Friday, April 21, 2017

As It Always Should Be

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Thursday, April 20, 2017

"You Always Wear Your Purple Shirt"

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

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

"No, you always wear your purple shirt."

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

"And you always wear the same jeans."

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

"And you always wear the same shoes."

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

"You don't even change your hairstyle."

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

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

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

"You're welcome."

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Wednesday, April 19, 2017

"What Does That Sign Say, Teacher Tom?"

There has been a poster on the classroom door for the past few weeks promoting our annual Spring Garden Festival, a fundraising event that is open to the general public. It's posted high up on the door at adult eye-level. Yesterday, for the first time, one of the kids asked me about it.

"What does that sign say, Teacher Tom?"

"Let's find out." I removed it and carried it to our checker board rug where the four and five-year-olds were gathering for circle time. I asked, "Can any of you read?"

"I can read some words, but not all of them."

"Me too."

"I can read my name."

"Well, then I'll read it and we can figure out what the words mean." I started at the top, "Woodland Park Co-op. What's that?"

"That's our school." There was general agreement about that so I moved on, "Spring Garden Festival." There was some squealing and cheering. "What's a garden festival?"

"It's like a party at school in the spring."

"Oh, I know about this. My mom told me there are going to be games, like a cake walk. You might win a whole cake!"

"And treats!"

"And there will be things to buy!"

I said, "That sounds fun." Then I read the date. There was a pause before one girl said, "I think that means that's when it's happening."

I answered, "Me too. That's next Saturday." This brought down the house. They might not have identified with the date, but they sure understood "next Saturday." As they cheered they looked at each other, beaming and clapping, and making plans. "I'm going!" "Me too!"

When things died down I read, "From 2 to 5 o'clock . . . That's right after lunch." More cheering.

They weren't so certain about the "silent auction," although the boy whose mother is organizing it shared that someone had donated a really cool tea set that "somebody gets to take home." More cheering. He shouted over them, "There's other things too!"

They were enthusiastic about the idea of "carnival games" several of them offering up their idea of what kinds of games we might be playing. The "plant sale" was likewise well-received. When we came to "book fair" there was some confusion about what that meant, but we finally decided that it must mean that there would be books for sale. When I read "refreshments" they were quite certain that it meant we would be drinking "lemonade with bubbles in it." We interpreted "WP gear" to mean either raincoats or those "little gears you can play with." When I pointed out that "gear" could also refer to the school logo t-shirt and sweat-shirt I was wearing, they doubted it. "Free activities" got them cheering again as did "community fun." When I asked, "What does 'community' mean," a girl replied, "That means all of us."

Things got really raucous when I read, "Evan the Magician! Professional Magic Show." A couple of them had seen magic shows before and assured us that it would be "so cool." 

Then I read, "Bring cash."

"That means bring money." A few were disappointed because they didn't have any money, but they were re-assured by their friends that they would share some of theirs or, alternatively, their parents could bring some money. But everyone relaxed when I read, "Free, free, free . . . Story time with Teacher Rachel and craft stations." One of them said, "You don't need any money for that!" and that evoked another cheer. I added, "And you don't need money to play on the playground."

Teacher Rachel, our kindergarten teacher, happened to be sitting in for part of this discussion and she let the kids know that one of the carnival games was to throw a pie in her face. This lead to a discussion about what that meant. Would it hurt? Would it taste good? Would there be whipped cream? I said that I might join Teacher Rachel as a target for a pie, but only if I got to lick the whipped cream off myself. I asked if any of the kids would like a pie thrown in their faces. Only one boy offered himself up, even when I reminded them about the whipped cream. I remain on the fence, but can probably be persuaded on Saturday.

So if you or someone you know are looking for a good time in Fremont on Saturday, come on by. It's the kind of fun that includes "all of us," both inside and out, there may or may not be gears, you can get your vegetable garden started or maybe win a whole cake, and the magic show promises to be cool. Maybe you'll even get to throw a pie in my face, but there is no question that you can throw one into Teacher Rachel's.

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Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Hardly Worth Worrying About

He had always been a perfect fit for our school, a kid who needed to move his body, who learned best not by watching or listening, but by doing. From the moment I met him, he had something in his hands, fiddling with it, testing it, bouncing it off of things. As a two-year-old, he was fascinated with our classroom hamster wheel, which he played with in every way imaginable, trying to fit it into places where it belonged and where it did not, spinning it, turning it over and rolling it, dismantling it, and sometimes going so far as to hide it so he could find it the following day in order to continue his experiments.

