Monday, March 18, 2019


I was enjoying a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon with a walk through Seattle Center. As I approached a short flight of stairs, I found my way impeded by a girl of about five who was playfully descending by walking the full length of each step before stepping down, then walking the full length of the next step before stepping down, and so on.

I was in no hurry so I waited as she zig-zagged her way to the bottom, where her mother waited. When I interact with children I don't know in public, even if it's just to stay out of their way, I like to make friendly eye contact with their parent, but this mother was absorbed with her phone. I am in no way judging her for looking at her phone. For all I know she was dealing with something necessary. I only mention it because the girl was clearly feeling pretty happy with herself. She was beaming with what looked like pride as she followed her self-selected pattern of decent. Mostly, she was concentrating on her feet, but every now and then she looked up at her mother who was temporarily busy doing something else.

I waited until the girl had completed her game, after which she ran to her mother, who stashed her phone, and the two went off happily hand-in-hand, the girl skipping at her mother's hip. I stood there for a moment thinking about what I'd seen: a child on the quest to teach herself something about something, and judging by her behavior it looked to me like she was pretty satisfied about what she had learned, discovered, confirmed, or dismissed. I, a stranger who will likely never see her again, had witnessed it, while her parent had not.

Those of us in early childhood education spend much of our time and energy observing children and making educated guesses about what they may have learned doing this or that. Many of us are required to submit forms or write reports or otherwise document this "learning." But I worry about it. I know it's well-intended, I know that everyone from administrators to policy-makers to parents want some kind of evidence that learning is taking place, but it's hard for me to call this kind of thing "evidence," any more than I can place that label on standardized testing (or any testing for that matter). I mean, I can guess the girl on the stairs was learning something about patterns or gravity or her mom's patience, but not only do I not know, her mother, who is probably the person who knows her best in the world, doesn't know either, and not just because she wasn't watching. Indeed, even the girl herself may not know.

And had this mother been watching, it would have materially changed what her daughter learned. Had the girl found her mother looking at her when she looked up, it would have transformed the moment from one of internal motivation to one of external motivation. Had her mother been smiling, had she been wearing a look of anxiety, or one of impatience, everything about the situation, and therefor what was learned, would have changed. In fact, one could argue that adult observation actually derails the child's learning, especially if that child has come to expect that adult observation comes complete with "Atta girls" and "Be carefuls" and tut-tuts.

I spend much of my professional life observing children, which means that I am, for better or worse, part of what they are learning. There was a time when I moved around from place-to-place, sitting first with this group of children, then with that, engaging then moving on, but it became clear to me that when I did this, I materially altered their play, making myself too central. These days, I tend to perch myself in regular places, near, but not within the play. Sometimes I even leave the play yard or classroom altogether. My intent is to, as much as possible, become part of the "furniture." The children don't always allow that to happen, because, after all, we love each other, but I hope that they, as much as possible, forget about me, which they will never do as long as I'm correcting or suggesting or narrating. Several times a day, whenever I feel that I'm becoming too much a part of the play, I excuse myself for a time, heading off into a back hallway or the storage room to give the children a chance to return to their own things, confident that they are learning because they are playing, even if I'm not there to observe it.

And despite all of this, I will continue to observe, striving to be as unobtrusive as possible, not because I need to document someone else's learning, but rather because I want to deepen my own.

If you or someone you know is interested in joining the Woodland Park Cooperative School (Seattle), we are currently enrolling for the 2019-20 school year. Click here for information. There are still spots available for 2-5 year olds.

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Friday, March 15, 2019

The Promise Of Democracy

A cooperative is an enterprise that is owned and operated by its customers. It's a model for organizing people toward common ends that's been around for centuries and over that time it has been successfully applied to both non-profit and for-profit ventures alike. I've spent the better part of the past two decades, more than half of my working life, in cooperative preschools, and because of that I often think that I must be, by now, one of the world's leading experts on how a small-scale cooperative works.

