"I'm Done" 200.
Some children, for various reasons, like to be done with their work. It
could be that there is some carrot at the end of the stick - that whatever
the child is going to do after the work is done is so attractive that finishing
is a high priority. Unless the teacher or parent has a good system of quality
control, the child's eagerness to be done can result in substandard work.
There's also the sense of accomplishment in a job well done. That's more
like what we're hoping for. We want children to stay with a task so that
it gets done within a reasonable amount of time, and have enough of an investment
in it so that it also represents the child's skill, intelligence, and commitment.
Some children like to be done with their work because their work is hard,
and maybe unpleasant. Some just like the feeling of being done. They like
cloture. They like to close their books, hand in their papers, put their
pencils away, and get on with whatever is supposed to happen next.
This is my two hundredth article. When 1995 was drawing to a close, I arbitrarily
decided that I wanted to be done with two hundred articles before 1996,
and I made it. To some of you, that may seem obsessive/compulsive. Or at
least it may seem a little too neat. Knowing me, you may still think so.
It depends on how you know me.
But I'm not done. Every once in a while, I think I've only got one or two
more articles to write about parenting, teaching, and children. Then another
subject comes up. If you're reading this article in The Wellesley Townsman,
it's probably December, 1998. I don't know whether I'll ever have said all
I want to say about the process of helping children live and grow.
When children tell me they're done with their work, I ask them to stay while
I look at it. They often don't want to stay - they want to hand it in and
be done with it. Staying, too often, means getting the work handed back
and having to do more. They want to wash their hands of the work, not have
to take another look.
Sometimes, I've had to do just what such children expect me to do - hand
the work back for correction or elaboration. But I try to find times when
I can unobtrusively appreciate the work a child has done, asking the child
to stay and feel appreciated. Partly, I'm doing just what I seem to be doing
- congratulating the child on a job well done. But I'm also trying to put
that act of staying in a better light, hoping that "I'm done"
will sometimes be replaced by "Look at this." Thinking 201.
In school, thinking is usually treated as a method for solving problems,
or as a means toward some other end. It's less often considered a goal in
itself. I don't know why, but let me think about it. I'm sure I'll come
up with a reason. Maybe even more than one. Being retired, I have plenty
of time to think. Reading this article, you have no way of knowing how long
I had to think before, during, and after the time I wrote the first draft.
I'll start the second paragraph when I have some idea why thinking doesn't
seem to be valued more in the school curriculum.
Okay. I've thought of some reasons. First of all, teachers often have to
prove that they've taught. If they want to prove that they've taught reading,
writing, and arithmetic, it's not so hard - just have children read, write,
and compute. If they do those things better after a certain amount of time
in a teacher's class, that teacher usually gets some credit for
the improvement. Progress in science, social studies, and the arts is a
little murkier, but it's still somewhat quantifiable.
But how is a teacher going to prove that she/he has taught children how
to think? And how is the community going to respond or react when people
hear that teachers are teaching children how to think? Isn't that brainwashing?
Who's to say any teacher's thinking is clear enough to serve as a model
for children? Shouldn't teachers stick with the skills that get tested on
standardized tests? Some thinking is involved there, but only enough to
get the right answers.
But I've seen excellent lessons that focus on children's thinking. I once
came upon a logic unit for high school. It taught students what a syllogism
was, examined several kinds of logical errors people make, and gave them
strategies for avoiding these errors in their own thinking. A few times,
I've used and seen other teachers use a thinking lesson to make the transition
from one unit to another. For example, after a unit on insects and before
a unit on fairy tales, I asked children how fairy tales were like insects.
The children came up with great answers. Two I remember well are that both
fairy tales and insects have three parts (beginning, middle, and end; head,
thorax, and abdomen) and that both have been around for a long time. Answers
like those won't show up on standardized tests, but they're evidence of
good use of time spent in school.
Not everything worthwhile can be tested, and I think a lot of time is wasted
testing to see whether children have learned. Schools, at their best, are
very different from factories; there isn't a fool-proof way to check the
products to see whether they're good enough. But in my opinion, the ability
to think is an important skill that can prove very useful in later life.
And it's an appropriate subject for the school curriculum, even though it
can't be tested as easily as addition and subtraction can.
New Year's Evolutions 202.
I hereby do resolve, on this, the last day of 1995, that I'm going to do
my best to work on decreasing the number of resolutions I make, and focus
my energy on evolving. Deciding to think differently and/or behave differently,
for many people, is an effective way to really make changes. For me, it
may be helpful, from time to time, to tell myself that I'm going to make
a change, but when I tell other people, my words often come back to haunt
me. And when I believe the words myself too fervently, I often disappoint
myself.
Children make lots of resolutions all the time, and they often really believe
themselves: "If you let me have or do this one thing, I will never,
ever ask you for another thing as long as I live." When children make
such statements, they are often quite serious. They have a limited concept
of future, and they really don't believe they will ever regret and or take
back their words.
I choose not to spend my time arguing about such resolutions. If a child
wants to believe that some promise will bring on a fundamental change, I
just let it be. I do sometimes tell children that I'd rather not hear too
many promises, but some children and adults have the habit of promising,
and can't kick it. So if they want to tell me about something they'll never
do again, I don't argue too much. And later, when they do it again, I try
not to rub it in. I've been there, and I know how it feels to be told, "I
told you so," or "But you said you were going to..."
But people do make some pretty important statements that, to me, are in
the same category as New Year's resolutions. They make commitments to do
things they really intend to do. Some of those commitments are sanctioned
by law, and come back to haunt resolvers in significant ways. The obvious
one, of course, is marriage - a commitment to keep feeling love, and to
live life in ways that reflect that love. I've made that kind of resolution,
and though I'm not as cynical as some people are about it, it didn't work
for me. I'll still go to weddings and I'll try to believe that the love
will last through worse, sickness, and poorer as surely as it lasts through
better, health, and richer. It often does.
Other kinds of contracts fall in the same category. Life doesn't stay the
same, and feelings don't. I'm glad law protects people from broken resolutions;
people often quickly grow to depend on the particulars that are resolved.
But for me, and for many other people I know, evolution works much better
than resolutions.
Abstract and Concrete 203.
Piaget worked hard to learn about children's learning, and though I try
to avoid worshipping people, Piaget is high up there on my list. But today
I found myself taking another look at a dichotomy he'd analyzed. I'd read
The Origin of Intelligence in Children, and Play, Dreams, and Imitation
in Childhood. I'd considered Piaget's ideas sacrosanct throughout my teaching
career - the separation of the abstract and the concrete, and children's
difficulties thinking abstractly before they reach the right stage.
It's not that my actual teaching always reflected my understanding and
acceptance of Piaget's wisdom; sometimes I got too abstract for some children.
I was so impressed with some children's comfort with and enjoyment of
abstract thinking that I sometimes taught to them and left other children
wondering what was going on. Sorry about that.
But children's wisdom can catch you unaware. Yesterday, for example, I
was reading a fable a seven-year-old child had written. It was about a
monkey who captured a butterfly. The monkey punched holes in the butterfly's
cage, so that it could breathe, and later on, found that the butterfly
had escaped through one of the holes. The moral of the story was "Don't
take what doesn't belong to you." Several other children had written
fables, with morals that were less surprising than this one.
Perhaps I've read into the story some depth that hadn't occurred to the
author; some adults who spend time with children have a tendency to add
meaning to children's words, and I'm not immune to the tendency. For now,
though, I'll allow myself to believe that this second-grader had taken
a step beyond the literal and the concrete. The way I interpret her story,
it was about the futility of attempts to capture beauty, or the right
of all creatures to live their lives in freedom. To me, this was not just
about a monkey and a butterfly. It was an allegory, with a message for
any humans who took the time to look.
As much as I appreciate this one story and this one author, I don't think
it's as unusual as some people may think. I've seen and heard many children
who have looked and sounded precocious, and I believe that there's wisdom
hiding in every person, young or old. It may be an oversimplification
to say that children under a certain age are incapable of abstract thought.
Instead of trying to rely on inviolable rules about children's learning,
let's look at and listen to each child. Maybe, for many children, we don't
have to draw such a thick line between the abstract and the concrete.
Young Consumers 204.
The vehicles shown on the TV commercial are zooming through galaxies at
speeds that would make light seem to be obstructing traffic. And young
space cadets want these vehicles. So they ask, beg, nag, whine, save up
allowance, or whatever they have to do to get the coveted items. Somehow,
they just have to own this or that. Their lives won't be complete until
they own the greatness that, for now, can only be seen on the TV screen.
And then, finally, the long-awaited moment arrives (long-awaited from
a child's point of view).
The first moments are glorious. The spacecraft doesn't actually leave
earth's atmosphere, but imagination is a great vehicle, and the dollars
spent on this fantasy seem well worth it. Friends come over, perhaps bringing
along their vehicles, perhaps only dreaming and envying. No one has any
doubt that this has been a wise purchase, or if they do doubt, the wise
ones keep it to themselves. We may be able to fight City Hall, but I don't
think we can fight Madison Avenue as effectively. If you've found a way,
please write an article about it.
At some point, the child begins to realize that the prized possession
is really just another piece of plastic, and the craft returns to the
Milky Way, finds that familiar medium-sized yellow star, zooms to the
third planet, and lands in your child's closet, where many other pieces
of plastic long ago found their resting places.