Even when it came to social skills, he was a hands on learner. Most of his interactions involved some sort of physical contact, like a friendly bump, a shove, actions that were often misinterpreted by others. He would sometimes take a friend's face in his hands, his palms cupping their cheeks as he smiled at them, just to show them how much he liked them. Some children objected to this, not understanding, but the ones who "got it," and there are plenty, found in him a pal for the ages.

During his fourth and final year with us, he spent his mornings in a public school kindergarten and his afternoons with us at Woodland Park. He was not a fan of his kindergarten's use of worksheets or the long stretches of sitting indoors, and when they inflicted the cruelty of an academic standardized test upon him, he ranked near the very bottom, bringing his mother to me in tears. This is a mom who knew better, who knew that some perfectly normal kids have brains developmentally ready to read at two, while many others don't get there until seven, eight, or even later. Much of the rest of the civilized world doesn't even try to start teaching children to read until they're seven. What the hell does it mean: a reading test for five-year-olds? Only someone with no knowledge of child development, or a complete jerk, would use such a tool as anything more than, perhaps, a research benchmark. But to share the results with parents, along with rankings? What is that about? Is it supposed to be some sort of motivation? Only a sociopath would think this is a good idea: I suppose the same ones who punish kids who have trouble sitting still in their chairs by taking away recess time.

This is the great crime of the standardized, assembly line curricula found in public schools. It simply cannot make allowances for children who aren't ready to learn something when they "ought to," according to arbitrary timelines, ranking them, slapping labels on them, driving them with threats and punishments, causing inappropriate anxiety for both the child and his parents.

Based on his academic performance, Winston Churchill's father was convinced that he would never be able to earn his own living. Likewise, Walter Scott's father found his early attempts at poetry so humiliating that he discouraged him because he feared it would reflect poorly on the family. Einstein and Darwin were such poor students that their teachers felt they would amount to nothing. Louis Pasteur's teacher called him "the least promising boy in the class." 

This isn't a race, folks. I've taught many children who were, say, precocious readers, puzzlers, or artists, kids upon whom adults glibly slap the label of "genius." In fact, in every class I've ever taught, there are one or two children like this. They're delightful to teach, a joy, but their early years accomplishments are no better indicators of their future successes than the less notable accomplishments of their peers. Some of our great geniuses showed themselves early, of course, like Mozart, Orson Welles, or Picasso. We are impressed by such greatness at such a young age, but often fail to recognize that the rest of their careers, while still worthy, never approach the genius of their youthful work.

And then there are "dull" children like Churchill, Scott, Einstein, Darwin, and Pasteur, people who needed time for their genius to ripen.

University of Chicago economist David Galenson took a look at this phenomenon, especially as regards creativity. He argues that there are really two methods of genius at work here. Prodigies, like those kids who are sounding out words as two-year-olds, tend to approach their "work" with a clear idea of what they want, then set about doing it. "Late bloomer" genius, however, is of the sort that comes from the experimental approach characterized by a kid who, say, spends hours and days horsing around with a hamster wheel. "Their goals are imprecise, so their procedure is tentative and incremental," according to Galenson. From his book, Old Masters and Young Geniuses

The imprecision of their goals means that these artists rarely feel they have succeeded, and their careers are consequently often dominated by the pursuit of a single objective. These artists repeat themselves, painting the same subject many times, and gradually changing its treatment in an experimental process of trail and error. Each work leads to the next, and none is generally privileged over others, so experimental painters rarely make specific preparatory sketches or plans for a painting. They consider the production of a painting as a process of searching, in which they aim to discover the image in the course of making it; they typically believe that learning is a more important goal than making finished paintings. Experimental artists build their skills gradually over the course of their careers, improving their work slowly over long periods.

Of course, most children, are not destined to become geniuses of either sort, but Galenson's work is to me a clear illustration of the broad range of what can be considered developmentally "normal," something that is confirmed by every expert in the fields of eduction and brain science. We know this, teachers should know this, as should administrators, school boards, and education policy-makers, yet they are increasingly throwing their lot with the crazy idea that education is a competition with winners and losers and rankings.