Our political candidates are being asked these days if they are "capitalists" or "socialists." They've scrambled to figure out a palatable answer, but when I put myself in their shoes, I think I'd be inclined to answer that I'm "none of the above." If I had to put a label on it (and I'd rather not), I reckon I'd say that I'm a "cooperative-ist." Unlike with capitalism, which requires an impossibly level playing field in order to operate as the sort of meritocratic utopia envisioned by its supporters, and socialism, which requires an impossibly benevolent and uncorrupted bureaucratic apparatus to fairly distribute prosperity, cooperatives have the advantage of actually having been tested successfully in the real world. In other words, the world has never experienced a pure enough capitalistic system, nor a pure enough socialistic system, while purely cooperative systems not only exist, but thrive.

The strength of the model is that individuals have voluntarily come together toward a common end, in our case to educate our own young children. Our school is owned by some eighty families, each of which is a co-equal owner of the school, and each of which is responsible for assuming a role in the day-to-day, week-to-week, year-to-year operations, up to and including serving as assistant teachers in the classroom. Decision-making is necessarily democratic and transparent. Because our cooperative's "customers" are also its managers and employees, tuitions and expenses are kept as low as necessary (as opposed to as low as possible). The natural state of a cooperative is to be economically efficient without the austerity. When extra funds are needed or desired by the community, they tend to show up, one way or the other.

Of course, things are not perfect, which is the case of any human endeavor. Whereas we are unsurpassed in our economic efficiencies, cooperatives like ours can appear quite inefficient when it comes to decision-making. With so many co-equal owners, as you might imagine, we spend a lot of time in meetings, often hashing and re-hashing everything from the behavior of the children to what type of paper towels we will use. It can be frustrating for some of us, but no one ever said that democracy would be fast or easy, and at the end of the day I really can't think of a better use for my time on the planet than getting together with my neighbors and figuring out what kind of world we want to share.

Every now and then I've contemplated life outside of our cooperative, a place where I've grown up in many ways, a place where I've seen time and again the power of people of goodwill coming together without hierarchy in common cause. Every time I consider other pastures, I opt for the beauty of what I know, despite the occasional frustrations. We've overcome challenges and created opportunities together, talking, cooperating, and compromising. In many ways, I think that the cooperative model embodies the true vision of what our nation's founders had in mind when they conceived of a self-governing nation, which is why I think the most important thing we do in our cooperative community is to, on a daily basis, role model for our children the promise of democracy.

If you or someone you know is interested in joining the Woodland Park Cooperative School (Seattle), we are currently enrolling for the 2019-20 school year. Click here for information. There are still spots available for 2-5 year olds.

I've published a book! If you are interested in ordering Teacher Tom's First Book, click here. Thank you!

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Thursday, March 14, 2019

Bribing, Lying, And Cheating

The college admission scandal that has been splashed across the headlines for the past couple days is shining a light upon what I consider to be the ugliest aspect of education in America. On the surface, it's a salacious story about wealthy parents getting caught bribing, lying, and cheating in their quest to get their kids into prestigious universities. From where I sit, it's just the tip of the iceberg.

Private universities have always been "flexible" with their admissions policies when it comes to the children of the wealthy, powerful, and famous. Indeed, what the parents in today's headlines have done wouldn't even be illegal except were it not for the fact that they apparently lied in their tax filings, which is what might land them in prison. No, what this story highlights for me is that the stress and anxiety that caused parents to commit crimes on behalf of their children is epidemic throughout our educational system, and not just in private schools.

As a high school senior, I sent away for applications to several prestigious universities as well as one from a nearby state school. Places like Harvard sent me thick packets of material to fill out that including writing essays and whatnot with no guarantee of entry. My state schools application was a single page and because my grade point average was better than 3.0, they had to take me. From where I sat as an 18-year-old, my decision was made for me.

Sure you could call me lazy or unambitious, both of which are fair, but the point was that it was my decision to make. In fact, if mom had had her way, I'd have taken a year or two off to see the world before committing myself. There was no pressure beyond the existential one of stepping off into the unknown. I had walked into my SAT test (a standard college entry test still used by universities) with no preparation other than the actual knowledge I'd acquired during my 12 years of pubic school. No one expressed disappointment in my decision, no one told me I could later transfer to a "better" school. There was a general consensus that I ought to at some point possess a bachelors degree, but when, how, and where I went about that was up to me.

