What
to Write 100.
This is the 100th article I wrote for The Wellesley Townsman. I wrote
these in seven months, because I had stored up so much that I wanted
to say. I suspect that many teachers and parents store up things they
want to say. If you're a parent, when there is a risk that your children
will be embarrassed or otherwise adversely affected by the things you
say, you may keep it inside. If you're a teacher, when you face the
possibility that your teaching career will be at risk, you're careful
as well.
I thought that some of what I'd stored up would be earth-shaking, iconoclastic,
and would spark all kinds of controversy. I thought there would be letters
to the editor of The Wellesley Townsman. That didn't happen, and believe
it or not, I wasn't disappointed. I got appreciative comments from people,
and friends urged me to publish my collected articles as a book. I did
so.
When I sit with a child who can't decide what to write about, we start
talking. Children who are relaxed usually don't have any trouble thinking
of things to talk about. At first, some children think I'm being manipulative,
and I suppose they're right. One of my ultimate goals is to help them
get started with the writing process. In some children's minds, writing
is hard work for the wrist, fingers, and brain, in no way related to
chatting.
I think many teachers have overemphasized the difference between writing
and talking. There's a difference, but the similarities are important.
Both have to do with reaching inside, and finding the words that will
let other people know what's in there. Both use the intricacies of language.
Saying you have no talent for writing is like saying you have no talent
for talking or thinking. Maybe it's the chronic teacher in me, but I
don't accept the concept of a person who has no talent for writing.
There are differences between writing and talking. For some kinds of
communication, including the kind I'm trying to do right now, writing
works better. There is a decreased risk of putting my foot in my mouth.
It hasn't happened yet that I can't think of anything to write an article
about, but if it does happen, I'll talk with a child, teacher, parent,
or any adult. They were all children once, and they were all affected
by the experience of being a child.
And the child who can't think of anything to write about may notice
that there is a scratch on his/her desk. Something must have happened
to cause that scratch. What could it have been? Does that scratch have
a story? If this subject isn't interesting to the child, there's lots
of others. Usually the children who have the most trouble deciding what
to write have no trouble thinking of things to talk about.
I'm kept writing articles. One hundred is a neat number, but it wasn't
the end of my story; there was a lot more to say. Perhaps if people
had twelve fingers instead of ten, I would have considered one hundred
forty-four my landmark number. For now, though, I'm going to stop writing
and go talk to some people; I'll talk to you later.
Tattling 101.
There are countless hours spent in courtrooms and dollars paid to lawyers
because we want things to be fair. Someone else has done something that
shouldn't have been done or gotten something that we should have gotten,
and we want justice. Wouldn't it be nice if we could just go up to some
taller person who would settle it in a few minutes? I think it's no
coincidence that judges sit higher up than plaintiffs, defendants, and
lawyers.
The first time a child tattled to me in school, I thought I was supposed
to be the detective, lawyer, judge, jury, and lord high executioner.
I didn't want anything unfair to ever happen under my jurisdiction.
I wanted to be King Solomon the Wise. I summoned the suspect. With both
children present, I heard their arguments. I deliberated for a minute,
and then handed down my ruling. I don't remember what my ruling was,
but I'm sure it was very just.
After a few weeks of this foolishness, I got a note from the child's
mother. She wanted to talk with me. I knew I had failed. I had tried
to establish justice in my classroom, and this child was living proof
that I hadn't done it. I was ready to defend myself. I was ready to
list the strategies I had tried to protect this child from the forces
of evil.
That's not what the mother wanted to talk about. She liked justice,
too, but she had another concern in mind. At home, her child was a chronic
tattle-tale, and she was trying to teach her child to solve some of
her own problems. All the attention I was giving her daughter was working
against this goal. Could I please ask her daughter to solve some of
her own problems?
A word to Solomon the Wise was sufficient. I spent that evening rethinking
my approach to the justice issue. I decided to listen to complaints
- just listen. At least until I'd had time to decide whether the complaint
warranted action, was a plea for attention, or perhaps was an attempt
to improve a child's self-image: "That child over there did something
terrible, and I didn't. I'm pretty good, huh?"
Justice must prevail. But when it comes to tattling, that may only be
part of the story. It's a delicate balancing act. We want children to
know that they can come to us with their problems, but we also want
them to know when to do that - that they can solve many of their problems
on their own.
Tutors 102.
Sometimes now, I tutor children. Good teachers in a good school do a good
job, but sometimes parents want to make sure that their children get a
little more instruction than they get in school. Or they worry that vacations
will undo the good the school has done. So a child comes to me to write,
read, figure things out - whatever we decide is the best way to spend
time.
Hiring someone to do what your tax dollars are supposed to pay for, or,
from a child's point of view, spending time after school doing what your
friends only do in school, raises a few issues. I tossed around a few
ways to examine these issues, and decided to describe four points of view
- two parents' perspectives and two children's perspectives.
The first parent is not critical of the school. Teachers have done what
could be done to help the child learn. The child needs more instruction
than the school day and school year allow. The tutor hired will consult
with the teacher to learn which approaches and materials have been used,
which have been successful, and what the teacher recommends. Whether or
not this parent can afford a tutor, the needs of the child are more important
than anything.
The second parent wonders why the school has not done its job, and is
annoyed. Teachers get paid a lot of money (from this parent's perspective),
and ought to do the job they're paid to do. The child in question is not
deficient; it's the school system that is deficient, and the school system
ought to pay for the tutor.
The first child thinks about the other kids, who get to have fun after
school. It's no fair. Just because they learn more easily, they get to
go swimming, play with their friends, watch TV, play video games. But
this child has to sit with a teacher after school. And when there are
no other kids around, you can't get away with anything. I wish I were
smarter, thinks this child.
The second child wants to do better in school, and hopes that the extra
help will make that possible. This child has already been helped to feel
competent, and realizes that he/she just needs extra time and extra instruction.
It would be nice not to need that, but since it is needed, it's a good
thing it's happening.
As teachers, parents, and tutors, we do what we can. Our children are
doing what they can. I've never felt right about giving a child an unsatisfactory
effort grade; if they don't seem to be trying, I think at least they're
trying to try. I believe that we're all in this together.
Modelling 103.
In several of these articles, I've mentioned the importance of modelling
for children. I've talked about modelling ethical living, apologizing,
and a few other concepts, I think. As we think of teaching in terms of
instruction - actively and conspicuously doing things to cause children
to learn, it's easy to forget the importance of modelling. But children
learn a lot by watching what we do and listening to what we say when we're
not necessarily talking directly to them. Whether we know it or not, at
least some of them want to be like us. So we are models all the time,
even when we don't necessarily mean to be.
I'm not saying this to scare you, nor make you paranoid. It's not that
every single move you make, every word you say, will have profound effects
on children. But it's good to occasionally remind ourselves to model.
Just yesterday, for example, I was tutoring a child. I was typing what
he said, and I mumbled something about how bad I was at typing. Then I
remembered my role as a model, and quickly corrected myself: "No,
I'm not bad at it; I'm just having some trouble right now. I'm actually
good at typing." I didn't want this child to start generating lists
of things he can't do. Besides, I am pretty good at typing. It's only
my fingers that sometimes have some trouble with it.
I've often worked with children who thought they were no good at math.
I'm convinced that all children are good at math. Some are better at some
aspects of math than others, but math is such a many-faceted discipline
that most children can excel at parts of it. But they may have heard,
at home, "Go ask your mother/father. She's/he's the mathematician
in the family." And if they've heard that, they may think, I'm not
the mathematician in the family. An adult role model has provided an excuse
to give up, and the child now knows that giving up is perfectly acceptable.
Being a parent or teacher is an awesome responsibility. The lectures are
the easier part, and often the less effective part. The hard part is serving
as models. It requires a kind of self-confidence and self-monitoring that
may not come naturally. It's easier to tell children not to be like us
than to be the people we want children to be like. But to a certain degree,
they are going to be like us. They'll be more likely to smoke if we smoke.
They'll be more likely to give up if they see us give up. And they'll
try if they see that we're trying.
Yelling 104.
Yelling at children is basically ineffective and counterproductive. It
may feel effective, because it may yield immediate results, and it may
temporarily let off some steam. There are even times when it's necessary
- when a child is about to run out in front of a moving car. But the long-range
effect of consistently yelling at children is to get children to think
you yell a lot, and maybe to get them to take after you, and yell a lot,
too. As I wrote last week, whether or not we mean to be models, we are.
I yelled at children a lot, by my standards. By some other teachers' standards,
I was soft-spoken, and very patient. Some teachers I knew rarely or never
yelled. Some engaged in passive/aggressive behavior which may have been
worse than yelling, and some effectively said what they were thinking
and feeling without raising their voices. I admire and emulate that style.
It's easier to stay calm as a volunteer, because there is a teacher there
to yell or not yell; it's not my issue any more.
Yelling can be a form of corporal punishment. Teachers and parents are
usually significantly larger than children, and since we adults are less
likely to be punished for yelling, we can really let go. My year of voice
lessons did give me some good pointers about projecting, and I sometimes
got embarrassed when I heard a door close across the hall. Some children
have sensitive ears, and are actually physically hurt by loud noises.
When we yell, we may think we're only attempting to communicate better;
they don't seem to hear us when we're quiet, and after all, at least we're
not hitting. But we are using our size, rather than our intellect, to
attempt to accomplish our goals. We are trying to let our might make right.
Children who are used to loud noises, and those whose ears can take it,
can still be damaged by yelling. Physical abuse is not the only kind.
It's scary to be yelled at by someone who is big, and we don't know what
else has happened in each child's life to accompany yelling. Yelling may
be part of our upbringing, and part of our culture, and may seem relatively
innocent. But it can quickly remind an abused child of incidents that
will never happen in class, and that child may lose the sense of safety
we try to provide in school. Yelling doesn't end up doing what it's intended
to do, and it often does what is not intended.
A Walk in the Woods 105.
I do hope you get a chance to walk in the woods with your child. My children
aren't children any more, but we still spend time in the woods when they
come to visit me. Maybe some time I'll have grandchildren. Until then,
I take other children on the bike trail. Last week, the touch-me-nots
were starting to have full seed pods. I told a friend about it, and my
friend let me take her child on the bike path.