One day I watched this boy who ranked near the bottom according to a standardized test spend a half hour on our "concrete slide" with a piece of chalk, sliding down while dragging the chalk behind him, trailing lines on the concrete surface. As he slid, he studied the chalk in his hand, the colors, and the shape of the lines he was making. When another child dumped a bucket of water down the slope, he discovered that he could create more intensely colorful lines with wet chalk. He slid again and again and again, sometimes joined by other kids, sometimes all on his own, gradually changing its treatment in an experimental process of trail and error, each time down leading to the next, and none generally privileged over others. It was a process of searching, a process in which learning was a more important goal than passing a stupid test.

This is education and it's not a race that will necessarily be won by those first out of the gate. Education, like life, is a long game, one with a finish line so far away it's hardly worth worrying about.

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Monday, April 17, 2017

Hope For Humanity

I've spent last week in New York City where my wife and I came, primarily, to spend some time with our daughter Josephine who now lives there.

I'm a fan of urban density and there are few more densely populated places than this. I like the noise and bustle; the nearness of services, art, and entertainment; the ease of moving about on foot, bike, and mass transit; and the fitness of a human geography that grows up rather than out. But what I most love about urban density is the message of hope it sends me about humanity.

One evening I was waiting for Josephine on a bench in the East Village. The weather was pleasant. I'd arrived ten minutes early and I was just idly watching the people go about their business when a well-dressed young woman walking briskly with a friend suddenly stepped into a small doorway, dropped trow, and urinated on the sidewalk, before going on her way, continuing her chat as if the moment hadn't happened. I wasn't exactly appalled because, being a preschool teacher, I deal with the bodily wastes of other humans on a regular basis, and I wasn't even particularly shocked given that there have been times when I have had to give in to the urge at inconvenient times and places. No, it was more the audacity that struck me along with the fact that my brain was now contemplating the sanitary conditions of the pavement in general and questioning the wisdom of my choice to wear sandals.

As I considered warning people who's dogs lunged against their leads in that direction, I told myself, "Well, that's the city." Moments later another pair of well-dressed young women approached, heading in the opposite direction. Suddenly one of them stooped to pick up a pizza box that had been discarded on the sidewalk, and without missing a beat in her conversation, went out of her way to shove it into a trash can, a completely selfless act, one rewarded only by the knowledge that she had done the right thing. That's the city too.

I understand why many people are repelled by the very urban density to which I'm drawn, preferring the relative quite and elbow space represented by rural or suburban living. I mean, I can see the attraction of tidy lawns over urine stained, pizza box cluttered sidewalks. I've lived that lifestyle myself, but have ultimately rejected it throughout my life, always choosing to move closer and closer to the center rather than farther and farther away.

I live and work in Seattle, a smaller, but still densely populated part of the world. There was a time not so long ago that when the city grew too much for me, I could be standing in relatively untouched wilderness or bucolic countryside within a matter of minutes, but over the decades that has been pushed farther and farther away as people who feel differently than I have chosen to move their lives out there, paving paradise with strip centers, gas stations, and conveniently located supermarkets, converting large tracts of nature into a sort of flat, bland, concrete sameness, fenced off into grids. Where I once hiked in a forest, there are now daily traffic jams.

I know it's more complicated than this, but I can't help but note that in our effort to escape the unpleasantness of urine-stained sidewalks, we have taken to destroying the very thing we claim to love. They call it "urban flight," and that's what it looks like to me, an unconscious effort to run away from half of what makes us human.

When I'm in the city, especially New York City, it's not possible to just look away: I stand beside an overflowing dumpster as I contemplate the beauty of a work of art; I eat my fancy dinner while panhandlers beg for crumbs; I walk on urine-stained sidewalks kept tidy by young women who take it upon themselves to dispose of other people's refuse. Cities are the best and worst of humanity, all of humanity, every day, all the time. I prefer this over bland. I prefer growing up not out. And it encourages me that in my city of Seattle at least, more and more people are seeing it as I do, with an increasing number of my fellow humans opting to live and work together in an urban core that is becoming ever more densely populated. There is a 41-story apartment building going up right outside my living room window: that's some 800 new neighbors. I welcome them.

And this is what gives me hope for humanity. Densely populated places like New York are a testament to human cooperation, to working things out, to being interconnected, to community, to acknowledging those urine-stained sidewalks while also accepting our own responsibility for them.

Whenever I come to New York I always take a walk through Times Square, a place thronged with tourists and hucksters and traffic. A place abuzz with all that makes us human, from the very best to the very worst. You can't walk briskly and those who try are frustrated. You can't demand your own unencroachable self-space and those who try are frustrated. You can't be separate because the other people won't let you. You have no choice but to slow down, to step outside yourself, and to become one with it all, a part of this thing called humanity.