Today, for many families, even the selection of a school for their two-year-old is a matter of stress and anxiety that far exceeds what I went through while applying to colleges. And the situation around kindergarten has become almost unbearable. Parents, in their misguided quest to set junior on the path to an elite university, and thereafter, an elite profession, are scratching, clawing, scheming, and conniving. This has lead to demands that our schools become increasingly academic and competitive, which flies in the face of what evidence tells us about how humans of all ages learn. It is forcing our schools to become more hoops to jump through than places where we learn to be critical thinkers, to pursue knowledge, and learn to work together with other people. It has become all about becoming college and career ready which is not the same thing as educated. And, tragically, it is creating a generation of anxious, stressed out kids who are growing in to anxious, stress out adults, something the world definitely does not need.

I don't know how to end the insanity, but if we value our children, if we value education, it must stop, for both their sake and our own. The proper career aspiration for young children is princess or cowboy, and as far as I know, there is not a university on earth offering a bachelors in either. Successful people (and by that I mean those who are satisfied with their lives, who have careers that stimulate them, and who have good relationships with their families and friends) have never been created through anxiety and stress, let alone bribing, lying, and cheating. Successful people become that way because they are self-motivated, sociable, and able to work well with others, which are traits that come from being free to educate oneself by asking and answering one's own questions, what we in the preschool world call "play."

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Wednesday, March 13, 2019

Excluding And Including

"But I want to play with you."

"We don't want to play with you. You keep following us around. We need space." I recognized her mother's coaching. A year ago there had been a child who had pestered her to play all day long, day-after-day and it had been, in part, this advice about needing space that had helped curtailed it. She was trying it again.

"I just want to play with you."

"You can't because we need space." She was referring to herself and her best girlfriend.

He stood in place, looking dejected. Just then another girl entered the scene, "Can I play with you?"

"Sure . . ." she answered, then stopped, looking at the boy she had just rejected, then at her friend as if casting about for a rationale. Then she had a bright idea. "This is a game for girls only. No boys. That's why you can't play with us." It's a common enough gambit around the preschool, to evoke gender as a dividing line.

"I just want to play too."

"It's a girl game . . . " she began before being interrupted by her friend. "It's okay, he can play." She looked back and forth between the girl and boy, as if torn between the competing loyalties of friendship and fairness. "But he has to be our brother, right?"

Everyone accepted this solution and the game continued.

Who can play and who can't is among the most fraught aspects of life in preschool. As the adult, my instinct is to advocate for some version of universal inclusion, but I know that to expect this in preschool is to insist the children attempt to do something that no humans have ever succeeded in doing. There are always people who we exclude from any group in which we find ourselves: there are always lines to define who is "in" and who is "out." Sometimes they are common sense exclusions like when a room is full to capacity and the late comers must be left on the street or when an individual has history of disruptive or violent behavior. Sometimes the lines are outright arbitrary or even cruel, and meant that way. If adults are still figuring it out, and we all are, every day, then it's only natural that children must struggle with this as well. Indeed, many of our political, social, and cultural divisions are, at bottom, questions over who we will allow "in" and who we will keep "out."

The following day, the two girlfriends were once more playing together. They had "adopted" our entire menagerie of giant plastic insects and were discussing building a block home for them. The boy again approached, "Can I play with you?"

"No . . . " She had said it reflexively and was now casting about for a reason: she knew she needed a reason. Finally, she fell back on the one from the previous day, "This is only a game for girls."

"Please," he whined. He looked as if he were about to cry.

"But . . . " she began to object before halting. I don't know what stopped her, of course, but as she looked into his face as it crumpled toward tears, I can't help but think it was empathy. We all have vast experience in being rejected, even preschoolers. We've felt it and know how it must feel in others. "But . . . " she said again, trying, I think to find a way to merge her desires with his.

Then her friend said, "We just want to play with each other right now. We're two mommies with all our babies. We'll play with you later."

This brightened him up. He said, "Okay . . . I could build the castle while I'm waiting."

The girls looked at one another as if for confirmation before saying it together, enthusiastically, "Yeah!"

The girls then huddled together with their pile of plastic insects as this boy who they had included built a castle around them.