We came to the touch-me-nots. They're pretty, orange flowers. They're
also called "jewelweed," either because of their flowers, or
because their leaves sparkle when they're in water. They're called "cornucopia,"
because of the shape of the flower. And a friend by E-mail tells me it's
also called "medicine plant," because the juice in the stem
is supposed to relieve the stings of nettles and mosquito bites. Which
reminds me - if you touch poison ivy, immediately rub the point of contact
with the leaf of this medicine plant. You can find them lining the Fuller
Brook path, near Brook Street, in late summer and early fall. If you touch
a ripe seed pod, it will quickly open up, and seeds will burst out. Children
(and adults who haven't lost touch) get excited about it. But don't all
go at once. And don't get Freudian about it. In the wilderness is the
preservation of humanity, not a bunch of symbols to analyze.
A rabbit was sitting at the edge of the trail. We stopped. We whispered,
and decided to move closer, ever-so-slowly. The rabbit knew we were there,
but trusted us, I guess. A biker was headed in our direction. I signalled
to her, and she stopped to see what was going on. She watched the rabbit,
too. After two minutes or so, we moved on. The rabbit stayed there.
Robert Frost lived near here for a while. Back then, the bike trail was
a railroad track. And Emily Dickinson spent her life here. I don't know
whether the railroad track was even there yet back then. Sometimes I read
their poetry. When it's raining out, or too cold and/or snowy to go on
the bike trail. I'm not the type to stop by the woods on a snowy evening.
Some of my articles - most of them, maybe - express my thoughts about
specific issues. There are a lot of important things to say about children,
parenting, and teaching. But there is also some important silence about
it all. So I hope you get a chance to go to the woods with your child.
Even a noisy child may surprise you with silence in the woods. Just say
to your child, "I'm going for a walk in the woods. I sha'n't be gone
long; you come, too." One could do worse.
Weirdness 106.
Sometimes a child seems to take pride and pleasure in being different
from other children. This attitude (the old meaning of "attitude")
can be exactly what it seems to be; it can be the child's style of self-esteem.
Since everyone is different, it's good to accept and celebrate the differences.
So a child can be proud of being "weird," and know that he/she
means nothing negative by the word. Other children say, "He's/she's
weird," and may mean it affectionately (and be heard affectionately),
or not be the ones whose opinions count to this child.
But weirdness can also be a disguise. It can cover up feelings the child
is not able to reveal to others. The child may desperately want to connect
with other children, but feel unable to do it. So the child decides, instead,
to develop a reputation for being different. That way, it's easier to
explain being rejected or excluded by other children: I'm different, and
that's why people don't like me. I'd rather be the weird person I am than
follow the crowd just so I can have friends. And the loneliness lives
and grows.
As a teacher, every Halloween, I wore a three-piece suit to school. People
grew to expect it of me, and I enjoyed the reputation that went with this
expectation. To me, a three-piece suit is a costume. People in other places
had to wear this costume every day, and teachers didn't. The statement
I was making by wearing this costume was that it is indeed a costume.
Every uniform or fashion is a costume, to some degree. It's a way to look
like other people when, in fact, you may be different.
But I wore a costume every day. While I enjoyed a certain degree of weirdness,
I didn't wear then what I wear now. I wore corduroy pants and a flannel
shirt in the winter, and non-corduroy cotton pants and a short-sleeve
cotton shirt in the spring and fall. I may not have followed the fashions,
but I did not want to be too different. In the summer, I wore what I wanted,
and here in Amherst, I wear what I want. It's a college town, and what
is labelled "weird" in other places is somewhat the norm here.
The child who takes pride in her/his weirdness may be doing exactly what
she/he appears to be doing. The child may be daring to be different, and
that's good practice for times when the crowd is doing something the child
really doesn't want to do. The uniform is a costume. But once in a while,
it's useful to take a close look, to see whether the refusal to wear the
uniform is also a costume.
Labor 107.
I remember a time when the teachers' association in Wellesley could not
get a contract we considered reasonable. That's a pretty common situation,
but this time, we felt the injustice more strongly than usual. We voted
to have a work-to-rule action. That is, teachers would only do what their
contracts required them to do. As is true in many other kinds of work,
most teachers ordinarily do quite a bit more than their contracts require.
They care about the children they teach (caring is not required by their
contracts), and this caring motivates them to do much more work than they
are paid to do. So the work-to-rule action was not easy for teachers.
It wasn't easy for parents, administrators, or children, either. But it
was an important attempt to communicate with the community.
People who have economic and political power usually want to keep it.
One way to do that is to make sure the people who don't have power don't
get together. History is full of examples. Religion is often used to teach
people without power that it's morally better not to have power. The ones
who do have power usually have a somewhat different theological slant.
They seldom believe that they are destined to burn eternally as punishment
for having had power.
Political leaders create "public enemies" to justify their own
actions: "I would love to make your lives more livable, but to do
so, at this point, would seriously threaten the very fabric of our society."
Most people belong to some group or other that "threatens the very
fabric of our society." Whether or not you're worried that our social
fabric is going to unravel, it's wise to take such statements with a grain
of salt. I, personally, think such statements are dangerous, and protect
some fabric that really ought to be rewoven.
A favorite way to turn people against labor is to call people communists.
Communism is a category of economic philosophy. I almost wrote that it's
an economic philosophy, but if you really look at who the communists are
and what they say, you discover that there's a lot of philosophical diversity
within communism. Karl Marx didn't have a monopoly on communism, although
it could be said that he was the foremost authority on Marxism.
But regardless of economic philosophy, most people belong to that huge
group called "labor." The colors of their collars don't matter
as much as you may think. Their particular incomes and life styles aren't
as significant as they sometimes appear; whether you're paying rent or
mortgage payments, most of you can't buy an airline or skyscraper.
The messages sent by teachers when they strike or declare a work-to-rule
action deserve your attention. They care about your children, and care
about making school the best place it can be. They also want to make sure
they and their families have what they need to live. You may disagree
with them about particulars. But they are no more of a threat to your
fabric than you are.
Chores 108.
I suggest that we throw out the word "chores." It's developed
the wrong connotation. I don't mean throwing out the whole concept; there
are kinds of work that have to be done regularly, and it's only fair to
share the work among those who benefit by its being done. Some of those
who benefit may not be as skilled as others, but that shouldn't mean that
the more skilled ones get more work. When that happens, there's sometimes
a tendency to hide skills, or to avoid developing them.
Then what's my problem with the word? I guess "chores" has come
to mean "unpleasant, repetitive, meaningless work." When I do
what I used to think were "chores," I try to accentuate the
positive. Granted, some of them have less positive to accentuate than
others, but for example, when I take out the trash, I think less about
the various pieces of paper in the trash container, or the dumpster that
is my destination, and more about the feeling I'll have when I'm done.
My apartment will be a more pleasant place. Of course, I'll continue to
throw things out, and the work will some day soon need to be done again,
but it will have proven worth the effort.
I'm sorry if I'm coming across as a cock-eyed optimist. I'm not Candide.
I'm not Pollyanna. My approach to this issue is quite practical; people
work more efficiently and more consistently when there's some pleasure
associated with the work. People who procrastinate have to pay the price.
Unless the work they have to do is more pleasant when there's more of
it, doing the work regularly is its own reward. I can fit all my trash
into one container, and that makes it easier to transport.
I just remembered that this is supposed to be a column about working with
children. Well, I think it's good to ask children to help, or require
them to help, as soon as they are old enough to help. I think it's a matter
of personal style, not right or wrong, whether you "ask" or
"require." I don't have any magic formula for determining when
they are old enough, which kinds of work are most suitable for them, how
to establish quality control, or what to do if the work does not get done.
But there is work to be done. It may be dirty work, like taking out the
trash. But somebody's got to do it, and it's no fair if adults have to
do it all.
Being Nice 109.
I used to be chronically nice. If that phrase sounds comical to you, I
think it's because niceness is considered a positive quality, and "chronically"
usually precedes something negative - pathological. But throughout my
life - even during the time of the popular "me" focus (Is that
entirely over yet?) - I've found it difficult to remember that I have
needs, wants, and priorities. Sometimes I would do something "nice"
- donate some important item, time, or energy - and later wonder where
it was, and why I didn't have it. And that kind of "niceness,"
in my opinion, goes well with the word "chronically."
Over the years, I've met many children with this problem. They volunteered
to help clean up messes that weren't theirs, gave away things that were
special to them, let secretly coveted privileges be given away to other
children. They did get lots of appreciation, and maybe the good feeling
that comes with knowing you've helped, but I always wondered whether they
were going to wake up one morning feeling cheated.
We all have a sometimes unfortunate tendency to attribute our issues to
children. Each time I made a tentative diagnosis of chronic niceness in
a child, I worked to make sure I wasn't projecting my own problem on to
the child. For some children, niceness is a top priority item, more important
than possessions, time, or fun. For some reason, they want to be nice.
And really, how long can you argue with that?
But sometimes there is an unwritten, unspoken, and unconscious contract:
If I am nice to people, then at some point, people will be nice to me.
It's often true. There's a human tendency to be grateful, and reciprocate.
But if that tendency is the motivation for unselfishness, there may be
trouble ahead.
Sometimes, a child is unselfish because of low self-esteem: Let me help
you, because that's the only way I can even be close to worthwhile. When
I've worked to help a child with this mindset to become more assertive,
the child may have been thinking, now I can't even do the only thing I
do reliably well - give.
You probably know some children who are kind, thoughtful - nice. It's
not really bad to be that way, but I think it helps to check things out.
When things in general are difficult, it's easy to forget about the needs
of the people who seem to be saying, "It's all right. My needs aren't
important." But they shouldn't always finish last.
"Bad Teachers" 110.
I'm not as ready to label someone a "bad teacher" as I used
to be. I never labelled anyone a "bad child," and I've recently
expanded that policy to include most teachers. I don't think I have lowered
my standards; I think I've decided that teachers, like children, want
to do the best they can, and even if their best isn't on a par with other
teachers' best, the comparison isn't so important.
Maybe it's because I'm retired, and the competetive mentality is gone.
Maybe it's because the retirement system has superannuated me, and with
superannuation comes wisdom. But for whatever reason, I'm able to more
clearly see the efforts teachers make, and not fault them as much for
things I used to consider their faults.