As I walked around the city on Easter Sunday, strangers, from stations high and low, wearing hajibs and kippahs, going to church or out for a run, wished me "Happy Easter!" I bounced as I walked full of the joyful awareness that we're all in this together, as ugly and beautiful as it is, and to deny that is to deny life. This is why cities give me hope.

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Friday, April 14, 2017

Inside The Box

 It's within limitations that he first shows himself the master.  ~Goethe

“Thinking outside the box” has become an overused catch phrase intended to imply creativity. Today it seems like we want everything to be out of the box, but I was working in the business world in the early 1980’s when that phrase came into common use. For us it had a very precise and, frankly, desperate meaning: Our idea box is empty! Thinking outside the box was what you did as a last resort, when nothing else worked. Outside the box solutions were by definition of the makeshift and temporary variety. And while necessity may be the mother of invention, I strongly believe that true genius almost always comes from within the framework of rules.

Page was a smart four-year-old boy who grew dissatisfied with the classroom rule: No name-calling.

We had arrived at this rule via our usual process of consensus and he’d voiced no objection at the time, but found himself bumping up against the confines of its “box” within days.

At first he tried getting around the rule by only whispering his insults. When charged with breaking the rule, he insisted that it didn’t count because the object of his name-calling “didn’t hear it.”

Then he tried finding loopholes. When caught calling a classmate, “dodo head”, for instance, he made the argument that “dodo head” actually meant, “good good head.” (His case fell apart when I asked if we could refer to him by this appellation.) He tried the political talk show host technique of saying, “If it wasn’t against the rules, I’d call you a poopy-head!” which was his insult of choice.

Finally he initiated a one-man campaign to change the rule. For several weeks running, he raised his hand at Circle Time and spoke against it. He managed to sway a couple of his friends, but ultimately failed to rally sufficient numbers to carry the day.

After that, the matter seemed to disappear until one day, a month or so later, Page approached me with a piece of construction paper upon which he’d made some marks with a pen that looked like letters. Most of the kids were capable of writing their own names and maybe a few other words, but there was an inordinate amount of writing on this paper, far beyond what we usually see in preschool. I said, "Page, you wrote letters!"

“Read it,” he replied with a sly grin.

The letters weren’t necessarily in a straight line, nor were they perfectly formed, but it looked something like this:


I had to sound it out: “Erin . . . picks . . . her . . . boogers . . .”

Page roared. It was too much. I shouldn’t have, but I laughed with him before pulling it together to scold, "You broke the rule."

But he was ready for me, "No I didn't. I wrote it. You said it!"

Later, when I told his mother about it, she sighed, “That damn kid. He’s my little freak. He’s been teaching himself to read and write for months -- all on his own. I guess now I know why.”

Page and I made a private deal. We agreed that name-writing wasn’t technically the same as name-calling. He could therefore write whatever he wanted, but he couldn’t read it aloud and he could only show it to me. It wasn’t long before he moved on to more appropriate subject matter, but we had several private chuckles before he did.

That’s how genius works inside the box.

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Thursday, April 13, 2017

How Much Happier We Would Be!

One of the great lies told to us by our society is that acquiring more stuff, or the right stuff, or any stuff for that matter, will make us happy. None of us "believe" it, yet most of us live our lives in ways that disprove our disbelief. Every one of the great religions warns us of the danger or ultimate worthlessness of material stuff, as do the great philosophers and artists, yet most of us have collected and continue to collect stuff like it's going out of style . . . And it is going out of style: that's one of the many ways we convince ourselves that we need just this one more thing to be happy.

I recently wrote about children who experiment with hoarding things in the classroom, kids who collect piles of things, then guard them protectively. They have all the stuff, yet their faces always look miserable, and it's because they are miserable: the natural state of a hoarder is misery. I'm not claiming intimacy with any of them, but I've spent enough time in my life in the proximity four different billionaires, all of whom have come off as surly, suspicious, and tight-fisted, wary of all who approach them, proving to me that the hoarding of money is no different than the hoarding of anything else.

Our classroom hoarder stood out for me because most of the children I teach haven't yet unlearned the great wisdom that stuff can't make you happy. And the younger they are, they closer they are to this wisdom. Anyone who spends time with young children knows this is true, and many of us envy it, yet we nevertheless systematically go about teaching them our society's myths about stuff, indeed we can't help ourselves, and by the time they're ready to head off to elementary school most are already firmly in the mainstream of thinking that just this one more thing will make me happy.