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Tuesday, March 12, 2019

They Need Their Childhood

Why are so many of us so afraid to just let children play? 

Some time ago, we got out our boxes of Magna-Tiles. These are cool, popular building toys. If your classroom doesn't have a set or two, I recommend them. As I watched the children build, I noticed a battered page of instructions at the bottom of the box that bore the headline Magna-Tiles "where math, science & creativity meet." The text then goes on to discuss Pythagoras and the history of mathematics. To their credit, they do recommend that children be allowed to explore their toys through open-ended creative play, but the very fact that this needed to be emphasized at all is a bad sign.

It's as if we've become convinced that young children are just wasting their valuable time when they "just" play, that every minute spent not exploring math, science and creativity leaves our kids another minute behind those Chinese kids who, legend has it, never rest. The fact that all play is educational, that all toys are educational is beside the point: when did we lose sight of the fact that play is what children are supposed to do?

I reckon we can, at least in part, blame the corporate education reformers who have intentionally sewn seeds of doubt about the efficacy of our educational system, selling the story that our schools are failing, causing parents to fear that junior is fall behind, that even those precious evenings and weekends when their kids aren't engaged in homework or extracurricular enrichment activities must be chock-a-block with things like Pythagoras. 

When did we forget that all play is educational and because of that all toys are educational? Maybe we never knew it, of course; maybe our grandparents just sort of intuited that kids needed play, that they didn't need adults hovering over them drilling them with stupid questions or "teaching" them this or that. Maybe they just understood that without play, and lots of it, there is no childhood.

As I watched the children using Maga-Tiles to create castles and cars, squares made of squares and triangles made of triangles, as I heard them negotiate for blocks and tabletop space, as they chattered about their thoughts and discoveries, it didn't occur to me that they were doing anything other than playing, having fun, until I spotted that sheet of instructions telling me about Pythagoras. We were outdoors, on the playground. No one was making them sit at these tables to build with these plastic, magnetized blocks: they were choosing it, freely, and they could just as freely walk away which many of them did the moment it stopped being fun. Or rather, the moment something else looked like more fun.

And even as I write that, I can see the fear-mongers wagging their fingers, I can hear them tut-tutting: "Where's the gritWhere's the rigor? How will they ever learn about hard work?"

Anyone who has spent any time watching young children play knows that grit, rigor, and hard work are at the heart of all true free play. What they really mean to ask is "How will the children ever learn to do the rote tasks that others demand of them?" Or perhaps, "How will they learn to obey?"

That isn't what childhood is for, although that's what adulthood sometimes teaches us, and no amount of practice makes it any easier, unless what they're talking about is "breaking them." What kind of Dickensian villain would take away childhood in exchange for the work house?

At the end of the day, after the families had left, the Magna-Tiles packed away in their boxes, I reopened them to remove that sheet of instructions and threw it in the recycling. Play is its own reward; the kids don't need that piece of paper around encouraging adults to make it "educational." First they need their childhood.

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Monday, March 11, 2019

Respect Starts With Me

Last week, I posted about how I want the children I teach to question my authority. I want them to grow up knowing that it is not just their right, but their responsibility as citizens in a self-governing society to question those entrusted with power, to doubt them when they say or do things that don't match what we already know to be true, and to challenge them when necessary.

The post was shared fairly widely on Facebook and elsewhere and as I perused the various comment threads, there were some readers who agreed, but with the caveat that they expected such questioning of authority to be done respectfully. And I agree, I suppose, if what they mean is that all humans are due respect. We should all strive to treat one another with basic human dignity, courtesy, and kindness. I agree in the sense that it's a two-way street. Indeed, in any interaction between adult and child, the onus of showing respect is more fully upon the adult, the more experienced human, than on the child who presumedly is still learning.

But I find myself bridling at the word "respect," because it is too often used as a stand-in for traits like "obedience" or actions like "compliance." There is the implication that those with authority, be they parents, teachers, or elected representatives, are somehow owed deference simply by virtue of their position of power which, from where I sit, could not be further from the truth. Respect in this sense is not something anyone is due: it must be earned and we do that by treating the other humans with basic human dignity, courtesy, and kindness ourselves while simultaneously demonstrating by our words and actions that we are worthy of respect. "Respect" that is coerced or secured through threat is not respect at all, but obedience, which is a fundamentally anti-democratic concept. I earn respect when I demonstrate that I know that whatever power I have, even as a teacher or parent, is granted only by the consent of the "governed."

