(Back to Index)