I'm not writing this by way of boasting that I am somehow above it because I'm not. I still have clothing in my drawers that I'll never wear again, yet continue to buy more. I still have a television set in the back of a closet, although I haven't plugged it in for close to a decade. I still have crap in a storage locker that I visit, maybe, once a year. And even as I can see that the weight of those things makes me less happy, I continue to hoard them because I worry, I guess, that someday I might need them and then I'll sure be sorry, accepting real, current unhappiness over a purely theoretical happiness that my stuff might bring me at some point in the unknowable future.

I recently shared one of my favorite jokes here: "The difference between my phobias and yours is that mine make sense." The same could be said of stuff, although at least phobias are something I know I ought to be working to get rid of, whereas it seems I'm far more attached to my stuff than my fears because I tend to find it less easy to let go of the later than the former.

The subtitle for this blog is "Teaching and learning from preschoolers" and this is one of those areas in which our youngest citizens have everything to teach us and nothing to learn except misery. Young children use things until they're done with them, then let them go, usually simply dropping them to the ground and walking away. Most of the time as adults we find it frustrating because they are making a mess, but seriously, this should be inspiring stuff. What if we could do that with our stuff? How much happier we would be!

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Wednesday, April 12, 2017

The Future Belongs To The Curious And Creative

Tom Drummond, retired instructor at North Seattle College and one of my most important mentors, once showed our class a video of himself interacting with preschoolers by putting a can of house paint on the center of a table and saying something like, "I have this."

One of the children identifies it as paint.

Tom answers that it looks like a can to him. We then watch the kids guide Tom until he uses a screw driver to pry the can open where, sure enough, they find not just paint, but the color and type they predicted. Throughout this, Tom more or less plays dumb (or maybe he's playing innocent), sticking to simple, informative statements, and I'll never forget how right near the end of the video, at just the perfect moment, he introduced the word "pry" into the conversation, which really expedited things.

Viewing this had a big impact on me as a cooperative parent-teacher and continues to influence me to this day. It gave me an opening into a new understanding of what it meant to be a teacher, having up to then essentially understood the profession as one in which the teacher conveys knowledge to children by telling or showing them things and then expecting them to remember it. Here I saw a teacher guiding a group of children toward understanding, using language to prompt exploration and conversation, letting them construct meaning and purpose from their own experiences, collaborating with their peers, arriving at the point where a traditional teacher would have started, prying the can open.

I find myself taking this approach daily in the classroom, be it putting on bandages, building with blocks, or making art; playing innocent, not taking the role of authority or the possessor of superior knowledge. When the Easter Bunny comes up, for instance, my response is to simply wonder if that's their pet bunny and we're off. It's fascinating to facilitate a discussion like that, as they share what they "know," adding new parts to the story, deciding if EB is a boy or girl, debating if he's big or regular sized, wondering amongst themselves if she lays eggs or just brings them, and speculating on how he gets into their houses. I've found that as long as the adults refrain from attaching a right or wrong label to their responses, the discussions might get heated, but at the end of the day, everyone gets to go home with their own story intact, but enriched with new things to think about.

There is a debate raging in the US right now about how teachers ought to teach, with one side, the one at the podium right now, insisting upon a "direct instruction" approach, one in which the teacher shows or tells students the answers, while the other side, the one generally advocated on these pages, favoring an exploratory approach in which the teacher encourages students to discover the answers on their own.

Teaching is a notoriously hard thing to measure, of course, because so many things play into it both inside and outside the classroom. Direct teaching may well be a superior approach if the goal is simply to teach specific facts or skills, the kinds of things that can be measured on standardized tests, but doesn't really do much for curiosity and creativity, attributes far more important to becoming lifelong learners.

In an article on Slate by developmental scientist Alison Gopnick, she discusses the findings of two studies:

. . . (w)hile learning from a teacher may help children get to a specific answer more quickly, it also makes the less likely to discover new information about a problem and to create a new and unexpected solution."

(The studies) provide scientific support for the intuitions many teachers have had all along: Direct instruction really can limit young children's learning. Teaching is a very effective way to get children to learn something specific . . . But it also makes children less likely to discover unexpected information and to draw unexpected conclusions.

I urge you to click over there and read about how the studies were conducted. I don't think anyone who has spent any amount of time in a preschool classroom will find the results surprising.