As a citizen, I strive to be courteous and kind to everyone, even when I'm challenging them, and I expect others to strive to be courteous and kind to me, not in a transactional sense, but simply as an aspect of living in a society. To the degree that we sometimes fail is the degree to which we are human. As a teacher or parent, however, I bear a heavier burden when it comes to respect because I am the one with authority and in a democratic society the proper use of power is to be of service to others. Respect starts with me.

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Friday, March 08, 2019

Making It Their Own

There are always some leftover balloons after a week of playing in the balloon cage. Earlier this week we arranged 16 inflated balloons after a week of playing in the balloon cage. Earlier this week we arranged 16 inflated balloons in a single layer inside of two large black garbage bags, then inverted a table on top of them. The children had predicted that they would all pop, but due to the magic of weight distribution, none of them did. Then they began climbing on one at a time until at one point we had at least eight kids not just standing, but bouncing without a single burst balloon. in a single layer inside of two large black garbage bags, then inverted a table on top of them. The children had predicted that they would all pop, but due to the magic of weight distribution, none of them did. Then they began climbing on one at a time until at one point we had at least eight kids not just standing, but bouncing without a single burst balloon.

We then tried it with a couple of adults in the mix. Eventually, a couple popped as the motion of our jumping up and down caused the balloons to lose their formation and for some to "ooze" out the sides a bit, but it was still an impressive showcase of the principle. I expect it will be memorable, however, as an impromptu trampoline. And for some time, that's what the kids did with this admittedly adult initiated activity: I had an agenda, which was to continue using a classroom material until it was no longer useful, and to, in the spirit of Mythbusters, demonstrate some cool science. But I've been at this long enough to know that my time as "leader" had come to an end as the kids jumped together, now fully confident that those previously fragile balloons would stand up to their play.

Of course, this is why I stayed close by, ready to re-jigger the set up as things shifted, prepared to catch anyone who fell, and generally just to see what they would wind up doing with it. For several frantic minutes, it was a kind of every-kid-for-themself free-for-all with a fair share of bumping, inadvertent pushing, and bickering. This, naturally, attracted some kids and caused others to move on to other things. Eventually, however, the crowd of jumpers settled out to the three kids for whom the conditions were just right. I know all three to be physically competent kids without being daredevils, which meant I could let down on my vigilance a bit and back off to a nearby bench.

"Hey, stop jumping, stop jumping."

"It's a boat."

"I'll be in the front."

"I'll be in the middle."

"I'll be in the back."

They took their positions, one behind the other, legs wide for balance. They continued to adjust themselves until they had managed to distribute their weight evenly across the entire inverted table top. They stood that way for a time, almost perfectly still, not discussing their accomplishment, but rather feeling it in their bodies.

"I'm not holding on to anything."

"Me either."

"Me either."

Carefully, so as not to upset their cooperatively achieved balance, they looked over one another's shoulders to confirm that they were all there, on their boat, balanced, and not holding on to anything. Then, without words, they slowly began to rock side-to-side. They weren't talking now, but were instead concentrating on working together in this game they were inventing together. They rocked faster and faster. As they approached an intensity that caused me to start to move toward them again, they, still without speaking, began to moderate. After several minutes of this, they decided to exchange positions in the boat. After they each took a turn in in front, middle, and back, they tried it with some of them sitting ("I'm a passenger") while the others rocked it. They played together for a long time, sharing, collaborating, taking turns, and exploring their limits, both individually and together.

They had taken my agenda and made it their own, which should be the destiny of every adult agenda in our classroom.

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Thursday, March 07, 2019

The World Of Gray

As a young boy, things were a bit more black and white than they are today. When it came to water from the tap, for instance, cold was good and hot was bad. Ham was yummy, but mayonnaise was so yucky that even a dot of it on a sandwich could negate the meat's advantages. Fast was always better than slow, awake topped asleep, and red was the best color.