For example, a teacher I heard yesterday said, "Boys and girls, would
you please line up here?" Around 1972, I decided never to call my
class "boys and girls." I thought the phrase, though commonplace
and accurate, highlighted a difference that was irrelevant to the situation,
and made the difference more important than it needed to be. No teachers
I've known have ever addressed their classes as "blacks and whites,"
or "Jews and gentiles." Perhaps I was making much ado about
nothing, but I don't think so.
But that's not the point. The teacher who addressed her class as "boys
and girls" may listen well to any child who has a concern. She may
be able to explain things in ways that work for children who usually get
confused by teachers. There are so many things to think about in becoming
a teacher (I almost wrote "being a teacher," but I don't think
it's ever a fait accompli) that examining the implications of "boys
and girls" (and agreeing with me after the examination) may not have
a high priority.
I write articles, and hope that teachers will read them. I talk with teachers
and express my opinions on issues that come up. As a volunteer, I try
to model what I consider good teaching. But I no longer sit in judgment
of other teachers as much as I used to. And you, vegetarians and meat-eaters
of Wellesley, I hope you are doing it less. Most teachers are trying to
be good at what they do.
Volunteering 111.
Volunteering in a school is one of my favorite ways to spend time. It's
a luxury; I'm sure that there are people who wish they could volunteer,
but simply don't have the time. They have to, can, and often want to do
things for which they get paid, and when they're done, school is out,
so volunteering isn't an option.
I remember from my paid days that it can be hard to plan for a volunteer,
and I try to be a volunteer who can be somewhat reliable without needing
plans. Having taught for twenty-five years, that's not too hard for me.
I see papers that need to be filed, a child who's bugging another child,
a child who finishes early and doesn't know what to do next, a child who's
struggling - it's not hard to notice where I can be useful.
There are, of course, problems and issues around volunteering. One problem
is that teachers are so used to being judged, and any time you volunteer
in a classroom, the teacher may consciously or unconsciously see you as
a spy. You may say and think you're there to help. You may indeed be there
to help. But the teacher may see you as someone who is counting the number
of times he/she says "Um." "Um" is a commonly used
linguistic filler in many lines of work, but for some people, the more
they try not to say it, the worse it gets. And some teachers are trying
hard not to say it. There may be other habits the teacher is earnestly
trying to break, too. The presence of a volunteer can be disconcerting,
and the um-count may skyrocket.
Children are quick to see any adult in the classroom as a potential authority.
So a child may come up to a volunteer and ask for permission. If the teacher
has well-defined policies that are easy to memorize or put on a chart,
volunteers can echo these policies, or direct the child to the chart.
But it's rarely that simple. And some children see the volunteer as a
way to circumvent the policy - to get help that isn't really needed, or
get permission that wouldn't ordinarily be given.
Finally, there's the feelings teachers have when they are in charge of
a class. Diversity is nice, many hands make light work, and children have
a better chance to get their needs met if there are more adults tending
to them. But there is a special connection some teachers feel with their
classes - a bond that makes the presence of other adults difficult. I've
felt that bond many times, and I respect it. Just as you sometimes want
to spend time with only one special friend, a teacher may want to spend
time with only the children, and vice versa.
I'm going to keep volunteering in classrooms. I hope those of you who
want to get chances to do it. For some teachers, a volunteer can be a
gift that's better than any coffee mug.
Adult Time 112.
I remember a day when I went to Cambridge with three other third grade
teachers. We had substitutes, and we were in Cambridge to attend a workshop
at Harvard, and to shop for materials for our unit on Russia. The workshop
was useful, and we found some good materials, but what I remember most
is lunch. It's not that I don't have lunch every day, or that I don't
go to restaurants with friends from time to time. It's not that the food
was any better than other food I've had. It's that we were four teachers
spending relaxed adult time on a school day.
In many professions, the lunch break is a time to relax, eat, chat, schmooze,
even digest the food. I've seen people in other professions during their
lunch breaks. They hardly look at their watches at all. They don't gulp
down their food, or wonder whether there's time to have dessert. Now,
we chose to be teachers, and to be there for children. We get vacations
that are the envy of many other professionals. I'm not complaining about
the short lunch breaks teachers get (well, maybe I'm complaining a little).
I'm trying to make the point that those days when teachers leave substitutes
in charge of their classes and attend workshops or do other things for
their professional development have benefits that transcend the enhanced
curriculum or new technique. Teachers are more likely to support each
other and learn from each other if they are friends. They usually don't
have opportunities to get together outside of school; they have lives
they need to live. The little lunch breaks they have in school have very
little room for "How's your father doing?" or "Are you
going skiing this weekend?" There's hardly time for "Do you
have a globe you don't need at 2:00?"
Four teachers having lunch together in Harvard Square shouldn't have had
to be nervous about whether there were any members of the Wellesley community
nearby, watching us relax over dessert. We were working hard not to wonder
how our classes were doing - to savor this time when, as one of us put
it, "we get to be adults."
The Mercury Syndrome 113.
Sometimes, children with special needs show up in schools, and administrators
scramble to find ways to meet these children's needs. One child speaks
only Portugese, or Khmer. Another has severe emotional problems. Another
has no home, and her/his behavior and skill level may have consequently
suffered. We are a culture rich in diversity, but sometimes the stresses
that come with diversity don't leave us feeling rich at all.
The schools are filled with professionals who have spent lots of energy
learning how to meet children's needs. There are the ones most people
are used to - the classroom teachers. Most people have had classroom teachers.
They're the ones who taught us to read. We may have seen children go out
of the room to spend time with other teachers. We may have gone out of
the room ourselves. But the classroom teacher seemed like the "real"
teacher.
In most schools (all schools in Wellesley), there are specialists who
have studied various techniques for helping children with special needs.
Sometimes they work in their own rooms, and sometimes they consult, plan,
and co-teach with classroom teachers. They contribute valuable insights,
and often make the impossible seem likely.
But there is a problem which I will call "The Mercury Syndrome."
Mercury was one of the Roman gods. When all the god-jobs were handed out,
Venus got love, Mars got war, but what did Mercury get? Mercury was the
ancient equivalent of an LD teacher. Sure, he was supposed to be the messenger
god, but who knew how many messages there were to be delivered? So Mercury
started accumulating other jobs. He became the god of lots of other things,
some of which didn't seem to have anything to do with each other. I'll
bet there were times when Mercury's desk was cluttered with messages (probably
including some important ones) that Mercury intended to deliver when he
got around to it.
It's easier to have a nebulous, multi-faceted job when you're immortal,
and perhaps omniscient and/or omnipotent. But teachers of children with
special needs aren't. They're actually pretty much like you and me. So
when a new child comes to school with needs that weren't expected, the
LD teacher is not necessarily the person who should work with that child.
I hope some day education becomes such a high priority that there is a
well-funded network of experts to meet children's needs, and teachers
who have special expertise are then free to use it.
Hamming It Up 114.
There have been people who have told me that I must be great with children,
because I'm so funny, or because I'm such a dramatic guy. I rarely reject
a compliment, but whenever I accept that one, I try to correct the donor's
misconception. To me, it's like saying I must be great at tennis, because
I'm so good at chess. There are overlapping skills, but the two are really
different games, and in fact, someone who doesn't know how to play chess
can still be great at tennis. Being funny and dramatic is fine, but it
is neither a prerequisite nor a reliable advantage in working with children.
Some children do not deal well with pizzazz. They don't know what to make
of it, and it makes them uncomfortable. They would rather have things
be calm and easy to understand. We funny, dramatic people need to adjust
our approaches if we want to connect with these children. If we don't,
they will be overwhelmed by us, or tune us out. It took a few years of
teaching for me to completely come to terms with this truth. But I'm glad
I did, and so are some children.
Even on stage, it's important to be aware of children's different styles.
My favorite children's entertainers balance their acts so that children
get some whimsy and some serenity. Some madness, and some method.
I once read about a study that suggested that children get more out of
listening to a story if it's read in a calm, undramatic voice. Not monotone,
but not the way I like to read to children - doing my W. C. Fields impression
when I say Templeton's lines in Charlotte's Web, or imitating Alfred Hitchcock
when I'm Thorin in The Hobbit. It was only one study, and it didn't get
me to change my style, but at least it got me to stop thinking teachers
who just read the stories were doing it wrong. When children hear words,
they paint pictures in their minds, and if the words are well-chosen,
voice, facial expression, and body language may not be big factors.
This article is not meant to put down the hams of the world. We can be
good teachers, too, and often are. Some children learn a lot from us.
Rather, this article is meant to reassure the soft-spoken teachers who
quietly care about children, and communicate that caring in their teaching.
You don't have to be a star to be in our show. You don't even have to
be in the show. You can just be there for the children.
Food 115.
As I write each article, I fantasize that I'll have an effect on people's
thinking and behavior - maybe change some minds or habits. I have no such
delusions about this article. If your mind was or is going to be changed
about food, and your habits changed, it probably won't be because of this
article. Your food intake may be altered by "doctor's orders,"
but you've probably heard all the propaganda the non-medical world has
to offer. Still, I have to add my two cents.
People don't joke as much about excessive use of alchohol as they used
to. They seem to have realized that it's not so funny. Well, I don't think
ingestion of food that has negative effects on our health is funny, either,
but it's still the subject of plenty of joking. Some people believe that
laughter is a way of coping with fear. I don't know whether that's true
of all laughter, but I have a hunch that the food jokes are inspired by
unconscious fear.
Several years ago, I read that diet can affect symptoms of multiple sclerosis.
Doctors told me it wouldn't, but the things I read told me not to believe
doctors who told me that. I didn't know who to believe. During the past
several years, I've done my own experiments with diet. I've eliminated
certain foods from my diet, and noticed what's happened. I'm still experimenting,
and keeping track of what results I perceive. I now have no meat (poultry
and fish count as meat, by this system), no dairy, and I avoid additives
and preservatives. I'm gradually cutting back on caffeine, sweeteners,
and gluten grains. For me, they're the hardest to avoid.
I suggest that food intake is difficult to control, and that it's nevertheless
important to control. Health problems, and even learning problems, may
be caused or aggravated by inappropriate diet. I am not a doctor or any
other kind of health care professional, traditional or alternative. But
my experiment, so far, is supporting the hypothesis that avoiding some
kinds of foods does help.