You want to remind your child of all the effort it took to get that item,
and maybe you do bring it up. But no, you just don't understand. You aren't
with it. Nobody plays with Space Cruisers any more. Space Cruisers are
antiques. The really cool things to have, now, are Intergalactic RV's.
Space Cruisers don't even have Super Command Modules! And so, more allowance
is saved, or more nagging energy is spent.
I haven't found a way to increase children's awareness of what's going
on. I've tried Penny Power magazine, published by Consumer Reports. It's
had some good ideas. I've tried to lecture children about consumerism,
and I've tried cross-examining them in both gentle and less gentle ways.
I've set limits for my own children, sometimes resulting in arguments.
But as I argued, I also remembered. I remembered wanting the coonskin
cap that would let me be Davy Crockett, only to decide, a few weeks or
months later, that I wanted the mask and cape that would make me Zorro.
Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad.
What I do now is trust that young consumers will eventually learn what
we old consumers learned - that things ain't always what they seem to
be. And meanwhile, I try to be more interested in the space travel than
in the rip-off aspect of the new toy. I try to enjoy what the child enjoys.
Sooner or later, if a purchase wasn't wise, the child will figure that
out. Meanwhile, let's try to join in the fun. Ecology 205.
"Ecology" was not even one of the words we had to memorize when
we were memorizing ologies in junior high. We memorized "cytology,"
"hematology," "psychology," and more, but I don't
think we even heard of "ecology." The word existed, but I guess
it wasn't considered important enough for us to memorize it.
Then, around 1970, it "became" important. Children learned about
the evils of pollution. I joined the crusade as soon as I became aware
of it. I taught second graders that the world was being destroyed by people
who were short-sighted, and we'd better do something about it soon. I
was new to teaching, didn't know much about children, and thought we could
rely on the trickle-down effect to save the crumbling environment. We'd
messed up the world, and we had to get children to clean it up.
I did the time-honored bean experiment with children: try growing a bean
plant with no light, another with no water, etc. Find out what beans need.
But I added one variable; I put some exhaust from my car into a jar after
planting a bean seed in the jar. Bad idea. The bean plant in that jar
did better than any other bean plant. It was tall, green, and doing fine.
I later took a course in environmental education, and the teacher patiently
explained to me that plants breathe in carbon dioxide, and evidently the
little bean had liked what I'd given it.
I followed up the experiment by talking about the effect pollution has
on us animals. We breathe in oxygen, not carbon dioxide. We're in trouble!
At least some of the children must have been frightened by my message
- a message many teachers were giving, and still do. And it's an important
message. Saving the earth is not just a pet liberal project to make it
so we can take nice walks in the woods; it's a survival issue.
But it's our issue, too - not just children's. Some of us have lived on
earth for quite a while, and have grown quite fond of it. And as we get
children to care about saving the earth, they'll be more invested in it
if they get more of a chance to grow fond of it. So I eased off a little
on the threat of environmental Armageddon, and spent some time helping
children get to know the gorgeous planet they were supposed to save. I
found out that I didn't know it as well as I'd thought. I took some courses,
and read a little.
It's a great planet. Others, like Jupiter, Venus, et. al., don't appear
to have conditions that would support life as we know it. I think we should
do all we can to keep it going. And actually, it probably will keep going;
it's only some of the species (Homo sapiens, for example) that are endangered.
As scary as our environmental situation is, I don't think we ought to
spend too much time scaring children. They have plenty of time to get
scared when they have more resources to turn that fear into action. Children
have done some good work to help keep earth safe, but let's make sure
we spend some time showing them the beauty.
"I'm Terrible At This" 206.
We don't want children to put themselves down. We want them to feel good
about themselves, and what they create, and when they put themselves down,
they make us think their self-esteem is not so hot. Parents, teachers,
and other adults are often at a loss when they hear children say how terrible
they are at things.
Let's simplify this matter by looking at three possibilities. One is that
the child's self-esteem is fine, and the self-criticism is really intended
to elicit attention and appreciation. If I suspect that that's what's
going on, my response is usually to go ahead and appreciate, and then
ask the child, in a serious voice, "You really don't like it?"
If I'm right, and the child was just looking for a pat on the back, it
doesn't usually take long to find out.
The second possibility is that the child is feeling sincerely self-critical,
and needs some help. If this is the case, I find it effective to focus
not on the child, but on what the child has done. The drawing, story,
or other item the child has created, though probably connected to the
child's self-esteem, is not the child. In my experience, efforts to convince
the child of his/her competence are less effective than appreciation of
what the child has done. Chaim Ginott is eloquent on this issue; read
Between Parent and Child and/or Between Teacher and Child if you want
to hear more about it.
The most difficult scenario is the one that's most typical of older children
(sorry - I won't assign a specific age to these children): the child is
sincerely self-critical, and is not so easy to turn around. If that's
what's happening, arguing is ineffective, and often counterproductive.
The child thinks that adults are supposed to help incompetent children
feel good about themselves, and the more you try to do so, the more incompetent
the child feels.
If this is what seems to be happening, first of all, I remind myself that
no matter how impressed I am with what the child has done, any appreciation
I give has to be low-key. And I also try to focus on what the child is
thinking and feeling: "What do you think is one of the problems with
what you've done?" Children, at first, are suspicious. They think
my question is a prelude to an attempt to build them up, and they are
not ready to be built up; they want their view of themselves, however
critical, to be respected, not contradicted. If the goal is to help the
child feel competent, sometimes there is a necessary detour - recognizing
and respecting the feeling of incompetence.
We're supposed to try to have the serenity to accept what we can't change,
the courage to change what we can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
When a child says, "I'm terrible at this," knowing the difference
can be quite a challenge.
Sibling Rivalry 207.
In this article, I'll try to capture the essence of some of what goes
on in a child's mind when the child has a sibling. This attempt is not
intended for children; when one is in the midst of sibling issues, one
is often unable to see the issues clearly. Explanations adults give feel
as if they have nothing to do with the problem. The problem, from the
child's point of view, is that the sibling in question is a jerk. Parents
usually aren't able to see this, but for the child, it's true.
First of all, the sibling really has no business being here. Parents have
a job to do - loving and caring for their child. This is a big enough
job, and from the child's point of view, adding another child into the
picture is bound to water down the love and caring. I once read something
suggesting that adults should try imagining this announcement coming from
a spouse: "I have so enjoyed having you as a spouse that I've decided
to bring another spouse to live with us. I hope you will learn to love
my new spouse as much as I know I will."
The parents can remain the basic bone of contention, long after the child
may seem to have accepted - even come to love - a sibling. There may be
fighting about space, possessions, and more, but much of the
fighting is actually about who really owns the parents - who gets the
parents' love. Adults may feel that there is no way to quantify and compare
their feelings about their children, but children go right on quantifying
and comparing.
I know siblings who love each other, and seem to have moved way beyond
the rivalry that often begins the sibling relationship. I know some (usually
separated by several years) who seem to have started out loving each other
and have hardly ever experienced rivalry. And some have the same trouble
with each other through decades, and avoid each other's company, or argue
their lives away. When you feel that you love a friend "as you would
love a sister or brother," you may also actually have a sister or
brother, and the sibling relationship may or may not live up to the standard
set by your friendship.
As parents, we sometimes like to think our children are destined to love
each other. We may tell them, in the midst of rivalries, that they actually
do love each other. I imagine some siblings thinking, "If this is
what love feels like, I don't want it."
Sibling issues are complex. I don't have a final statement to make on
the subject; this is only an article of exploration. I once heard T. Berry
Brazelton answering questions after a talk he gave. A parent asked, "Do
you know a way to prevent sibling rivalry?" I'll never forget his
wise answer. He said, "No."
Whether to Help 208.
I've often heard a certain kind of advice that has given me pause for
thought: "Don't give that child attention; that's just what he/she
wants." It always seemed to me that if attention is just what the
child wants, that's a good reason to give it. I tried not to give too
much attention for behavior I wanted to discourage, but if a child cried
or looked upset, I tried to help. I couldn't just ignore it.
I've seen teachers who "teach by the book." Of course, there
are many books by which to teach, and many were written by experts who
disagree with each other, but I like to think I teach by the child, not
by the book. No matter how deeply I believe in the efficacy of an approach,
I believe more in the efficacy of paying attention to the child, and putting
aside my philosophical guidelines when a child is crying out for help.
But now I work with Barbara Rothenberg, a teacher who is teaching me to
take a second look at the cries for help that have always tugged at my
heartstrings. She is a very nurturing person, who communicates her caring
in a way that cannot be missed by any child. She knows the children in
her class, and has a good sense of when to help and when not to. Sometimes,
I see a child who is crying out for help. I start to move to help, and
get a signal from Barbara: "No. Don't help. That child, in that situation,
needs to learn independence, and can learn it best by having to solve
her/his own problem."
Not helping goes against my grain, as it goes against the grain of most
adults I know. We remember points in our own lives when we wanted help
- maybe needed it. If people helped, at those points, we have warm places
in our hearts for those people. We may or may not have such warm places
for those who didn't help when we wanted help but didn't need it.
But here I am, well beyond childhood, wanting someone to find me an agent
or publisher. I have many nurturing, caring friends, all of whom are giving
me the same message: "If you want to find an agent or publisher,
look for one. No one is going to do it for you." I want someone to
do it for me, just as the child who is weeping wants someone to come along
and solve his/her problem. But I'm being forced, by all these caring,
nurturing friends, to learn.