The thing that struck me the most, however, was that in both studies, the researcher playing the role of teacher in the exploratory approach essentially played "dumb," much in the way Tom did in his video, and the way many of us naturally do in the classroom.

Also fascinating is where Gopnick takes us at the end of her article, looking at scientists who work on designing "computers that learn about the world as effectively as young children do." Which, as it turns out, was the real motivation for engaging in these studies in the first place.

These experts in machine learning argue that learning from teachers first requires you to learn about teachers. For example, if you know how teachers work, you tend to assume that they are trying to be informative . . . (T)he learner unconsciously thinks: "She's a teacher. If there were something interesting in there, she would have showed it to me." These assumptions lead children to narrow in, and to consider just the specific information a teacher provides. Without a teacher present, children look for a much wider range of information and consider a greater range of options.

Of course it's true that an authoritative adult can narrow the world for young minds, but it had never occurred to me that the very definition of "teacher" comes into play in how children learn. The kids who come to Woodland Park arrive as 2-year-olds and as such, for most of them, I am the only teacher they've ever known. And for many of them, three years later as they head off to kindergarden, the "playing innocent" approach forms the basis of their understanding of what a teacher does.

Nearly all of them will spend the next dozen years in a world of schools in which teachers are mandated to teach them a certain core curriculum of specific, standardized knowledge and skills organized grade-by-grade, year-by-year, much of which is conveyed by direct instruction. I assume this changes the kid's definition of "teacher." I know that most teachers in the early elementary years strive to create a balance between direct instruction and exploratory learning, so I hope this new experience simply adds to the definition the children already have, making teaching a bigger idea. But I also worry that this new definition comes to completely overshadow the old one by the time they've made their way through high school, where the amount and specificity of knowledge they are mandated to learned leaves little room for exploration.

Personally, I'd like to see more of a focus on exploratory learning in our schools, especially in our upper grades, even if that's difficult to measure, because curiosity and creativity are the only traits we know our children will need as they come of age in our rapidly changing world. This is a position I've largely come to through experience and intuition, one I'm always pleased to see repeatedly supported by scientists through well constructed experiments. While the education debate rages, it's interesting to note that no one -- from parents and teachers to politicians and business people -- disagrees that the future belongs to the curious and creative.

I have this. I don't know what to do.

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Tuesday, April 11, 2017

A Place Not Of Teaching

I never pretend to know what kids will learn on any given day and, honestly, any teacher who does is either deluded or blowing smoke. No one can possibly know what another person is going to learn. You can hope. You can plan. You can lecture yourself blue. You can even, if you're especially clever, trick someone into learning something, but the idea that one person can "teach" something to another is perhaps, except under narrow circumstances, one of the great educational myths.

There is a quote that is most often attributed to the Buddha, but is more likely of Theosophical origins, that goes: "When the student is ready the master will appear." I like these kinds of quotes that persist because they are true even when they can't be traced back to the utterances of Buddha, Socrates, or Einstein. This one is even so true that there is a corollary: "When the master is ready the student will appear."

Some days I accidentally "teach" something to a kid. For instance, I once improperly used the term "centrifugal force" (when I actually should have use "centripetal force") while a child was experimenting with a hamster wheel and the kid, months later, was still misusing my term while performing his experiments, even as I repeatedly tried to correct him. But most days I teach nothing at all except, perhaps, what I convey to my students by role modeling. I've tried, believe me, to convey specific information to kids, like when I tell them that dirt is primarily made from volcanos, dead stuff, and worm poop, but most of the time the only things that stick are the things about which the kids are already asking questions.

And still, despite my utter lack of "teaching," the kids who come to our school are learning. How do I know? I watch them. I listen to them. I remember when they didn't know and then I hear them saying and see them doing things that demonstrate that now they do. And even though I'm not teaching them, they mostly learn exactly what I want them to know.

What do I want them to know?

The joy of playing with other people.

The frustration and redemption of failure.

Emotions come and go and they are important.

I'm the boss of me and you're the boss of you.

Our agreements are sacred.

It's not only important to love, but also to say it.

It's not my job to "teach" these things. It is my job to do what I can to create an environment (e.g., work with our "third teacher" in the parlance of the Reggio Emilia model of early childhood education) that is stimulating, beautiful, and safe enough: a place where children can ask and answer their own questions about the world and the people they find there. A place not of teaching, but of discovery. We call it play. It's really as simple as that.

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