I suggest that we set good examples for our children, and buy only healthy
food for them. I know that's easy for me to say; my children are grown.
In bringing up this issue, I feel the way David must have felt when he
faced Goliath. Advertisers have power. Doctors who say diet isn't so important
have power. Not to mention children who want junk food and really know
how to nag. Or that little voice inside us that says, "Aw, c'mon!
One little bite won't hurt you!" But I'm beginning to think diet
really does have an effect.
Home 116.
There's no place like home. Home is where the heart is. Home, sweet home.
But for many of us, home isn't what it once was. As I was growing up,
I lived with my two parents. We moved four times as I was growing up,
but we lived in one house for ten years, and to my brothers, my sister,
and me, that place still seems like home. Neal Marlens, the guy who later
grew up and produced "The Wonder Years," lived next door to
us, and I was one of his babysitters. So that nostalgic TV series meant
something extra to me.
Since I moved away from my parents, I've lived in thirty-one other places.
That may be above average, but I don't think it's out of the ballpark.
I've moved because of job changes (both mine and my wife's), divorce,
landlord problems, neighborhood problems, and occasionally, the availability
of a genuinely better place to live. There were many times my wife and
I longed for a place that we could call "home," but like many
people in our generation, we had no such luck.
My daughters did live in one "home" for over ten years, but
they can't go back there now; some strangers live there. And though I
sometimes drive by the place where I lived from 1955-65, just to reminisce
a little, strangers live there, too. I can't go home again.
I suspect that twenty years from now, not too many of you will live where
you now live. And those of you who do probably won't build a house for
your child on the back ten acres. Times have changed, and we've got to
face it.
What does this mean for children? Where are they going to find the stability
they need? Part of the answer isn't very cheerful. Most of them aren't
going to have the kind of stability many of us had. If they started out
with two parents, they may not end up living with both of them at the
same time. They probably won't be able to visit the place where they were
born; other people will probably live there.
Maybe, not knowing what it's like to stay in one place, they won't miss
it. Maybe the last generations to have consistent, stable homes won't
pass on the consequent nostalgia to their children. But there is a home
we can give our children that is more important than a house or traditional
family structure. As our children grow up and face the challenges of their
futures, maybe we can be their homes.
Whomsayers 117.
Several years after I learned to talk, I learned that I was doing it wrong.
In junior high and high school, I took courses in English, and in most
of these classes, my teachers taught me rules of grammar. These rules
said that the way me and my friends (my friends and I) talked was incorrect.
I believed my teachers, and learned the "right" way to speak.
Later, in college, I learned that language is run by democracy, and if
enough people consistently use a language "incorrectly," the
"incorrect" way becomes the correct way. In one way, it was
a relief. It meant that I didn't have to fight the battle my teachers
had fought; I didn't have to insist on "different from," rather
than "different than," or struggle to eradicate "the reason
why," a redundant but popular phrase.
But it also meant that rules I'd worked to learn could quickly become
anachronisms - antiques. And they did. Notice that three sentences in
this paragraph begin with conjunctions. Please don't tell any of my English
teachers. And two weeks ago, in my article about food, I wrote, "I
didn't know who to believe." I really struggled with that sentence.
I knew the "correct" thing to write, but I also knew that in
this linguistic democracy, we whomsayers have been voted down by a landslide.
It's still okay to write "To Whom It May Concern," and I suspect
that that will last, but most of the whoms are gone from our language.
If, like me, you learned the rules of grammar, you may feel somewhat cheated,
as I do. Why did we go through all that trouble if the rules were going
to be amended or discarded by the phillistine masses? But that's what
has happened. Harry Reasoner, Edwin Newman, and others have spoken and
written about the demise of "good" English.
I do like grammar, and it's a little frustrating to know something that
ought to impress people, but usually doesn't. But language really is run
by democracy, and though we whomsayers, as a minority, still have the
right to say "whom" whenever we want, it's going to start sounding
funny.
Curiosity 118.
I don't think curiosity killed the cat. I don't know which particular
cat the old adage refers to, but I am confident that it was not killed
by curiosity. Perhaps it died because of its unintelligent approach to
finding out what it wanted to know. Perhaps, in its attempt to learn,
it was unlucky, and met with some fatal accident. Perhaps it spent years
trying to learn, and died of old age. Let's not condemn curiosity without
a fair trial; it may have had nothing to do with the poor cat's death.
The chances are that one of the first songs you ever learned is the one
about the same curiosity that inspired Galileo, Copernicus, and scores
of others to spend their lives trying to find out about those things that
twinkle up above the world, so high. That curiosity inspired our space
program. There are some aspects of that program that I find objectionable,
but I respect the spirit of wonder that inspired it. Curious as I am,
though, I have no desire to boldly go where none have gone before, for
three reasons I can think of: I haven't been to all the places people
have boldly gone to, I don't really want to leave Amherst for more than
a few weeks, and I'm scared. But how I do wonder what those diamonds in
the sky are.
If you listen to children, you will hear curiosity you may have forgotten,
either because you long ago gave up trying to find out, or because you've
been busy. Children ask questions. There's a certain stage children go
through wherein they explore the word "why." As they go through
that stage, we may think they're just trying to annoy us. They ask questions,
and instead of being satisfied with our answers, they ask, "Why?"
Every answer we give is followed by "Why?" It used to drive
me crazy.
Now, retired, I like that stage. I hope it lasts forever, maybe modified
as children learn more and more sophisticated ways to ask why. I like
to give serious thought to each "Why?" The children see that
I'm taking the curiosity seriously, and when we finally get to "I
don't know," and the whys continue, I continue the thoughtful I-don't-knows.
It's not an endurance test; it's an honest question with honest answers.
I know some children may be asking the question to test our patience.
I do believe in setting limits, teaching children to find their own answers,
and teaching them ways to avoid irritating us. But I don't believe children
should be ultimately stopped from asking why. If they're bugging you,
tell them to ask me.
Continuing Education 119.
A friend of mine, who does workshops for teachers and other human services
workers around this country, likes to tell about a woman who decided to
see a career counselor. As the two were discussing her various career
options, she told the counselor, "What I really want to do is be
a veterinarian, but that would take another six years. Six years from
now, I'll be fifty years old!"
The career counselor replied, "Well, six years from now, you'll be
fifty years old anyway. You might as well be a veterinarian."
I like that story. As long as we're alive, there isn't a point at which
we are saturated with knowledge, skill, and wisdom, and no more will fit
in. We admire Leonardo DaVinci, Thomas Jefferson, and others who seemed
to keep coming up with new areas of expertise. But really, they are not
so far removed from what we are. There isn't a final career or specialization
for which we are destined; our lives keep presenting challenges, and we
keep finding ways to respond to them.
And so we continue our education. We get interested in something, and
try it, or read a book about it. Maybe we take a course about it. Maybe
we teach a course about it, because we've discovered expertise we didn't
know we had. As most people know, teaching is learning. And even if we
don't go to an institution of learning and/or take or teach a course -
even if we don't read a book - we keep learning. There's no way to stop
it.
Three years ago, I thought I had taken my last course . I was trying to
earn sixty credits beyond my master's degree, in order to increase my
salary, and it was taking more energy than I had. I had enjoyed most of
the twenty-five graduate courses I'd taken (even if I may not have enjoyed
all of the commuting, tuition bills, and deadlines), but it seemed as
if I had to say good-bye to my education. Yet last month, I took a course
in the Feldenkrais philosophy of movement. You never know.
Student Council 120.
The decision whether or not to have a student council is difficult for
me. I'll examine some of the pros and cons, but so far I've never felt
comfortable with the decision to have a student council or the decision
not to. I'll write this article as a dialogue between two teachers in
the teachers' room.
Pat: Did you read the agenda for the staff meeting? We're going to decide
whether to have a student council this year.
Dale: Oh, no. Not that again. Who suggested it this time?
Pat: I did. I think part of the reason adults don't vote is that they
never voted as children. They got used to having decisions made for them,
and grew up believing they had no power.
Dale: So what power are you going to give children?
Pat: At least the power to let the decision-makers know what's on their
minds. That's a start.
Dale: I don't think it's a good start. It's too much like the power we
have to affect our representatives - nada. The people with the best campaigning
resources get elected, and they claim to be representing us, but they
aren't. So you think we should get children to imitate this process?
Pat: Are you saying adults shouldn't have representative governments either?
Dale: No. I'm saying children shouldn't. They're even more impressed by
image than adults are. You know who wins in student council elections
- not the child who represents all the children, or even the majority.
It's the child with charisma, or a campaign poster that says, "Win
With Winnie!"
Pat: If children learn that they can't affect the decision-making process,
they'll grow up to stay away from voting booths.
Dale: Maybe, but if they learn that they can affect it, they'll be disillusioned
before they even have a chance to try adult democracy.
Pat: Not if we respond to their concerns. We've got to give them some
chance to affect what happens in school.
Dale: They are what happens in school! They affect everything that happens
here!
(silence)
Dale: So are you volunteering to be the faculty advisor for the student
government?
Talking 121.
There's such excitement when a child first utters a word. It's the beginning
of a new level of communication. We start to know so much more about the
person than we could ever learn through grunts, cries, and all those other
pre-verbal sounds. The moment is written down in a baby book, maybe, or
at least etched in our memories.
The exhilaration is often short-lived. It doesn't take long for children
to learn that there are times and places to utter words, and more and
more, times and places not to. And school, a place where often many children
are in one room, is too often a place not to talk. The amount of verbiage
permissible varies from teacher to teacher.
The required silence has various purposes. Some teachers and some children
don't function well when there's a lot of talking at the same time. Sometimes
there's something important to hear, and it won't be heard if there's
lots of extraneous talking. And sometimes silence is necessary so that
everyone can concentrate. Many children have trouble concentrating when
there are distracting sounds, and I don't think as many get distracted
by silence.
But I think sometimes silence is not so golden. That excitement we feel
about the first word a child says has to do with an important human activity,
and there are many times when silence is not appropriate. As a teacher,
I tried to keep the delicate balance between stressing communication and
providing the peaceful atmosphere that lets distractible children concentrate.