Please don't attach a moral to this story. Barbara Rothenberg does not
teach "by the book." If a child in her class cries out for help,
she responds to the situation and the child, rather than reacting to the
tears. She doesn't have a hard-and-fast rule: don't help a child who is
crying. But she's taught me sometimes not to. I guess you're never too
experienced to have a mentor.
Open Or Structured? 209.
I'm challenging another dichotomy. The open classroom, according to one
of my professors, started in England during World War II. Many teachers
went off to war, and they were replaced in classrooms by adults who had
no idea how to run a classroom. So they gave lots of responsibility to
children - put them in charge of their own learning. It worked. The rest
is history.
Here, we tried to learn from the success of the British primary schools,
and because we're different people with a different history and different
thinking, we had trouble. "Open classroom" came to have many
meanings. It could be modelled carefully on the British open classroom.
It could be a style of architecture - build a school without so many internal
walls, and learning will happen.
Parents and teachers who didn't like what was happening missed what they
remembered as "structure." They remembered knowing what to expect
in school, and they wanted to make sure children could continue to know
what to expect.
And so a dichotomy was born. There were "open schools" and "structured
schools." Or within a school, there were "open classrooms"
and "structured classrooms." As I taught, I often found myself
cast in roles. There were usually two teachers per grade level where I
taught, and depending on who the other teacher was, I was either the "open"
teacher or the "structured" one. Usually, the "open"
one.
I really believe that it's a false dichotomy. Asking whether a teacher
is "open" or "structured" is like asking whether a
person is a Methodist or a Democrat. One can very easily be both. A well-run
open classroom has a structure that can be far more profound and effective
than many classrooms that have desks bolted down to the floor. Children
are busy learning - much too busy to throw spitballs, or dip pigtails
in inkwells. The teacher's presence blends in smoothly.
For some teachers, order and predictability are easier if all the children
are doing the same thing at the same time. Some children like it when
that happens. In spite of my belief that children learn best when they
learn in their own ways, it was usually easier for me, as a teacher, if
they were all involved in the same kind of activity. And so I never quite
had an open classroom, by my standards.
But I've seen teachers who have run what I've considered excellent open
classrooms, and "structured" is totally inappropriate as an
antonym for what they were doing.
Covering Our Tracks 210.
Not everything we say is for children's ears. There are various reasons
adults don't want children to hear certain thoughts or communications.
We may worry that they'll be unnecessarily frightened, excited, angered,
or embarrassed. We don't want to spark those feelings, or deal with the
behavior that usually accompanies them. Ideally, we find time to say these
things when children aren't around. But sometimes we feel that these things
must be said right away, and we don't have faith that time without the
children will soon happen.
My parents used Yiddish. It was a language they knew, and we didn't. With
the exception of one or two phrases we heard frequently, and figured out
through context, we had no idea what they were saying. Some parents spell
what they want to say, but schools being what they are, children have
a tendency to learn how to spell. My wife and I used what we called "dictionary
language." Instead of saying, "Should we go out to eat?",
we'd say, "Shall we seek sustenance elsewhere?" It didn't take
long for us to hear, from our five-year-old daughter, "Can we seek
sustenance elsewhere tonight?"
The restaurant example is cute, and it won't scar children for life to
hear the discussion that leads to a decision about where to eat. But there
are things children shouldn't hear. A parent may be struggling with frustration
about a child's learning problems, or any of many issues that children
shouldn't hear about. Maybe a parent is trying not to favor one child.
Whether or not the parent is successful in this struggle, it does enough
damage for the child to even know that it's a struggle.
I've often heard adults speaking about children as if the children weren't
there. It was as though the use of the third person pronoun would somehow
protect the child, or as if protecting the child was not even an issue.
But little pitchers sometimes do have big ears, and some of the thoughts
that can only hurt them should not be verbalized at times and in ways
that go ahead and hurt. Pain isn't always gain.
It really is best to wait. I know it's sometimes hard. You may be afraid
that you'll forget an important thought. And sometimes you are filled
with that same kind of impatience you wish your children would stifle.
There are also some adults who don't care what effect their words may
have on young minds. I wish we could keep those adults away from children
until they learn to care. And for those of you who have already learned
to care, I wish waiting were always easy.
Until that time, there is a book I recommend: The Joys of Yiddish, by
Leo Rosten.
"Talk to Grandpa" 211.
It doesn't seem fair. You make all kinds of adjustments to raise a child,
and before you know it, the child becomes a separate person who doesn't
necessarily feel like showing everybody how well you've parented. You've
seen some of the things your child can do, you've bragged about it, and
now that there's finally a possible audience, your child is feeling shy,
stubborn, or something else that gets in the way of the opening performance.
Were those hours in labor and in laundromats, supermarkets, etc. for this?
No. The purpose of all that work was to help your child grow, learn, adjust
to life. It wasn't done so that the child would show other people how
good you are at parenting. Still, you'd think the little urchin would
at least have the decency to say some of the newly learned words into
the telephone. Just to prove that you didn't make up the whole thing.
"Come on, Honey, say 'Grandpa' into the telephone. Really, Dad, she
can say it. Just a minute." And you try with all your might to bring
back that glorious moment when your child said, "Grandpa." Or
something that sounded like "Grandpa."
But to some children, the phone may have nothing to do with Grandpa. It's
a funny-shaped thing that makes Grandpa-type noises if you hold it to
your ear. If that's Grandpa, he's been transformed. His new shape is weird,
and your child is not going to say anything to him. If Grandpa is able
to change his shape that way, who knows what other powers he may have?
And later, when the real Grandpa shows up, your child may still refuse
to say anything. Sure, he's back in human form, but he could change back
into that funny-looking thing any time.
Besides, even if your child hasn't been exposed to the phone-Grandpa,
the last time your child saw Grandpa may have been four weeks ago. Or
more. Grandpa may be a distant memory, but he may be acting as if he knows
your child well. This may be the same child who said several words last
week, or did a somersault, but do you really expect your child to parade
these new skills in front of this relative stranger? Don't hold your breath.
I hope I haven't reinforced a stereotype. Some very young children seem
to understand what a phone is, and some can remember significant people
in their lives with no problem, even as time passes. But it's best not
to assume that they see things the way you do.
Children like to be appreciated for their various milestones, but they
are pretty quick to figure out who is being appreciated. They don't necessarily
mind showing off; in another situation - maybe later - you may wish the
child would stop it already. But they aren't necessarily eager to show
everyone what a good parent you are. People are going to have to take
that on faith for a while.
"Oh, wait a minute, Dad. Did you hear that? Say it again, Dear. Say
it again. Really, Dad, he/she said, 'Grandpa.' You heard it, didn't you?"
Egocentric Altruists 212.
I recently came to terms with a certain level of my own egocentrism, and
it's made it much easier for me to deal with other people's. As students
of child development, we're taught about an "egocentric stage"
all people go through. It's supposed to taper off when the child is a
toddler, but we all know adults who don't seem to have ever tapered off.
I've been annoyed by such adults, and I've been accused of being one of
them.
As a person with special needs, I've learned how to accept help from people.
Some people offer more help than others, and while I'm touched by their
altruism, I'm careful not to let people do as much as they think they
want to. I know about burn-out. I know about that moment when you say
to yourself, "I've been too nice." And so I let one friend cook
me dinner, another drive me to the neurologist, another clean my apartment,
and so on. When my dinner-cooking friend offers to drive me somewhere,
I'm cautious. Not cynical, just cautious. And when I feel like doing something
that happens to be helpful, I don't hold back; I've paid my dues by accepting
help.
I trust my friends on one level, but I try to keep my support network
balanced. And egocentrism looks different to me now. I don't fault people
for being egocentric. I simply try to find ways their interests coincide
with mine. For example, one good friend has two young children. I know
from experience that it's harder to shop with young children. They often
complain, beg, and behave in ways that make it hard to concentrate on
shopping. So she drops the children off at my apartment. She gets to shop
childlessly and gets to leave her children with someone she trusts. I,
meanwhile, get two young friends to hang out with for a while, and get
my grocery shopping done without leaving my apartment. We both win.
I see this as a model for many attempts to balance egocentism and altruism.
We spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to get children (and adults)
to be less egocentric - to think about others. Maybe some of that time
would be better spent figuring out how to harness that egocentrism - to
arrange situations in which people have to help each other in order to
meet their selfish needs. We can believe, against all evidence, that people
are unselfish, but that belief can lead to severe disillusionment.
Instead, I've decided that egocentrism, though it may look different in
different people and at different times, is not just a stage. Your forty-one-year
old brother and your friend's child are both egocentric. So are you, and
so am I. It's just a matter of how we deal with that egocentrism
Ontogeny and Philogeny 213.
My brother Richie came home from school one afternoon and told me that
ontogeny recapitulates philogeny. I was old enough not to take his word
for it, but my own ontogeny hadn't yet recapitulated enough philogeny
to know what he was talking about. I had the vague impression that I'd
get in big trouble if I said those words when my parents or teachers were
around. I knew that there were certain words children were really not
supposed to say. But I may have been thinking of some other words.
