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.