I tried to be economical with my own words (if you know me, you know I
talk a lot), and teach children to do likewise.
But there were also many times when children were supposed to talk. There
were writing conferences, brainstorming sessions, planning sessions. There
were even brief times when I asked children to just talk to each other.
If some adult walked in during those times, I felt a little guilty. But
I think they were important times; they gave children the message that
I, a teacher, approved of oral communication - encouraged it. It also
distinguished such times from the writing conferences, etc., when their
conversation was supposed to be more focussed.
The next time you're in a room with twenty or more adults, try noticing
what happens to the noise level. Adults, who are supposed to have a better
idea of when to be quiet, often have things they want to say. The moderator
or chairperson, if there is one, often has to remind people to be quiet.
Some of the most talkative adults I know are happy, likable, successful
people. And so are some of the most talkative children I know.
What to Teach 122.
Since I can remember, most elementary schools have predictably taught
reading, writing, spelling, handwriting, mathematics, science, social
studies, music, art, physical education, and library skills. The last
four were labelled "specials," which usually meant that the
regular classroom teacher was not in charge of teaching them; there were
other teachers for them, and the classroom teacher got a break.
Questioning the rituals and traditions of a system can be difficult when
one is part of the system. It can really annoy participants in the system,
who often get more questions than they want from outside the system. I
know this from personal experience; I learned, over the years, to choose
my battles, and to stand my ground when I had the best chance of having
an effect. And so I occasionally ignored my own priorities and taught
children things I didn't really think I should be teaching them.
But now I'm retired, and though I don't want to make unnecessary trouble
for people who are still working within the system, my old questions are
still there, and I want to ask them. If I get some people to think or
rethink, I'll be satisfied for now.
Why is it that so many schools teach the same subjects to children who
have such diverse interests and needs? Why are four of the subjects so
often taught by specialists? Why is science, for example, taught by the
regular classroom teacher, while art is taught by a specialist? What is
the implicit message children receive? That art is too important to be
taught by a regular teacher? That it's not important enough? That it requires
special skills that the regular classroom teacher just doesn't have?
I think any system can benefit by occasionally shifting focus from the
trees to the forest. It can be irritating to the people who are caught
up in the details of the system. I remember hearing groans at staff meetings
when rituals and traditions were questioned. Isn't there enough to think
about without asking old questions we asked years ago? Yes, there is enough
to think about. But nevertheless, there's more.
Appreciating Teachers 123.
When a child tells a teacher, "You're the best teacher in the world,"
or says, "You're the best teacher I've ever had," that appreciation,
though appreciated, is usually quickly transformed in the teacher's mind.
The child hasn't known very many teachers, has had even fewer, and it's
very possible that the child will soon meet "better" teachers.
The teacher translates the comment into "I like you," which
is just special enough.
When a parent or other adult voices appreciation, and gives supporting
details, it does something else for a teacher. It makes the teacher feel
good, as does the child's comment, but it also says to continue doing
what has been appreciated - maybe find ways to do it more, or better.
Maybe help other teachers learn to do it. It's not that the child's comment
is worth less; it's that the adult's specific comment has more practical
applications.
Lately, I've become aware of another kind of appreciation. The children
we teach - even the really young ones - grow up. And sometimes the resulting
adults have early childhood memories that outdo "You're the best
teacher in the world," or "You've really helped my child."
I have warm memories of some of the teachers I've had, including my second
grade teacher, Mrs. Keedle. I wish I had some way of letting her know
that I appreciate the support she gave me in second grade, and that I
spent years teaching second grade. She's probably in her mid-sixties now,
and I'll bet she'd like to hear that she's remembered fondly. I wrote
to the Oakwood Elementary School, and they don't know where she is. Her
first name is Barbara. Please let me know if you know where she is.
If you know a teacher who is doing things that help children feel good,
figure things out, learn what seemed too hard at first, I have an assignment
for you. Take a few minutes and write down your thoughts about this teacher.
Be as specific as possible. Get these thoughts to the teacher. It may
do more than put a smile on a teacher's face, although that's pretty good
by itself. It may help to make sure that more children get the kind of
treatment that you appreciate.
Mathematics 124.
Mathematics is a language and way of thinking that intimidates many people.
Whether you're in second grade trying to figure out how to deal with the
subtraction of two-digit numbers, or in high school or college trying
to figure out what calculus is all about, it can be hard because it doesn't
seem to have anything to do with anything you've ever experienced. In
second grade, you probably don't care that much about who has more apples,
and later on, you probably won't be building a bridge and doing whatever
calculus is involved in that. I haven't taken calculus yet, and so far,
I've managed to survive. I suspect that calculus wouldn't have helped
me with any major problems I've had.
I think my attitude toward calculus and other people's attitudes toward
other kinds of math are partly the results of teaching that was done by
teachers who either didn't like math or were so into it that they had
forgotten the first steps. The first steps, for most people, have to be
grounded in meaningful experience. Luckily, children like to play games,
and there are thousands of games that involve mathematical thinking. And
the average person's life is full of math.
Calculators don't do what I consider math; they only do arithmetic. Teachers
in schools traditionally give children papers and have the children write
numbers on the papers. For many children, math is what you have to do
if you want to go out to recess. I believe that math has more to do with
recess than with the rows of addition and subtraction problems many children
have to do.
If you're out at recess, and you have a prime number of children who want
to play soccer (and you want several teams) or an odd number (and you
want two teams), there's no way to make equal teams. If you do play soccer,
and you want to make sure the goalie stays in Goalie Land, you have to
figure out some boundaries. If recess is twenty minutes, how do you separate
your game into four quarters? Two halves? Probably, you won't need to
do that, but if you do, can you estimate, or must you use a watch? If
your watch doesn't have a timer, can you figure out how to tell when ten
minutes are up? Math is everywhere; you can't get away from it.
But there's something about the way math is often presented that makes
it seem as though it's on a par with taking out the garbage. Just something
you gotta do. I think it's too easy to blame individual teachers. Teachers
learned math in our schools, and many inherited what our schools had to
offer, including negative attitudes toward math. But I've seen math lessons
that were fun for all the children involved, and were still lessons. It
can be done.
Nature, Nurture, Etc. 125.
There's a saying that the acorn never falls far from the tree. It's a
statement about people's tendency to resemble their parents. But sometimes
the acorn does fall far. Sometimes an apple seems to fall from an oak
tree, or an acorn and an apple. Sometimes a tree can be a veritable horn
of plenty. Enough with this possibly obscure metaphor. Your child or children
may not resemble you or each other as much as you expected, hoped, feared.
Maybe the successes or troubles you've had were not genetically or osmotically
transmitted to your offspring. I think we make trouble for ourselves when
we look for signs of ourselves in our children. The statement, "He's
just like you" or "She's just like me" are not very useful
statements, and can cause problems.
One of the reasons we have children - for some people, a major reason
- is to achieve immortality. It's not our fault; nature probably intended
to have us longing for immortality and reaching for it through reproduction.
Like all the other species, we're supposed to survive, and the chance
to be immortal is a very effective motivation for getting our species
to survive.
But to some degree, I think it's a trick nature's playing on us. Our children
may end up liking things we don't like at all, choosing careers that have
nothing to do with our own, and so on. While we nostalgically listen to
Frank Sinatra or the Beatles, they may listen to disco or punk rock. In
our culture, every generation has its own style. To those in the preceding
generation, it may sometimes seem as if there was a mistake in the hospital
nursery.
Teachers often end up with younger siblings of children they've taught,
and wonder how these children could possibly be related to each other.
And they invariably end up with the children of some kind of parents.
Teachers think, this couldn't possibly be Craig's brother, Ellen's sister,
Marie's and Stephen's daughter. This reaction is based on the expectation
that children will resemble their parents.
To some degree, they may carry on some traits. Once, at a parent conference,
I described a disturbing tendency I saw in a child. I said, "Elijah
doesn't seem to be able to express complete thoughts. He often answers
complicated questions with one-word answers. Do you see this problem at
all at home?"
Elijah's father answered, "No." A one-word answer.
But it wouldn't have been out of the question for the father to have answered,
"I'm very aware of Elijah's reticence to express himself verbally.
I'd really appreciate any insights you have about this problem."
Because Elijah, notwithstanding genetics and the effects of the family
environment, is not his father. Pets 126.
There's something about a pet that meets a human need. A dog can be the
kind of friend we sometimes wish people could be. It's probably good that
people don't give us the same kind of unthinking loyalty we can get from
a dog, but nevertheless, there are times when some of us wish they could.
And a cat will give another kind of love. A cat is looking for warmth
and nourishment. Cats don't seem as loyal, but they seem less dependent.
Some people prefer that. Dogs and cats can get on our nerves, but they
serve functions, and they can be lovable. Other animals make good pets,
but I don't have as much experience with them. In fact, my sweeping generalizations
about dogs and cats may not apply to your own dog or cat.
I don't know when or how people started to make pets out of members of
other species. I think, but am not sure, that we're the only species that
does that. Other animals may use their fellow earthlings, but I don't
think they have pets. The ants who herd aphids probably don't name their
aphids. I don't think the hippopotamus loves its secretary bird. But I
have no way of knowing.
Children do name and love their pets. I recently saw a child burst into
tears when a goldfish died. It was named Swimmy, and it was one of the
goldfish in the classroom fishtank. I think, but again am not sure, that
Swimmy never developed the kind of attachment the child developed. But
it didn't matter whether the attachment was mutual.
I miss my dog, Chipper. I wasn't there when he died; I was in college.
But when I was growing up, he was happy when I was happy, sad when I was
sad. If he thought someone was going to hurt me, he growled. If he had
died when I was a child, I would have learned something about death and
sadness that I didn't learn until later.
I think there are valid reasons not to let a child have a pet. Allergies
may get in the way. The family's life style may leave no time or room
for a pet. The child may want a pet that is too expensive, isn't allowed
by a landlord, or just isn't practical for other reasons. There can be
a philosophical objection - what right do we have to own another creature?
But I don't think the possibility that the pet will some day die is a
good reason. "'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have
loved at all."
(Tennyson)
Reputations 127.
What you have already done and been usually contributes to what you do
and who you are now. You may do all you can to wipe the slate as clean
as you can get it. You may turn over a new leaf, and really keep to your
new ways, but your past doesn't go away. Bygones, unfortunately, are rarely
just bygones.