But now I think I get it. It means our own development from embryo to
person is similar to the way single-celled animals evolved into human
beings. Many children learn about evolution before they are ready to understand
it. They're told that people used to be apes, and they believe it, but
they don't really get it. They don't remember being apes, and they've
seen pictures of George Washington, who lived a long time ago, and didn't
look any more like an ape than my brother Richie (who doesn't look at
all like an ape).
But if you look at a picture of a human embryo in its early days, it looks
pretty much like the embryo of a platypus, or a chicken. And if you go
back a few days, the cells that get together to form the embryo look as
if they could easily have grown to be eucalyptus trees, or mushrooms.
I'm glad I got to be a human being, although I doubt whether eucalyptus
trees have any complaints.
I once witnessed an interesting explanation at the Museum of Science.
A mother was guiding her son through an evolution exhibit. Somewhere around
the Cro-Magnon fellow, the mother said, "And then God breathed a
soul into him..." I was fascinated with this compromise between creationism
and Darwinism. At first, I considered being appalled, but I decided not
to. I decided that the ontogeny of understanding recapitulates its philogeny,
and besides, who did I think I was? I wasn't there when human life started.
Darwinism is simply the myth I choose to believe in. If I believe that
recorded history is bunk, how can I have greater faith in unrecorded history?
And so as far as I'm concerned, Darwinism takes its place among the great
religions. I believe in it, partly because I've seen some of the evidence,
partly because I've read and heard about it from some smart people, but
mostly because it makes sense to me, just as the parting of the Red Sea
or walking on water makes sense to some other people. And besides, it's
fun to try to imagine the ways in which I still resemble a platypus, or
a eucalyptus tree.
The Hurrying Child 214.
Modern society does things to make children feel that it's not okay to
be children. Children are quick to pick up whatever messages society seems
to be giving them. Some want to be "cool," and it doesn't take
long to learn that it isn't "cool" to be a child - that being
an adolescent is much "cooler."
They get this message from many sources. Scriptwriters for TV shows are
adults, and even if the shows are intended for children, the lines written
for children to say are very often lines written to make children sound
older than they are. The timing of the laugh tracks suggests that it's
cute when children sound older than they are. I'm sorry, but don't
think it's cute.
I feel like complaining about the hurrying effect of society, but I think
it would be spitting in the wind. I don't think the amount of time and
energy I'd spend complaining would be worth it. The forces that combine
to make children hurry up and become adolescents or adults are too numerous
and powerful. I've tried to convince children to slow down and savor their
childhood, and for the most part, it hasn't worked. Pop culture is big
business.
So instead, I try to go with the flow. I do my best to tune in to the
bits of teen culture that trickle down to children. In effect, I try to
allow them to be "cool" without rebelling. When a child echoes
some of the music or lingo of adolescents, I don't fight it. I give it
the same kind of attention I give the stuffed animal another child shares.
And since these "cool" children really are children at heart,
they appreciate that attention.
If we stop trying to fight the adolescentization (my word) of children,
and accept it as part of who our children are, perhaps we can postpone
some of the more difficult manifestations of adolescence. We can make
it so that children can adopt the pop culture that's all around them without
rebelling.
Adolescents often don't like to see their younger siblings moving in on
their culture. Adolescent culture is supposed to separate its members
from childhood, and if children keep connecting with it, it loses its
effect. So fads turn over pretty quickly.
I never quite learned how to deal with adolescence - my own or anyone
else's. This whole article is an exercise in speculation. I know there
comes a point when we adults have to let go. I remember that much from
my own adolescence (most of which I try to forget). But I hope we're not
making that point come sooner than it needs to. I have a hunch that we
contribute to the adolescentization of children by fighting it.
Cumulative Files 215.
When children take standardized tests, or other pieces of paper deemed
significant are produced, those papers are sometimes put into file folders,
which are subsequently put into file cabinets. Most of the time, those
papers stay there, minding their own business. Most teachers don't keep
checking to review children's stanine ratings or percentile ranks; most
know that those numbers often don't amount to a hill of beans. Children
learn what they learn, and there's seldom much reason, before teaching,
to see what tests predict, or after the fact, to see whether tests have
predicted correctly.
There have been laws passed to allow parents to see what those file folders
contain, and to allow children above a certain age to see, too. I think
they're good laws. A teacher usually only spends a school year with a
child. A parent is there much longer. And the child is there all her/his
life. Whatever the teacher has said about the child - whatever any school
personnel, testing services, or outside consultants have said - ought
to be for the benefit of the child and the parents. And no matter how
skilled and insightful those other people may be, there ought to be respect
given to the people most affected by the information in the files.
Sometimes the information on the papers is useful. Some of it tells what
techniques and materials have been effective for the child in the past.
Some narratives help put the child's behavior in perspective. If a child
moves to a new school, the cumulative folder may contain information that
will ease the adjustment. And children with various special needs, though
often given the support of specialists, can be overlooked in ways that
make school more difficult for them if their progress or lack thereof
isn't closely monitored. So the contents of the files can be useful.
But the reports about a child's previous problems can also be a self-fulfilling
prophecy. Early in my teaching career, I learned about a study in which
teachers were purposely given incorrect results of IQ scores, and children's
subsequent success or failure in school was dramatically affected by the
misinformation. I'm quite skeptical about that study; I can believe that
some teachers' attitudes and approaches are profoundly affected by IQ
scores, but to me, that is an indication of the need for more teacher
training. The IQ scores can be useful in some situations.
We sometimes get into trouble when we polarize issues. Refusing to look
at a child's history can cause some kinds of problems, and treating that
history as destiny can cause others. So I think cumulative files should
remain in folders and cabinets, not be shredded and thrown into dumpsters.
But school personnel should maintain perspective.
An Approach to Conflicts 216.
When two children irritate each other, and start to fight, physically
or verbally, the first thing we try to do is stop the fighting. This means
physically separating them and getting them to stop talking for a minute.
That's the first step in all the conflict resolution strategies I know
of. But once teachers or parents have managed to accomplish that first
step, there are many different approaches, and each teacher or parent
has to figure out what works best for him/her.
I'll tell you what works best for me. If two children are having an argument,
I ask one of them (whom we'll call Child A) to explain exactly what the
problem is. I tell the other (Child B) to listen - only listen - well
enough to be able to paraphrase what the first testimony says: "No
matter how wrong you think these words are, say what you think Child A
has said."
Child A listens to Child B's summary of her/his testimony, and approves
or disapproves: "Yes, that's what I said." During this part
of the process, Child B is usually getting quite agitated; his/her point
of view has not yet been articulated, and Child A has it all wrong. I
often have to repeat step one; if Child B interrupts, I consider that
a false start. Child B will get a chance, and does, as soon as she/he
has satisfied Child A that the first story has been heard.
Then Child B testifies, and Child A has to try to listen well enough to
play Child B's role in the argument. Usually, neither child has an easy
time of either listening to another point of view or rephrasing it convincingly.
It helps that this kind of exercise usually takes place at recess, when
children would rather go back to whatever they were doing; that fact increases
the likelihood that they'll get the job done quickly. Disagreements lose
some of their intensity in the light of missed moments of recess.
I believe that many arguments boil down to misunderstandings, and even
those that don't - those that are based on fundamental disagreements and/or
deep-felt hostility - can be resolved more easily if children listen to
each other. I learned this technique through marriage counseling, and
though the technique did not "save" the marriage, it did give
me this idea about helping children listen to each other.
If you think about the major problems in the world today, you realize
that they usually don't stem from messy handwriting or poor spelling.
And you seldom have troubles with people because they haven't memorized
the multiplication table. But I'll bet you've often been bothered by people's
inability to hear what you have to say. And at least some international
conflict results from poor communication. So this approach to conflict
resolution is about more than whose turn it is in four-square.
"I Didn't Even Cry" 217.
I don't cry much, even when crying is precisely what I feel like doing.
I don't remember exactly how I learned not to cry when I felt like crying.
I remember kids who did cry - especially boys who did cry - being ostracized
by peers. I didn't want that. I think the zeitgeist of the 1950's also
got my parents to discourage their sons from crying, although the ban
still hangs in there in many families, and is not limited to boys as much
as it used to be.
I think it was my loss. The few times I've been able to eke out a few
tears, and the even fewer times I've really had good cries, I've felt
cleansed by the experience. There are many ways women are oppressed by
our culture, but one way men are oppressed is the ban on male tears. Instead
of crying, we hold it in, or use words that may express our pain, anger,
or sadness, but imprecisely, and not as effectively.
As I teach young children, I try to counteract this cultural attitude
that discourages crying. Occasionally, in a school, I see a child crying,
and I give him/her as much support as I can. I try to protect the child
from the teasing I remember so well. I try to get her/him to feel good
about the tears. When I hear a child say, "...and I didn't even cry!",
with a proud tone of voice, two of my approaches clash. I want to give
the child credit for successfully facing adversity, but I also want to
be sure the child knows that crying is often a good way to cope. So I
try not to interfere with the pride the child feels, but I also try to
leave crying as an option.
There are some children who cry quite a lot. I focus mostly on the opposite
extreme, but I know this can be a case of too much of a good thing. I
think excessive crying can be detrimental to a child's emotional health;
it's good to have friends, and too much crying can keep potential friends
away.
And if crying accomplishes a child's goals, perhaps it can become a tool.
Some people are able to cry at will, and if the tears work for them, they
cry, not as an emotional outlet, but as a means to an end. This can accomplish
short-term goals, but in the long run, it can also turn people away.