Part of the reason starts out internally. To some degree, you are who
you are, and the cleanest slate in the world won't change that. I've heard
it said that no matter where you go, when you get off the plane, there
you are. Part of the reason has to do with the way other people see you.
Some of them, at least, cling to their view of you, and the way they see
you defines you, to some degree. And of course, you may end up internalizing
the way you're seen. So you become and do what your reputation tells you
to become and do.
The child who got in trouble last year may resolve, "This year I'll
be good. I'll do everything the way I'm supposed to. I'll make my parents
and teachers proud of me." I remember starting school years that
way as a child. I was going to take notes, do all my homework and remember
to hand it in, and not talk when I wasn't supposed to. I sometimes wanted
to tell teachers about such resolutions, but for all I knew, they didn't
know about my problems. And why should I tell them?
The parents also have reputations: "Oh, you have Sidney this year?
He's a joy, but his parents!" Over coffee in the teachers' room,
your ideosyncrasies are described to the teacher who will soon be teaching
your child. It isn't fair. You may seem overprotective, scattered, neglectful,
or whatever, but that's not what you are. Or at least it's not all you
are. They have no right to talk about you that way.
And then there's the teacher's reputation. "Make sure your child
is in Ms. McNortlehelm's class. She really has her act together. Ms. Repirtinjek
means well, but she just can't seem to tune in to the children's needs.
Ms. McNortlehelm has a gentle but structured style; Ms. Repirtinjek tries
to, but doesn't, and never has, and the children know it from day one."
Of course, part of the reason they know - maybe a major part - is the
reputation produced by the rumor mill.
There is a good reason for these rumors. It's good to be prepared for
what may happen. It's good to have a way to avoid destructive situations.
Sometimes rumors are all you have. But rumors may be all they are.
Sarcasm and Other Put-Downs 128. Before I learned how to recognize and
express my anger, I used sarcasm. I thought I was just exercising my sense
of humor, and when people reacted by being offended and hurt, I thought
they just didn't get the joke. In my conscious mind, I was totally innocent,
and could only pity the people who couldn't see how innocent I was.
There is a certain category of exclamation (Duh, Ah-Doy, Duh-hickey, etc.)
and an accompanying facial expression that serve to tell people that they've
said something obvious, or missed something obvious. When children use
these, they are putting people down. Children, like adults, need to establish
their own places in society, and for some people, put-downs are attempts
to find those places. The more people you can get to feel stupid, the
smarter you can feel.
It doesn't work. Eventually, people realize that they know something important
that you don't know - that you are hostile. They may even figure out that
you're insecure. And most of the people who figure this out will not be
motivated to come to your aid. Even very nurturing people can get turned
off by the hostility, and go help some other insecure person. The people
who are strong enough to help hostile people are few and far between,
and hostile people aren't as scarce.
Hostility is easier to deal with in children. It's not dry yet, and it's
easier to work with. Of course, you're hearing this from someone who taught
in Wellesley, Acton, Amherst, and other suburbs. I have friends who assure
me that children in less supportive communities can display hostility
that rivals the worst that adults have to offer. I'll take their word
for it.
But the repressed hostility couched in sarcasm and other put-downs is
a force, even in comfortable communities, and we owe it to children to
help them come to terms with what they are repressing, and find ways to
express it without making life harder for themselves and others.
Distractibility 129.
Please bear with me while I suggest an alternative way to look at distractibility.
If you have a child who is distractible - perhaps one who has been diagnosed
and labelled - it may be hard to hear this. If you are one of the diagnosticians,
you may feel that my perspective on this issue is naive, counterproductive,
and maybe even dangerous. But I've sometimes used this perspective in
working with children, and seen good effects.
A person who is distractible is someone who does not attend to the matters
some other people want them to attend to. The distractible person may
want to pay attention, to some degree, but doesn't. The result is that
this person ends up having difficulty doing many of the things that would
add up to success in school.
As a distractible person, I'll flit from point to point on this subject.
There are so many things I want to say, and I'm afraid I'll forget some
of them if I try to write an organized, coherent article. Maybe when I'm
done I'll reorganize the article so that you can follow me better. Maybe
not. Maybe my distractible style will help me make my point.
A child in one of my classes had a reputation for having low intelligence.
Test scores and a host of knowledgeable adults had helped to build this
reputation. So a science consultant who came to my class was baffled when
this child seemed to have more success than any other child with a certain
lesson. It was a lesson that involved noticing details of a phenomenon.
I suggested that a child with "low intelligence" might have
more success because there were fewer preconceptions. Preconceptions can
be distracting.
When I took my class on that three-day field trip to Cape Cod I keep referring
to, the distractible children in my class were hard to pick out. If I
asked children to find as many insects as they could on a beach, some
distractible children had an easier time of it. If you do too good a job
paying attention, you may sometimes miss a lot.
I'm glad I was distractible as a teacher. It made it easier to keep my
class focussed; I'd immediately be distracted by comments or movements
that were not "right," and correct them. Distractible children
can't get away with as much if they have a distractible teacher.
When I work with a distractible child, I assume that the attention span
will be short. If the rest of the class is supposed to do something that
requires concentration, I build distractions into the modification for
this child. As a volunteer, I'm freer to do this: "Write word number
three, and then squeeze my hand as hard as you can." The child is
more willing to write word number three, and afterwards, to write word
number four, if there is an activity in between that has nothing to do
with either word.
If we accept distractibility as a given, and plan accordingly, it's less
of a problem. I'm not denying that it's a problem, but imagine being captured
by aliens who wanted to experiment with you. They wanted to see whether
you, like them, could count the number of meteors in a meteor shower.
If that ever happens, I hope you're sufficiently distractible.
Lucy, Murphy, and Reality 130.
In the 1950's, Lucy got pregnant. Desi was the father, and he was married
to her. He had been for quite a while. But still, it was a scandal. I
was a child, and I didn't understand the scandal. I remember thinking
pregnancy was some kind of disease you got by doing something nice people
didn't do. I resolved that I was never going to get pregnant, and it could
be said that in a way, I never really have.
Later, I learned that there were people who had gotten pregnant even before
Lucy had. Even my own mother had been pregnant. More than once. I figured
that if my own mother could do it, it couldn't be as bad as people seemed
to think.
Much later, Murphy Brown wanted a baby, and got pregnant. There was no
Desi. She wanted to be a mother, and she had no Desi, Ozzie, or anyone
to be the father. The social forces that had made getting married less
of a priority for many people had not had a corresponding impact on people's
desire to reproduce. The phrase "family values" was thrown around,
and there was an attempt to make it into a scandal on a par with the Lucy/Desi
scandal.
But I don't think the scandal ever quite materialized. Commercial television
is supposed to sell products, and even though many products get sold through
manipulation of culture, when there is a controversial issue at hand,
it's often a safer bet to reflect culture. You can't go around telling
people their lives aren't legitimate.
My point is that just as Lucy was far from the first person to be pregnant,
Murphy was not the first to decide that having a baby was an important
enough priority for her to do it the hard way if the easier way didn't
seem to be available.
I think that we, as a culture, are headed for big trouble if we cling
to old "family values" so hard that we ignore reality. We've
got to become more of a supportive culture. There are lots of single parents
in our culture - some by choice, some not - and we've got to make decisions
with that reality in mind. We've got to think more about valuing families
and less about the abstraction labelled "family values." Sorry,
Dan.
Making Believe 131.
You may want to read this article yourself before you let your children
see it. You may have been telling your children some things that aren't
true, and you may want to keep the myths going. I'll try to cloak my references
in verbiage. I, myself, have always tried to be honest with children,
but I respect your right to hold on to the enchantment that usually comes
with believing some stories.
But no, Virginia, it's not true. The only miracle on 34th Street is the
occasional available parking space. That money under your pillow was put
there by a human being while you were asleep. And storks have nothing
to do with the birth of human babies.
I like making believe as much as the next guy - maybe more than some.
Every year I read The House at Pooh Corner to children, there was a certain
point where a few tears came to my eyes. Christopher Robin was trying
to explain to his friends why he wouldn't be with them as much any more.
It's not that he was dying; it's that he was beginning to think stuffed
animals aren't alive.
I think some of the myths we've handed on down to children have been fairly
harmless. Though I'm Jewish and don't celebrate Christmas, my wife did,
and we did Santa Claus. At a certain point, one of the children asked
me whether there really was a Santa Claus, and I was honest with her.
When she asked why we pretended there was one, I answered, "Because
it's fun." She was satisfied with that. I don't think there are too
many children who saw a price tag on one of the gifts "from Santa"
and decided never to trust their parents again.
As I was with many issues, I used to be more of a fanatic. I used to dwell
on the importance of "truth," and think nasty thoughts about
parents who "lied" to their children. Now, don't get me wrong;
I haven't come full circle. I still won't tell children things I know
aren't true. When children ask me about the myths, I refer them to other
authorities, explaining that my point of view is only my point of view.
I don't mention the night I stayed up to see my mother slip a quarter
under my pillow.
But I'm a teacher, and whenever I get a chance, I teach. Virginia, there
are many very generous people in the world. But reindeer are not strong
enough to pull that guy and enough presents for all the children of the
world. And they can't fly.
Reinforcing Self-Control 132.
Most of the reinforcing we do as parents and teachers is in response to
what children do or say. That's natural. It's hard to give children credit
for not doing or saying something they shouldn't do or say; maybe they
didn't even think about it, and reinforcement may bring unnecessary attention
to it. But I do remember one episode that I want to run by you. It was
a time I celebrated a child's self-control. It felt like the right thing
to do at the time, and I'll never know whether it was the best thing to
do. Education is not an exact science.
Daphne knew how to bug Zeke. She was an expert at it. She could do it
with a well-timed facial expression or a comment that would seem perfectly
innocent to someone who didn't know them. She never got in trouble for
it, and Zeke usually reacted in a way that did get him in trouble. Both
were in my class, and though I saw what was happening, there wasn't much
I could do about it. Daphne's shenanigans didn't break any rules, and
Zeke's reactions were unacceptable.
But once, I managed to time my intervention just right, I think. Daphne
provoked Zeke in her usual way, and Zeke, though obviously annoyed, did
not react. I immediately congratulated him for his self-control. I explained
to the class that "someone" (I did not draw any attention to
Daphne) had done something that had bothered Zeke, and even though Zeke
had wanted to yell or hit, he had stopped himself. I encouraged the rest
of the class to learn from Zeke's example. Later that day, I sent Zeke
down to the principal's office, where the principal congratulated him
and gave him a certificate of appreciation. I called Zeke's parents that
evening, and they joined in the plot to make a big deal out of Zeke's
self-control.
Now, maybe I over-reacted. Maybe my response to the event got other children
to wish they had trouble with self-control, so that they could improve
and get a certificate from the principal and all. But I don't think so.
I think Daphne saw that her system had backfired. Daphne was not evil;
she had been provoking Zeke because of some of her own problems. Now she
saw Zeke getting the kind of appreciation she liked to get, and she had
something to think about.
Zeke's self-control did improve noticeably that year. I don't know how
much that one incident contributed to his improvement; as I said, education
is not an exact science. But it makes me wonder.
Lesson Plans 133.
Most teachers write lesson plans. These plans come in all kinds of formats.
Some include behavioral objectives: "Given ten word problems involving
addition or subtraction, the child will correctly solve each problem with
at least 80% accuracy." Some list materials needed. Some are simply
schedules: "8:30 - Reading, 9:30 - Math, 10:00 - Recess." There
are at least as many kinds of lesson plans as there are teachers.
For me, and for many teachers I knew, the lesson plans were often a base
from which to depart. It was easier to be spontaneous in my teaching -
to respond to "the teachable moment" - if there was something
concrete from which I could deviate.
During my final few years as a classroom teacher, lesson plans began to
play a new role. I found that predictability was becoming more and more
important as I involved more and more adults in my classroom. The adults
who came in to help teach science needed to know that science would indeed
be taught approximately when they came in.
Also, about the same time, the curriculum in the Wellesley Public Schools
was becoming more predictable. Children in third grade learned about Russia.
They learned about the physics of sound. The units we developed contained
fairly specific lesson plans which often made their way directly into
our plan books.
I never learned to like writing lesson plans. I don't know whether anyone
likes it. For me, it often felt as if I was building a wall around myself,
and around the children. Children came to school with a myriad of thoughts,
feelings, concerns, interests, and my plans dictated which, if any, would
be addressed. If a child was going to spend spring vacation in Venezuela,
we did not do a unit on Venezuela. If a child brought an interesting rock
to school, we did not do a unit on rocks.
When we write lesson plans, we imply that the experiences we have in mind
will cause learning that is in some way worth more than the learning that
would happen without our intervention. In fact, that's the implication
on which the existence of school is based.
But it never quite feels right to ask a child to put aside a favorite
topic and focus on the topic the teacher has written down in a plan book.
Intermarriage and Children 134.
There are all kinds of intermarriages, and it could be argued that every
marriage is an intermarriage; when two people marry each other, they attempt
to find a way to bring along their separate selves, and to some degree,
hold on to the parts of themselves they consider most important. Sometimes
they don't learn what is important until they are already married, and
for the marriage to survive, they must find ways to deal with the new
discoveries. In the best of marriages, there is compromise, and in some
of the worst, there is surrender; one partner surrenders what is important,
and gets nothing in return.
In this article, I'll focus on what is usually called "intermarriage"
- the marriage of two people who have significantly different religious
or racial backgrounds. When a man marries a woman, that is not usually
considered intermarriage, even though the experience of being male can
be quite different from the experience of being female. And marriages
of people from different countries or religious denominations, for example
Italians and Germans, or Episcopalians and Methodists, are not usually
seen as intermarriages.
When two people decide to intermarry, they are deciding to find ways to
make their lives compatible. When they decide to have children, they test
that compatibility. Our connections with our children are strong, and
we learn, as we parent, more about what is important to us, and how important
it is. We want our children to experience some of what has been meaningful
to us.
When I was a child, there was a menorah in our house, and no Christmas
tree. I loved the flickering of the Hannukah lights, and the songs we
sang around the candles. I didn't know, when my children were young, how
important that was to me, and they did not experience Hannukah as young
children. I wish they had.
They have fond memories of the times we spent by our Christmas tree, and,
in fact, so do I. For a long time, I rationalized the absence of Hannukah
symbols. I said I'd rather celebrate the birth of a baby than a victory
in a war. But I don't think that's the bottom line. The bottom line is
that I did not work to make sure that my cultural heritage was part of
the intermarriage.
If you raise children within an intermarriage, I urge you to explore your
heritage and make sure you know what's important to you. It does make
things a little more complicated, maybe, but it's your children's birthright.
Cheering Up Children 135. Beatrice came to school one day looking as if
her world had fallen apart. Committed as I am to taking children seriously,
my first approach was to show her my concern, and ask her questions, hoping
to find out the nature and cause of the calamity, and perhaps contribute
some helpful insights.
This is often a good approach. Children have lives they live outside school,
and these lives, important in their own right, can also be obstacles to
effective functioning in school. And so my first approach to Beatrice's
dismal look was appropriate as a first approach. One never knows what
may be happening in a child's life.
But I don't think the look on Beatrice's face represented any kind of
calamity. After seeing the look for several days, I began to think that
I was being manipulated. Beatrice loved to get attention, and calamity
or not, the face she showed me each day was getting her the attention
she wanted. I know the word "manipulate" is not quite what I
mean; there was no devious intent. But I don't know any word closer to
my meaning.
It's important to pay attention to what is going on for children. There
are too many things that could be really wrong, and we can't rely on other
people to discover those things. Every time we see the signs of problems
in children, we owe it to children to pay attention to those signs. But
with Beatrice, I had already paid quite a bit of attention to the signs,
and I had a hunch that there was no real crisis.
I tried another approach. An approach I used to use too often with children.
I said a few things that I knew would probably get Beatrice to smile.
Sure enough, daylight shone on her face. A dazzling smile, full of joie
de vivre. Beatrice has a great smile. I commented on the beauty of the
smile, but then quickly apologized for distracting her from the calamity.
I wanted her to know that it's all right to feel sad, upset, etc. But
the smile didn't go away.
That approach works for now, with Beatrice. Perhaps I'm still being "manipulated;"
she still enters school with a look that spells disaster. But instead
of spending ten minutes probing, to no avail, I spend thirty seconds eliciting
the smile. Eventually, I'll make sure she can bring out her smile by herself.
And I'll never dismiss the possibility that something is really wrong.
But sometimes, it seems that the best way to treat a child who looks upset
is to "cheer him/her up."
A Male Teacher 136. When people meet me, and find out that I work with
young children, they are usually impressed. "Good," they say.
"Young children need the influence of a man." I'm always a little
annoyed by that reaction; I've worked hard to become good at teaching
young children - I'm still working hard at it - but the reaction people
often give refers to a trait over which I had no control. I was born male,
and though I think it's a fine gender (one of the two best, I think),
I take no credit for it. It's something that just happened.
The reaction can mean different things, depending on the source. Some
people may mean the opposite of what they say: "Isn't it a little
weird for a man to be teaching young children? What's wrong with you?"
Once, in a job interview, a prospective employer seemed to be uninterested
in my experience, philosophy, or education. He asked me whether I was
interested in football. I had told him I prefer second grade, and he was
obviously trying to find out whether I was a "real man." I'm
not interested in football, and I didn't get the job.
Some people who applaud maleness seem to be implying that men will somehow
do a better job with children than women will. I strongly disagree; there
are many variables involved in good teaching, but gender is irrelevant.
It's important to listen to children, to know what language can do, to
understand the various aspects of the curriculum...it's impossible to
ennumerate the qualities good teachers need. But a Y chromosome is not
one of them.
Teachers of young children in this country tend to be women, and I do
believe that that tendency indicates a problem, just as the maleness of
presidents indicates a problem. There ought to be a balance, and there
isn't one. There's nothing about the task of helping children deal with
life on earth that makes women automatically better candidates. If that's
what people mean when they tell me it's good to see a man teaching young
children, I guess I'll have to agree.
But the teacher's gender has nothing to do with the quality of the teacher.
If you think it's good to see a man working with young children, ask yourself
whether it's good to see a woman working with young children. It really
is just as good. It's more common, true, but it's just as good.
The "Spoiled" Child 137.
I don't like the term "spoiled child," and I don't use it. The
term implies that the child has a life that is too easy - maybe there's
"too much" attention, material wealth, companionship, whatever
other people don't have enough of. I've known and I know many children,
and I can easily apply many descriptive terms to them, but I can't think
of a "spoiled" child.
As a teacher, and as an occasional political activist, I do what I can
to help make things fair, but I don't believe that the unfairness I encounter
spoils children. Many children in Wellesley have things other children
wish they had - their own home, a parent who stays home, chances to travel.
But I don't think these children are "spoiled."
Perhaps the reason I think this way is that I'm "spoiled." I
don't have a lot of material wealth, but I don't want a lot. I have a
lot of the things I want most in life - friendship, solitude, and the
freedom to do what's important to me. People who want what I have and
see me seeming to take it all for granted may think I'm "spoiled,"
just as people who focus more on my health problems may pity me.
We try to make life as easy as possible for our children. Some of us are
good at letting children know we love them. Such children won't learn,
firsthand, what being unloved is all about. Some of us can afford to take
our children to warm, exciting places in the winter, or to our private
beaches in the summer. Those children won't get a sense of what it feels
like to be poor.
But whatever we manage to provide for our children, I think every child
knows about adversity. The poor little rich child may envy the child who
has lots of free time, lots of attention. The child whose parents are
always accessible may envy the one who seems to be popular. The popular
child may envy the one who gets to go to Disney World every year.
I'm not saying the world is fair. It isn't. Children don't get what's
due them. Neither do adults. But if parents, teachers, children, society,
and fate cooperate to make it so that some children do get some of the
good things they deserve, I don't think it's useful to say they're "spoiled."
When It's Cold Outside 138.
We're so lucky to be adults. We get to decide whether to travel, move
to a new home, splurge. It was worth the eighteen (?) year wait. But sometimes
we abuse the privilege, the way high school seniors lord it over the underclasses:
"We've been here longer, so we get to make the rules. And we get
to break them. We have the power!"