So we have to think carefully about children's tears. We have to consider
crying case by case: to what degree should we face social reality and
help children learn to control their crying? Are tears their way of getting
what they want? Some tears, though they can annoy people and turn them
away, are often the best way to cope with feelings. And so falls yet another
chance to have a rule-of-thumb.
Heroes 218.
We like to have heroes. When I was in elementary school, George Washington
was one of the great people we were supposed to admire. As far as I can
remember, one of the most important things he did was confess to a minor
misdeed that didn't seem so bad to me. I never chopped down any cherry
trees myself, so I never had the chance to prove myself the way George
did. I guess you have to be in the right place at the right time to achieve
greatness. I once cheated on a math test. I looked at Steve Arbogast's
paper, and I'm confessing it now in public. I hope that counts; I'm sure
I couldn't chop down a cherry tree now.
As long as we are going to turn people into heroes, we might as well give
some thought to it. Today I witnessed a lesson about Martin Luther King.
Children heard about the bus boycott, the "I Have a Dream" speech,
and the Nobel Peace Prize he won. They heard his voice speaking the words
that inspired so many.
I remember Harry Truman's reaction to King. A reporter asked him what
he thought of King. Truman said, "He's a troublemaker." When
the reporter reminded Truman that King had just received the Nobel Peace
Prize, he responded, "I didn't give it to him." Somehow, some
people have come to think of Truman as another hero.
I am now friends with someone who has long been one of my heroes. When
I first met him, I was star-struck, and as I spoke with him, it was all
I could do to stop myself from thinking, "Here I am, having a friendly
conversation with someone who has always been my hero." That kind
of thinking can get in the way of real communication.
I imagine Martin Luther King stopping by my apartment for a visit. My
first reaction to him would be to tell him what a profound affect he's
had on my thinking - how greatly I admire his life of work for freedom,
peace, and justice. I imagine him finding that admiration a bit tedious,
and maybe asking me what I've done as a result of all this admiration.
Or maybe he'd ask about the photographs on my wall, or ask for a drink
of water.
Heroes are people. About half of them are female, and should be called
"heroines," I guess. As we create heroes and heroines for children,
I think it would be helpful to focus on heroic actions and qualities.
Children ought to know that these actions and qualities leave lasting
impressions.
Children often seek out heroes, and whether their heroes chop down cherry
trees, work for freedom, peace, and justice, or pitch no-hitters, it's
good to help them focus on the qualities and deeds they admire. That focus
makes heroism more accessible. I believe that there's some heroism in
most people.
Too Hard? 219.
I work with Paul Oh, a teacher who believes, among other things, in children's
ability to solve math problems. One day, he asked children to try to find
ways to form certain shapes using Tangrams, an ancient Chinese puzzle.
The children worked in pairs, with adult support. Some quickly became
frustrated, and the frustration built, so that even children who usually
loved math challenges started giving up.
But Paul didn't give up. Sometimes a concept or task is actually too difficult
for children, but Paul was not ready to quit on this one. He gave a short
speech expressing his disappointment that children were so quick to decide
that they couldn't do it. I watched some children's faces, and saw that
his speech had inspired not guilt, but determination to give it another
try. They seem to respect him, and see him as an ally in the quest for
increased skill.
The next day, Paul came in with a different approach. He had decided that
children had been approaching the task as they sometimes approached computation
- as a search for the "right answer." While teachers often try
to emphasize the thought processes involved in computation, there usually
is a right answer waiting at the end, like the pot of gold at the end
of the rainbow, and children tend to see that answer, not the thought
process, as the goal. Rather than ask, "What do you think of the
way I solved this problem?", they just want to know whether the answer
is right.
Paul asked them to experiment with the Tangrams - to move the shapes around
and see what they discovered. What followed were about twenty minutes
of experimentation. The mood in the class was very different as they played
with the shapes. Children were excited as they found ways to solve these
geometrical problems. Without the "right answer" as a spectre,
they were free to explore. When a child did discover a solution, occasionally
another child came over to copy the solution, but the atmosphere was one
of collegiality and fun; the copying still involved mathematical thinking,
and seemed more like peer tutoring than cheating.
When a teacher tells children that a task is not too hard, children may
think, "That's easy for you to say." But Paul's message to these
children conveyed a blend of patience, caring, and confidence. He had
thought about the task, evaluated and reconsidered his own teaching strategy.
Modelling determination, he had refused to throw in the towel. It was
inspiring.
Sometimes a concept or task really is too hard for children. Sometimes
it's too hard for some, but not for others. But when children are taught
with the calm, patient confidence Paul Oh conveys, they have more of a
tendency to hang in there, and more of a tendency to succeed.
Clubs 220.
I understand why children want to have clubs. Ricky Eugster and I formed
the Texas Rangers when we were seven. I was Jase Pearson, and he was Clay
Morgan. There were a few other members from time to time. And everybody
else wasn't in the club, so we got to be "us," and everyone
else only got to be "them." I didn't know it at the time, but
most people didn't really care that they weren't Texas Rangers. They didn't
even know about us. But we knew, and it was an important bond. Once, I
picked a scab off my arm just after he got a cut, and we became blood
brothers.
I still belong to clubs. I belong to a songwriters' group, two music
networks, and probably other clubs. We get together, and we're sometimes
inclusive, sometimes too cozy to think about being inclusive. Sometimes
we just want to be us. It's a little embarrassing, especially when we
remember how inclusive we usually try to be, but didn't you ever want
to hang out with only certain people? And the only way to do that is to
find a way to make sure other people don't come.
Teachers often forbid clubs. Whenever I heard children say they wanted
privacy, though I understood their feeling, I told them they could only
have
privacy alone. If they allowed anyone else into their world, they had
to let
everyone in. School was not a place where you could exclude anyone. So
there couldn't be groups that had admissions rules. There couldn't be
what children usually call "clubs."
This policy often doesn't seem fair to children, and it isn't easy for
adults, either. If we form a club for people who like to juggle, we don't
want people opposed to juggling to move in on our turf. They can form
their own club. They can mobilize however they want, but as long as we
can, we're going to go right on juggling. We've got each other, and we're
not going to give up easily.
Sometimes there are people who really bug you. You choose not to spend
time with those people - not to spend time and energy trying to find ways
the two of you can get along together. As adults, we're often, but not
always, free to decide to avoid people we'd rather avoid. I think they
usually try to avoid us, too. Sometimes we end up becoming friends with
people we thought we wouldn't like, and vice versa, but some first impressions
are correct.
I feel right about the policy of forbidding clubs in elementary school.
I think children should be free to associate with people they choose,
but I'd rather postpone the negative effects of the club mentality at
least until people have a little more ability to cope with being excluded.
Ruining Lives 221.
I suspect that we're the only species given to wondering whether we're
ruining our children's lives. Most of us provide the basic necessities,
and
teach our children strategies for getting those necessities for themselves
when they have to stop relying on us. Those are pretty fundamental tasks
for adults, and though we've evolved enough to not necessarily know what's
good for us (pandas eat bamboo; they don't add Bamboo Helper or defrost
Bamboo Nuggets), we're pretty much like other animals in that way.
But we go way beyond providing basic necessities and teaching survival
skills. We aspire, and hope our children will aspire, to greatness, morality,
happiness, and all that. We try to make our planet and our species better.
There are many disagreements about how to do that. Some people go abroad
to spread some Word or Other, or to try to solve problems. Some stay here
and get involved in various earth-saving or humanity-saving careers. Many
work with children, hoping to influence young minds by parenting and/or
teaching. However we choose to do it, many of us try to work for the survival
and/or improvement of our home and species.
Also unlike other animals, we have doubts. We wonder whether we are messing
up our children's lives by saying the wrong things, enforcing the wrong
policies, emphasizing what should be de-emphasized. Maybe I'm not giving
the other animals enough credit (or maybe I'm giving them too much); maybe
they wonder, too. But I don't think so. I think they just get food, find
shelter, and try to survive. They try to get their species to survive,
too, but not by writing articles, developing curriculum, hiring tutors,
preaching, or legislating. And as for future generations, I don't think
they think far beyond their own children.
So what's my point? I'm sure when I started writing this article, I had
a point to make. I usually do, when I write these articles; they're my
attempts to do good work. I guess my point is that maybe we can lighten
up a little. The little mistakes we make as we raise our children aren't
going to destroy them. My parents made mistakes, and I've assured them
that they've been good parents. I've made mistakes, and my children still
give me pretty good grades. I think we ought to continue trying to find
better ways to help our children, and we ought to keep working to make
our planet more livable. But I don't think we're ruining lives by screwing
up now and then.
Liking Children 222.
I used to think I was supposed to like everyone, and I made it my business
to see the good in absolutely every person I encountered. Whenever I found
myself starting to dislike someone, I thought there was something wrong
with my perception, and I just needed to look harder; if I looked hard
enough, I would find out why this jerk seemed obnoxious or sadistic, find
it in my heart to forgive the turkey, and make a new friend.
A few years ago, I learned how to dislike people. I didn't have to give
up my faith that all people are basically good - a faith Anne Frank kept
through worse evidence to the contrary than I've ever seen. I just had
to decide that some people's behaviors and/or attitudes hid inner goodness
enough to serve as obstacles to friendship. And so I allowed myself to
dislike a few people. Not counting some historical figures or politicians,
whom I never got to know on a personal level, there are about five people
I don't like. They probably wouldn't have the good taste to read my articles,
so you're probably not one of them.
I still haven't learned to dislike any children. I've disliked some of
children's behaviors and attitudes, but their goodness is close to the
surface, and the reasons for their annoying characteristics are easier
to see. So it's easier to forgive them and get on with the business of
liking them. I know that people like to be liked, and the more they're
liked, the more they show their endearing sides.
The teachers I consider least effective are teachers who don't seem to
like children. For one reason or another, the things children do or say
bug these adults, who may have reasons for teaching that get them to put
up with the little monsters, but don't generate fondness. Children are
quick to pick up on this attitude, and they either reciprocate, hating
the teacher, internalize the feeling and start hating themselves, or both.
There are other ways for a teacher to be ineffective, but none are as
toxic as disliking children.
People really are good - even the ones I don't want to be around. And
children's goodness is usually easier to see. I know "goodness"is
a culturally and personally relative concept, but there are certain behaviors
it usually doesn't include. As long as we let children know we really
see and appreciate their goodness (fakeness won't do it), they'll keep
showing it to us.
To Get to the Other Side 223.
We spend a lot of time trying to get children to know how to write complete
sentences. It's hard, because they don't think or talk in complete sentences.
Neither do we. Complete sentences happen during conversations, but not
reliably. Know what I mean (not a complete sentence) (neither was that)?
Children learn how to have conversations before they learn how to write,
and their first attempts to write reflect their conversational language,
as well they should. Gradually, they learn some of the conventions that
result in more effective writing. But written English and spoken English
are not two entirely different languages; writing is a form of codification,
and reading reverses the process.
No matter how many rules people write about punctuation, commas, periods,
dashes, question marks, exclamation points, semicolons, and colons are
all reflections of the way we speak. Our timing and intonation indicate
which punctuation is appropriate. A short pause suggests a comma. A longer
pause suggests a period. And so on.
The capital letters and periods that serve as boundaries between sentences
have inspired many worksheets. For generations, children have drawn one
line under the subject and two lines under the predicate. This sentence
- the one you're reading right now - is grammatically correct, but do
you remember how to find its subject(s) and predicate(s)? And once you
figure it out, will you be any better off? Some children quickly learn
how to apply the rules of grammar to their writing. Others memorize rules
and try to apply them as they write. Still others never learn it, and
get sick of hearing about it.
We're taught that all the great writers had to learn the rules first,
and then decided to consciously break them when their artistic sense told
them to. That may make teachers feel good, but I don't know how true it
is. I'll bet there are some respected authors who never learned how to
write complete sentences. Some people have the gift of gab, and when they
write, their language is conversational and quite readable. The rules
have nothing to do with it.
Writing is a great way to communicate, and I've seen many children learn
to take pleasure in it. Occasionally, there's a child who has fun analyzing
the structure of the language - diagramming sentences, figuring out when
to write "who" and when to write "whom." But I've
known many more children who know why the chicken crossed the road, and
think it would sound weird to answer, "The chicken crossed the road
to get to the other side."
Co-Teaching and Team Teaching 224.
When two or more teachers get together to combine their skills and energy,
great things can happen. Children have diverse learning styles and personal
styles, and can benefit from some diversity in teaching style. Teachers
can focus their energy a little more on their strengths, knowing that
other teachers with different strengths can complement their work. Ideally,
there's some mutual mentoring, and all teachers involved end up with more
skills than they started with. That sets a good example for children.
But it takes organization and humility. If teachers want to work together,
they have to know what they plan to do. Spontaneity can be exciting, but
when two or more people collaborate, spontaneity can be difficult. During
my final few years as a teacher, I started getting organized enough to
do some co-teaching, but it wasn't easy for me. It meant I sometimes had
to put brainstorms on the back burner. There are teachers whose brains
have mild breezes, but not so many storms. That works better when other
teachers are involved.
As for humility, I know people who do that well. But as wonderful as I
am, I've never quite mastered humility. As I've had insights about children
and learning, I've behaved as if they were such unique insights that it
would take too much time and energy to share them with other teachers,
who, I thought, could not possibly have ever had these insights. And they
certainly couldn't have any valuable insights I hadn't already had. This
messianic mindset made it awfully hard to work with me.
Now, as a volunteer, I finally get to practice humility, and it's funny
how well it works. Since I'm not employed as a teacher, I take what I
can get. Teachers who are more as I was don't want me around as much.
As hard as I try to blend in to different approaches, I do add another
style to the teaching effort, and teachers who can't deal with that assign
me to specific tasks that keep me out of the way.
And teachers who are good at teaming include me in their planning, ask
for my input, give me suggestions, and make me forget that I'm a volunteer
- an outsider. Their humility is inspiring. It's not that they are less
skilled than other teachers, or think they are. It's that they are confident
enough in their own teaching to allow other approaches to mix with their
own.
This new humility I've got is fun to use. My latest project is working
to believe that the teachers who don't want me to spend much time in their
classrooms can still be good teachers. I think I'm making some progress
toward that goal. Working with other teachers - even flexible, creative
intelligent, humble teachers such as yours truly, can be a challenge.
A Friend 225.
I have a friend named Emily who, at the time I'm writing this, is eight
years old. Her father has one kind of chronic neurological disease, and
I have another kind. She plans to learn about pills so that she can mix
some pills together and cure us. I could spend time talking with her about
the dangers of putting too much faith in pills. Pills have caused a lot
of problems. I could spend time trying to make her aware that pills are
only one category of approach to healing, and that there are many other
categories of approaches that may work better. I could try to give her
an idea of how complicated medical science can be.
But not now. For now I'd like to concentrate on the feeling behind her
plan. If I read her correctly, she cares a lot about her father and me
- enough to want to spend time and energy trying to make us healthy. It's
not really her job. She's got her own life to think about. Children need
to know that adults' problems are mainly for adults to deal with. Besides,
just between you and me, I suspect that she will end up having other priorities,
and not doing a lot of research about neurological problems. She's a poet,
an actress, a dancer, an artist, a musician, and many other things. There's
only so much one person can do in one life. But you never know.
That's not my point, though. It's all right if she doesn't become an immunologist,
neurologist, herbalist, or some other kind of healer, if any, who solves
our particular problems. My point is that children, who are so often the
objects of our caring, also do a lot of caring themselves. And because
they are so often unskilled at hiding feelings, or faking them, it can
be pretty special to hear about a child's caring. It can remind us that
caring is natural - not just something people do because they're supposed
to, or because there's something in it for them.
I don't mean to take anything away from the adults who care; their attempts
to help are often just as sincere, and often more practical. Some of them
do some of the research that may eventually lead to solutions to our problems.
Caring alone, though it has a very moving and healing effect on our psyches,
may not have much of an impact on our somas. At least I don't think so
yet.
But when my eight year old friend told me that she intends to keep experimenting
with pills, mixing them together until she finds a cure for the diseases
that make life difficult for two people who are important to her, I didn't
immediately say the words she soon needs to hear, about the dangers of
experimenting with pills. I know her parents, and I'm sure they'll talk
with her about that. What I did was tell her how good it felt to know
she cared so much about me, and later, go home and write this article
in her honor. Celsius 226.
Teachers were told, quite a while ago, that we ought to teach children
to use Celsius, because we'd be switching to it soon. I thought it would
be a difficult transition, but I didn't know how steadfastly our country
would cling to our way of measuring temperature, even as the rest of the
world left Fahrenheit behind.
The Celsius system of measuring temperature makes a lot more sense than
the Fahrenheit system we still use. What we educators did wrong, in my
opinion, was try to teach people how to convert Fahrenheit to Celsius.
That's unnecessary work; if we really convert to Celsius, all the Fahrenheit
numbers will quickly become useless. And we don't have to make too many
changes to switch to Celsius; weather reports, cookbooks, thermometers,
thermostats, oven dials, and maybe a few other things will have to change.
Let's look at the weather, for example. At 0o, water freezes, and it's
cold outside. If the temperature gets below zero, it's even colder. We're
used to that, anyway. When it gets to 10o, it's still cold, in my opinion,
but some people like that temperature. My favorite is 20o. That's comfortable,
but not hot. I don't need a jacket, but I don't need an air conditioner,
either. My apartment is already the right temperature, so my electric
bill is manageable. When it gets to 30o, I start complaining, and when
it gets near 40o, I stay inside and turn on the air conditioner.
Your normal body temperature is about 37o. When it heads up towards 38o,
it's time to get concerned. Water boils at 100o, but I simply wait until
I see bubbles. Most things are baked at 175o, but pizza requires 200o.
If there are any other temperatures that are important to you, subtract
32 from the Fahrenheit number, divide by nine, and multiply by five. There's
also a way to convert back, but I'm not going to tell you. If you want
to convert back, you're on your own.
I know we're used to thinking in Fahrenheit. I'll probably have just as
much difficulty making the transition as you will. But the more we communicate
with the rest of the world, the more we go to other countries, and the
more people from other countries come here, the more it makes sense to
use the Celsius system when we talk about temperature.
Freezing is cold enough for me. When the temperature outside is below
freezing, it might as well be below zero.