When cold weather sets in, many of us don't particularly like it. As I'm
writing this, it's snowing outside my window. And it's cold out there.
I'm not only an adult; I'm retired! If I decide to go to the Fort River
School and work with the children there today, it's because I like doing
that even more than I hate cold weather.
When it's cold outside, recess becomes a bigger issue. The teachers who
have recess duty are often the ones to decide whether the recess will
be outdoors. This may seem like a small decision, but only if you haven't
been in the situation. The other teachers - the ones who will get to sit
in the teachers' room and have hot drinks while their comrades are out
braving the elements - hope the children will go outside. We sometimes
tell ourselves that the fresh air will do the children good, but who do
we think we're fooling? Having been there, I know why teachers hope children
will go outside. And I know the grateful feeling the off-duty teachers
feel when the on-duty teachers decide to take the children outside.
Cabin fever, the tendency to act a little crazy when you're cooped up
inside, is part of the reason. Teachers (even teachers who love children)
and parents (ditto) can begin to notice themselves losing patience when
children show symptoms of cabin fever. And so if it's not cold enough
to be a real threat to children's health, out they go.
Another reason is the nature of indoor recess. If recess is outdoors,
the classroom can be left intact. Papers can stay right where they are,
and children can resume their work when they get their layers of winter
clothing off. Science experiments are left alone. If children have troubles
with each other, the on-duty teachers deal with it.
I fully understand why teachers want, maybe need those minutes of time
when children are outside dealing with winter and teachers aren't. And
there are even children who want to be out there. I don't understand why,
but I know there are such children. But there are many children who feel
the way many of us feel about cold weather, and those who think about
it realize that it's unfair.
I'm not proposing a solution. This is not a staff meeting or PTO meeting;
it's an article I've written. I'm just reminding you, in case you've forgotten,
or informing you, if you never knew, that it is a problem.
Inspirations 139.
There's no telling where you'll get ideas from. Someone says something,
and you get an idea that seems totally unrelated to what was said. You
see something, it shakes something loose in your mind, and profound thoughts
come pouring out. Or you're sitting, looking out the window at the snow,
and suddenly you solve a problem that has been plaguing you forever.
When there are all kinds of jobs to do, you probably don't get as many
chances to be inspired. Or if you do, there's little time to act on the
inspirations; the things have to get done. People often talk about the
creative things they're going to do when they get around to it. If fantasy
were reality, there would be millions of little houses, by beaches or
in the woods, filled with solitary individuals who are writing books.
They'd all be living simply, and they wouldn't have neighbors nearby,
except when they wanted to.
I live in an apartment. Most of my neighbors are pretty conspicuous; the
walls are thin, and when a phone rings, or there's a knock on a door,
it's anybody's guess which tenant is the one who ought to respond. There's
hardly a moment when I can pretend I'm far from the madding crowd. But
I'm writing a book, and I don't need an isolated house by a beach. All
I need is time, and at long last, I have a life wherein every minute has
sixty seconds, every week has seven days, etc.
Today I worked with Bertrand, a child who was supposed to be writing a
story. He wasn't in the mood to write, and my usual tricks weren't working;
he knew those tricks, and he wasn't going to fall for them. Then I thought
of Anne Bancroft and Patty Duke. I tried something I don't think I tried
in twenty-five years of teaching. I told Bertrand I wanted to work with
someone who was writing, and I headed towards another child, who was already
writing.
It worked. Bertrand may not have been in the mood to write, but he wanted
me to stay with him, and he knew I could happily work with someone else.
So he started writing. The story he had been holding inside himself flowed
out. I mentally thanked Anne Bancroft, even though I knew "The Miracle
Worker" was a movie based on a play based on Helen Keller's childhood,
and Anne Bancroft is just an actress.
Inspiration is all over the place; I didn't have to have a cabin in the
woods. All I needed was time and the freedom to use it the way I wanted.
The Teacher's Voice 140.
Throughout my teaching career, I had strengths and weaknesses. In this
article, I'll focus on one of my weaknesses. I liked the sound of my own
voice, and since I was the one who decided who had permission to talk,
I talked a lot. Some of what I said was quite worthwhile - a lot of it
- and I said it effectively, but I talked too much.
This made it so that I had to work harder to keep children's attention.
And in the thick of battle, I sometimes thought the children had the problem.
Sometimes, of course, it actually was their problem; I was saying things
they ought to have heard, and they needed to learn to listen better.
But now, observing other teachers at work, I realize that some of the
best teachers don't seem to say much. They know what they need to say,
and they say it. Then they get children to talk, or they move around the
room while children work, and perhaps converse with individual children.
If you walk by these classrooms, you don't hear the teacher's voice much.
In fact, you may even walk into the classroom and wonder where the teacher
is.
Most children (and most adults) don't like to spend much time listening
to other people's explanations. Once in a while, a topic will capture
children's imaginations, and thereby, capture their attention. But that
is the exception. If a teacher has to keep stopping to remind children
to pay attention, it's likely that that teacher is talking too much.
Why does this happen? Well, as one teacher who has talked too much, I
can give you my take on the problem. I often knew what I wanted children
to learn, and telling them seemed like an efficient way to make that happen.
This is often false, but it usually seemed true. And since, as I said,
I liked the sound of my own voice, I got some pleasure out of talking,
whether or not children heard what I was saying. To some degree, I got
better and better at holding children's attention rather than working
to need less of their attention.
I'm not condemning myself. Nor am I condemning other teachers who talk
a lot. Excessive talking is only one problem, and all of the best teachers
I know (myself included) have problems. But it's important to recognize
it as a problem and work on it. We've got to become more efficient with
our words, so that we don't waste children's attention, and so that there's
plenty of time left to hear what the children say, or to let them think.
The Sound of Insecurity 141.
It occurred to me, after I wrote my previous article, that I'd missed
an important reason for teachers to spend too much time talking. I'd focussed
on the reason I'd done it as a veteran teacher - enjoyment of the sound
of my own voice. That's a common reason, and it deserves consideration.
Children often enjoy the sounds they make, too, and there's only a certain
amount of air molecule vibration that ought to happen simultaneously in
a classroom.
But some teachers - especially inexperienced teachers - talk too much
for another reason. To the novice, teaching can seem like an overwhelming
challenge. There are things we know as adults, and somehow we're supposed
to arrange experiences for children that enable them to know these things.
The student teacher, or inexperienced but employed teacher, can be full
of self-doubt. Teachers around him/her seem to know what they're doing,
take children's respect and attention for granted, and spend relaxed time
during breaks thinking and talking about their favorite topics, which
may or may not have anything to do with teaching.
Meanwhile, the poor inexperienced teacher spends hours planning lessons,
examining approaches and trying them out to see what works. What works
with other adults is talking. Talking clears up misunderstandings, builds
bridges between people, gets things done. It's natural, in a way, to believe
that talking will work with children. And it does. The neophyte often
sees his/her mentors seem to accomplish their goals with children by saying
things, and naturally deduces that words are the way to do it. If certain
words don't work, other words are tried. Children listen, at first, because
that's what they're supposed to do.
Then a few children stop listening, because they've listened as much as
they can. And pretty soon, it seems as if only a few dedicated, patient
children are listening. The teacher, still desperately clinging to the
possibility that some well-chosen words will do the trick, talks on. And
soon it seems as if the real problem is that kids just don't know how
to listen any more.
It can be hard to believe that silence can do the job. If children don't
seem to get the point after five different explanations, how can they
get it through silence?
But silence is often exactly what is needed. The new teacher may be having
brainstorms. Maybe, thinks this teacher, saying it this way will explain
it. Maybe that way. And children certainly need to know this tidbit of
information. And that one.
I understand the problem. I've got a lot to say to people who are beginning
to work with children, and as a writer, I believe in the power of words.
I've written thousands of words about working with children. But most
of my words are for adults, who are better at paying attention, and besides,
if they get tired of my words, they can put them away. Children often
need that freedom, too.
Children's Wisdom 142.
Like the rest of us, children say things that shed light. They see things
in new ways, and, lo and behold, they uncover bits of truth. Though I
think this is true of everyone, when you hear profound words coming from
your own child, you may think you are the parent of a reincarnated sage.
I've heard parents speak with reverence about their own children's wisdom,
and I've seen looks of pride and admiration.
The admiration reinforces the wisdom. Once, when I was a child, I told
my mother that even though I was an atheist, I believed that if all the
people on earth could get together and work together, they would be God.
I still remember the intense look of pride on my mother's face. I'd pulled
off some wisdom, and if that's the reaction I was going to get, I was
going to say wise things whenever I got the chance.
Most children aren't actually wiser than most adults. If they were, growing
up would be a counterproductive thing to do. In fact, with the exception
of my own children (who were both gurus by age three), most children aren't
even as wise as most adults. Wisdom comes from experience, and the wisdom
we see in our children is at least partly a reflection of our own wisdom.
I suspect that my mother unknowingly got me thinking atheistic, humanistic
thoughts, and didn't really need to be so surprised by what she saw as
"my" wisdom. And I'm sure that plenty of other adults, had they
heard my words on God and people, would have responded quite differently.
I think part of the reason children's words often astonish us is that
children haven't learned how to dress up their thoughts. Their wisdom
doesn't contain obscure references. They are often less intent than adults
are on getting people to know how wise they are. In other words, they
don't try as hard.
I'm not saying these things to belittle the gems that come from the mouths
of babes. I do believe in children's wisdom. But I think some adults deserve
to take more credit than they do. Keep respecting the children for the
great thoughts they think and the things they say. But realize, too, that
your preadolescent, your adolescent, your young adult, and you have wisdom,
too.
No Owner's Manual 143.
Imagine going into a store to buy something you really want. You buy it,
bring it home, and when you open the box, you discover that they forgot
to enclose the owner's manual. You return to the store, as a good consumer
should, but instead of being handed the owner's manual by an embarrassed
clerk, you are directed to aisle seven, the owner's manual aisle. All
of the books there seem to be the one you're looking for. There are other
customers there, some of whom have already bought several owner's manuals
for the same product. Some are discussing the pros and cons of various
owner's manuals. Some advise you about which manual to use. Others disagree.
Still others say the product works better if you don't use an owner's
manual.
|