At first, I thought we'd make the change in schools. I thought children
would learn to think in Celsius degrees, as I thought they'd learn the
metric system. But that can only work if we think that way, too. Children
want to learn ways that will work in the adult world. So I guess it's
up to us.
Art Appreciation 227.
I used to think art appreciation was totally pretentious. I thought the
honest way to respond to art was to like or dislike it. To me, trying
to understand what the artist was trying to "say," or trying
to feel what the artist was feeling, was a dishonest game some people
played. I like art that resembles things I've actually seen. Some stylistic
ideosyncrasies are okay, but I like to have a pretty good idea of what
I'm seeing. I like VanGogh, but I like Norman Rockwell more, because he
didn't put those funny-looking swirls in his paintings. And I don't know
of any Jackson Pollack paintings I like.
One year, I decided to try an art appreciation lesson with children. Most
children haven't learned to be pretentious about art yet. I borrowed Goya's
"Toledo" from the library, and sat next to it, with the children
sitting on the rug facing "Toledo" and me. I asked them how
many people were in the picture. The people in "Toledo" are
not conspicuous; the weather and scenery are. Children said there were
no people in the picture. I told them there were many people in the picture,
but they were hard to see because they seemed so small. Children looked
closer and saw what I meant.
Then I asked the children where the people were going, and why. Most agreed
that they were going to and from the spooky castle that was up on top
of the hill, but there were various speculations about why. Some thought
they were going to ask the king for help. Some thought they were going
to attack the castle. When I asked whether the people might have been
going to see a movie, or go shopping, they all seemed to agree that those
activities were not possibilities; they'd all done that kind of thing,
and it didn't involve any castles.
One boy said he'd been to Toledo, and it didn't look anything like that.
I could have avoided the boy's confusion by pronouncing "Toledo"
correctly, but at the time, it hadn't even occurred to me that I might
be pronouncing it wrong. In fact, I knew next to nothing about the painting,
or Goya. I just knew that I liked it. I told the boy that this was Toledo,
Spain. I asked him whether he'd been to the one in Spain or the one in
Ohio. He'd been to the one in Ohio.
Not wanting to be one of those pretentious art critics who, from my perspective,
had lost the ability to see what they were looking at, I hadn't read anything
about Goya or Toledo. I wanted the painting to speak for itself, and it
did. I left it in the classroom for a week, and children often stopped
to look at it. They were honest art critics; they were looking at it because
that's what they felt like doing, and they were discussing what they felt
like discussing.
That being said, I must say that I'm curious about Goya and Toledo. I'm
sending this article, by e-mail, to several friends, and I hope some of
them will tell me what they know about the painting, the artist, the town.
If not, maybe I'll go to the library. Maybe some of the children who sat
on the rug that day will do it, too. And the next time I teach children
about it, I may casually mention what I know.
A Crucible 228.
I'm proud of, or at least comfortable with, most of the important decisions
I've made so far. Most of the mistakes I've made were forgivable; I've
had several factors to balance, and I've tried to do what seemed right
after I'd considered all the factors.
But I made a decision in 1974 that I deeply regret. I was a second grade
teacher in an open space school in New York. One of the members of our
team of four teachers had some ideas about teaching that really bothered
me, but one of her ideas, and her related actions, upset me quite a bit.
She believed that children who misbehaved should be spanked. It was against
the law for a teacher to hit a child for any other reason than self-defense,
but she told me that she thought it was a dumb law - one of those laws
"made to be broken."
A few times during that year, she proudly told me that she had spanked
a child. I never saw her do it, but other teachers assured me that she
wasn't kidding. They spoke with embarrassment, but if they felt the moral
indignation I felt, I didn't notice it. They seemed to see it as this
teacher's "thing," and though they didn't agree with spanking,
they didn't express any intention to do anything about it.
After several months of this, two parents made an appointment to speak
with the principal and the second grade teachers. They had sent a letter
accusing this teacher of spanking children. I spoke with the principal
privately and told her what I'd heard about the spanking. The principal,
who had already branded me as a trouble-maker, warned me not to say anything
about what I'd heard. Telling my "hearsay stories," she said,
would be "unprofessional."
I had a family to support, and I wanted to support my family by teaching
young children. I was worried that I would lose my job, and maybe ruin
my chance to ever get another job, if I did what I thought was right.
And so I kept quiet as the parents made their accusations, though a voice
inside me was screaming. When one of the parents asked me whether I knew
anything about the alleged spanking, I said I didn't. But I didn't add
what I had heard.
Perhaps some of you are shocked by my complicity in this abuse of children.
Perhaps some of you think I'm making too much of it. And maybe there are
even some of you who think children should be spanked, law or no law.
But Billy and Michael, if you're reading this, and you remember this issue
from second grade, please forgive me for failing you. And those of you
who face similar situations, please know that the effects of some decisions
can stay with you.
Mind-Reading 229.
I once overheard two children arguing. They had just seen a cat, and one
of them had lost a cat a few months earlier. She insisted that the one
they'd just seen was her cat. I knew it wasn't, and so did the other child.
The argument was becoming quite intense, and I intervened. I said, "You
really miss your cat, don't you?"
That stopped the argument instantly. The child got teary-eyed, and said,
"How did you know?" She honestly didn't have a clue how I could
know she missed her cat. She hadn't told me, and how else could I have
found out? Her tone of voice either accused me of sneaking into her thoughts
and spying on her, or thanked me for articulating her feeling. Or both.
I don't know; I'm not a mind-reader.
I think we all want a certain amount of privacy and a certain amount of
intimacy. Sometimes there's a conflict between the two, as I think there
was in the case of the lost cat. The child may have been a little annoyed
that someone had approached her world, but possibly somewhat pleased,
too. She was confused. The image of the cat that had just run by may have
been swirling around with the image of her own cat, and the image of this
person who seemed to be able to read her mind. If I knew what she was
feeling, maybe I also knew where her cat was.
The conflict doesn't end when childhood ends. We all live partly in our
own thoughts, and the place where we house those thoughts can be a haven
or a prison. When it's a haven, we either want to be alone there, or invite
only the people we trust. And when it's a prison, we hope that someone
will show up to set us free, or we try to find some way to get out on
our own.
It's important to respect the privacy of that world, but it's also important
to let children know they don't always have to be alone when their thoughts
and feelings are hard to handle. There's no easy formula for figuring
out when to do which, but I've found a pretty reliable technique: ask.
If children or adults want to be left alone, they often know that. I know
they also often don't, but asking conveys respect in a way that can help.
A child or adult can be stuck in a private Hell, and skillful mind-reading,
based on listening, thinking, and knowing can enable us to help find a
way out. But the wrong approach can make things worse, tightening the
bars on the prison, or invading the haven. Sometimes a skilled professional
can help; psychology sometimes seems like professional mind-reading.
I'm not saying that you should send your child to a psychotherapist. That
should not seem like a drastic thing to do, but often a child or adult
just needs someone who listens well enough to hear. And sometimes, for
healthy reasons, we just want to be left alone.
The Night Sky 230.
One year, I took a course about the night sky. I'd always been fascinated
with the dazzling display up there every clear night, but I hadn't taken
any astronomy courses in college, because the course descriptions made
them sound like advanced physics courses that had little to do with the
view. Instead, I later enrolled in a class at the Broadmoor Audubon Sanctuary,
and learned about the stars and planets.
And then I started meeting with children and parents at night to look
at the night sky and teach them what I'd learned. Most of them only knew
about the Big Dipper, and maybe Orion, so even though I'd only taken one
little course, I was a comparative expert. And it was a precious opportunity
to see children and parents as equal partners in learning.
I told them that there were different colored stars and planets up there.
Rigel (or is it Regulus?) is blue, Betelgeuse and Mars are red. I find
those three the easiest to pick out for an introduction to star and planet
color. The colors are not easy to see at first. To me, all the stars used
to look white. I'll bet many of you see them as white, too. But the colors
really are there; it's not just a mind game.
The constellations are human inventions, but they've lasted pretty long.
They're still based mostly on Greek and Roman mythology. If we wanted
to, we could redo the whole system. We could honor modern heroes and heroines
by creating new constellations. Businesses could get involved, using the
sky as a giant billboard. I'm sure there are golden arches somewhere up
there. I guess I'm glad we stick with the old myths.
I remember the first time I told children and parents that some of what
they clearly saw might not be there at all, and none of it was where they
saw it. Light takes time to travel. Here on earth, it doesn't take long
enough to make a big difference; when we see something, it doesn't really
matter that a fraction of a second has passed since the light we see left
the thing we see. As far as we're concerned we see things as they occur.
It used feel to me as if my eyes sent out something so that I could see,
not as if rays or particles were coming to my eyes.
But that's not the way it's explained now. (I almost wrote "That's
not the truth." But what is truth?) When light leaves a star, it
takes years for it to get to us. So if a star explodes or implodes, it
takes years for us to get that information. And most of us are too busy
fighting traffic, writing articles, or playing video games to even notice.
Besides, the stars are far away, and their disappearance isn't going to
have dramatic effects on our lives here.
Some astronomers may have practical things in mind when they study stars.
And our space program is far from being a pure quest for knowledge.
But the myriad of lights hanging on our ceiling are fascinating in their
own right, and I'm glad I'm done with this article; it's early morning,
still dark outside, and I'm going to open my shade and see what the sky
looks like. It'll probably look pretty similar to the sky I saw when I
was a child, and somehow, that's comforting.
English as a Second Language 231.
As children learn to speak, they experience ups and downs. It's exciting
to see the reactions they get from people who already know how to speak.
People often make a big deal out of it. It makes the new speakers want
to speak more. But there's frustration, too. Sometimes there's something
important a child is trying to say, and the listeners, stuck in their
rigid linguistic patterns, don't get it. Everyone else understands each
other, but no one understands what the novice is saying. They guess, but
their guesses are way off, and the frustration builds.
Imagine emerging victoriously from this struggle only to find, a little
later, that you're in a strange land where most people don't understand
a word you're saying. Maybe your family is with you, and maybe there's
a teacher who speaks your language, but most people can't understand you.
You may have already learned to read and write (another intense struggle,
for many). But books, signs, etc. are printed in the new language.
There's joy in learning the first language, and there's joy in learning
the second. In some situations, the child learning a second language is
seen as an expert - someone who has mastered what other children haven't
begun. If adults and children are sensitive and supportive, the child
learning English as a second language feels respected, and is motivated
to meet the new challenge. It helps when other children are facing the
challenge with them.
But it isn't easy. I've seen some children, trying to be supportive, treat
newcomers as they treat their younger siblings. Children sometimes have
trouble imagining that someone who "doesn't even know English"
could possibly be their intellectual equal. I've seen surprised looks
when newcomers who haven't known English have solved math problems with
no difficulty - sometimes surpassing children quite fluent in English.
And art, music, movement, and more can be full of similar surprises. Children
know how hard it was or is to learn English, and when they meet someone
who hasn't learned it much yet, they may consciously or unconsciously
think inferior intelligence is a factor.
The teachers who teach English as a second language haven't necessarily
mastered it themselves. If a child comes to Nebraska knowing only Basque,
schools are lucky if they find any teacher who even knows Basque. They
can't really insist on hiring someone who knows Basque and can also speak
English fluently without an accent. And so children may learn English
mainly from someone who has a Basque accent. Foreign accents result from
differences among phonemes, and happen whether or not the teacher has
a foreign accent, but the teacher's accent is a model.
I once spoke with parents of a child who, I thought, was learning English
as a second language. They told me that English was the child's first
language. They had taught it to him, knowing they'd be moving to the United
States. But English was not their first language. I suggested to them
that English as a second language was this child's first language. They
smiled, and agreed.
Souvenirs, Stereotypes, and Substance 232.
Young children spend time in school learning what it's like in other parts
of the world. I'm glad they do; I think the world will be safer and more
pleasant if people know more about each other. And since children often
operate best on a concrete level, and deal better with simplicity than
complexity, teachers usually use simple, concrete materials to teach children
about other places.
But something about that has always bothered me. When I taught children
about Japan, for example, I didn't want children to think of Japan simply
as a place where people took off their shoes before entering a home, and
made cute little animals by folding paper. I wanted them to know the Japan
they might some day visit - the Japan from which their Japanese friends
could come. Perhaps origami and taking off shoes would be part of their
real experience with Japan, but there would be a lot more. It felt fake
to stick with the aspects of Japanese life that set Japan apart.
Let's try to imagine an elementary school unit about our own culture.
What are some things that set us apart from the rest of the world? Westerns?
Situation comedies? Rock and roll? Peanut butter? I'd be very interested
in finding out what stereotypes and souvenirs are used to represent us
to children around the world. We've got our cultural ideosyncrasies, I'm
sure, but I'll bet we'd be somewhat surprised to hear and see how our
culture sounds and looks to children who are used to another culture.
And so I spent at least part of my units on Japan, Russia, and India,
making sure children knew that there was more to these places than the
obvious souvenirs and stereotypes that were so often part of the units
teachers used. I showed children photographs of Tokyo, Moscow, or New
Delhi that made it clear that these were cities. I tried to keep the units
balanced, so that children would get to know the real places and people.
I tried to find penpals for the children. E-mail could have made that
easier, but the timing of my teaching career wasn't right; "snail-mail"
was a very appropriate term for the process by which I tried to bring
children closer to their penpals.
I still don't know to what degree the typical elementary school units
about other cultures are appropriate. The world is getting smaller; some
of the bits of culture that used to give places and peoples their character
are, to some degree, becoming anachronisms, and we sometimes have to stretch
a point to make children aware of cultural differences. They can get typical
American fast food in most parts of the world. English is an international
language; though it's the native language of only a small percentage of
earth's population, a large percentage can get along okay in English.
I offer these thoughts to parents and teachers who are struggling to balance
emphases on diversity and commonality in presenting other cultures to
children. I wish you success.
Mob Control 233.
There are times when adults herd a hundred or more children into one room,
usually an auditorium, to do one thing. Usually, there aren't too many
times like that, but when it happens, it requires different behavior management
techniques. Some schools have found ways to make this work smoothly. The
teachers and other adults speak words and establish rituals that prepare
the children for the situation And some performers and other leaders have
styles that capture the attention of every child, no matter how many children
fill the room. In some schools, large gatherings are so common that children
get used to acceptable behavior.
But the large group, in my experience, usually presents problems. Most
adults are used to having most children give them good attention. True,
some adults elicit more attention than others, some children attend better
than others, and some reasons for attending are more compelling than others.
But children who ordinarily have difficulty listening often have more
difficulty when there are lots of other children in the room, and the
situation can also test some children who don't ordinarily have difficulty.
Not to mention the adults. Adults who work well with children tend to
be more patient than the general population, but these same adults may
lose some of that patience when faced with a large group of children.
Yelling, threatening, seemingly random punishing, and other behaviors
that don't reflect careful thinking about children may prevail when adults
are significantly outnumbered.
And sometimes adults who haven't learned much about children find themselves
in charge of large groups. An inexperienced or at least unskilled adult
may be in charge of supervising a cafeteria or bus full of children. It
would help to give these adults a few pointers, or maybe bring them into
classrooms, or introduce them to parents. But more commonly, this doesn't
happen. These adults are thrown into what seems to them like an impossible
situation, and are expected to cope with it.
I have seen and occasionally used effective techniques for controlling
large groups of children. The one person who impressed me most was a storyteller
named Jay O'Callahan. His voice and physical presence had gentle power.
He could whisper to two hundred children, and the only sound in the room
was the sound of his whisper. What children heard when they listened to
him was fascinating. Adults in the room who ordinarily would have been
on the lookout for problems were equally spellbound. If any child had
tried to break the spell Jay had cast, peer pressure would have been sufficient
to keep the child in line.
All right, so we're not all Jay O'Callahan. But there are lessons we can
learn from him: use a voice that requires children to listen, say things
children have some reason to hear, and somehow, let children know that
we expect (not demand, just expect) that they will listen.
Being a Grown-up 234.
Growing up isn't really awfuller than all the awful things there ever
were. We spend the first years of our lives not being grown-ups, and many
of us resolve that we either won't grow up, or if we do, we'll do it right.
Not the way other people have done it. They've done it all wrong. We know
where they've gone wrong, and we're going to avoid the pitfalls they didn't
avoid. It can't be that hard.
I grew up. In some ways, it took a lot longer than I thought it would.
I'm still growing, but I prefer not to think of it as "growing up."
I know adults who like to say they're still children, and there are all
kinds of things they may mean by that statement, but in one way or another,
all adults have grown up.
As I grew up, I tried to keep the parts of childhood I considered worthwhile.
Some of it was easy to keep; I didn't even have to think about it. To
some adults, my childlike qualities - innocence, enthusiasm, curiosity
- have been charming and disarming. Children liked it, too; it was fun
to have a tall child to play with.
Some of it wasn't so worthwhile, charming, or disarming, but it stayed
around anyway, annoying other adults, who wished I'd get rid of it.
Impulsiveness, flamboyance, and disorganization can really get on people's
nerves. I tried to ignore people's negative reactions to my childishness;
I tried to convince myself that they were old fuddy-duddies. I paid more
attention to the ways people were charmed by my antics, and even some
of the fuddy-duddies came around.
But the message of Peter Pan, I think, is not quite right. Growing up,
done thoughtfully, can actually be a pretty creative thing to do. And
it can be fun. We grown-ups get to do things children can only dream of.
We've got power and freedom children don't have. As much as I enjoy the
time I spend with children, I'm glad I don't have to be a child any more.
As supportive as adults were, it was not easy to be a child. The fears
and frustrations of even my relatively happy childhood make it so that
I'm glad to be done with it. If you find yourself frequently longing for
your lost youth, perhaps you've forgotten some of the negative parts of
it.
There are still hard times for us grown-ups. A friend of mine recently
told me how hard it is for him to hear his daughter voicing the same kinds
of complaints he used to voice. He had learned to know and like himself
as a rebel, and here he was in the role of the Establishment, setting
limits, enforcing rules, and all that: "Do you think I like saying
this stuff? I'm saying it for your own good." Bye-bye, Neverland.
The oft-quoted "Desiderata" says, "Take kindly the counsel
of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth." Of all
the pearls of wisdom contained in that treasure, that's the bit of advice
that seems hardest to follow.
Handwriting 235.
In 1973, the principal of the school in which I taught came to my classroom
to demonstrate for me the "correct" way to teach handwriting.
She felt that handwriting was being given too little emphasis in my class.
Back then, I was a young, inexperienced teacher who didn't think teachers
should be so obsessed with handwrit |