As an adult, of course, I'm not such an extremist. I've come to realize that there is a time and place for water of all temperatures, that mayo in the right amount can make a dull sandwich great, that speed is relative, that a good night's sleep is wonderful, and that red isn't even always the best color for apples. We call it maturing, I suppose, or growing up, and it's a process that we all experience, even if some of us never get over our aversion to mayonnaise.

Preschoolers are notoriously drawn toward extremes, which is, I reckon, both part of how they make sense of the world as well as how they try to assert some control over it. It's the simplest way to categorize things: good or bad, yummy or yucky, black or white. As adults working with young children, it's tempting for us to assert our own more mature vision of the world, to point them toward the gray areas, the "in between" that comprises most of what we know. When I was a younger teacher, for instance, I can't tell you how many times I found myself futilely trying to get kids to see that "good guys" and "bad guys" are a matter of perspective.

I no longer try to persuade them any more than I try to persuade adults. I've come to understand that they need to explore the world in this way. It's not an ending point, but rather a natural starting point for coming to grips with a rich, complex, ever-changing world. They are doing what they need to do, what we all needed to do in order to ultimately persuade ourselves as the world of gray begins to reveal itself to us. My job is not to hurry them through, but rather to be with them, role modeling and knowing that the older they get, the more they will come to know that they don't know.

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Wednesday, March 06, 2019

Teaching Them To Question Authority

If you would be a real seeker of truth, it is necessary that you at least once in your life doubt, as far as possible, all things. ~Rene Descarte

On the first day of school, the day I meet many of our two-year-olds for the first time, I make sure our box of plastic farm animals is handy. As the kids arrive I greet them, then introduce one of the pigs by holding it up and saying, "The pig says, 'Moooo.'"

Most of them laugh, "No, the cow says 'Moo!'" or "The pig says, 'Oink!'" Some squint at me like I'm crazy, often glancing up at their mothers as if to say, You're leaving me with this guy? In fact, I tend to do a lot of this sort of goofing around. I might, for instance, sing the Alphabet Song with the letters in the wrong order, "D, N, Q, P, T, R, A . . ." Or maybe I'll insist that the carrot sticks are candy, or that the book we are about to read was printed upside down, or that I'm listening with my nose. You see, I want children to really listen to me and if I say something that doesn't match up with what they already know to be true I want them to call me on it.

That's right, it's an overt attempt to cause the children in my care to question my authority. I want them to know that not only is it their right, but their responsibility to say something when what they hear doesn't match what they already know. You see, I want the children I teach to grow up to be citizens who are not only able to identify BS when they detect it, but to speak up about it. As the kids get older and more experienced in correcting Teacher Tom, I might push back, insisting for instance that I've heard pigs say 'Moo' with my own two ears. Sometimes I'll even say things like, "Listen, I'm the grown-up and you're the kid, of course pigs say 'Moo.'" It's deeply gratifying when they refuse to budge from their insistence that I'm wrong, often laughing at it like a joke, but sometimes angrily, letting me know that they aren't having any of it.

Of course, the whole idea of children questioning a teacher's authority is a challenging one for many people, especially those who only know traditional schools, but in a democratic society, authority is not imposed, but rather granted by the consent of the governed. I, like any authority figure, shouldn't be saying anything I can't defend, and when I do, I deserve to be called on it by a thoughtful, educated citizenry. I'm not the boss of these children, but rather an older (and hopefully wiser) colleague who just happens to be sharing this part of their journey with them. When they one day pass on from my company, I hope they do so knowing that it's not only their right, but their obligation, to question those who would set themselves up as authorities . . . And that also includes their own parents.

Maybe it's a radical idea, but without it, I can hardly hope for our democracy.

Several years ago, I had put chunks of ice in our sensory table. As the four and five year olds arrived, children who had been with me since they were two, I said, "Hey! I put ice in the sensory table, but now there's water in there! Who put the water in there!" I did my best to sound frustrated, angry even.

"Teacher Tom, no body put water in there. The ice is melting."


Taking turns contributing what they already know about the world, we then went into a group discussion about the properties of ice as we played with it. As we talked, I pulled out some rock salt, which we sprinkled on the ice, accelerating the melting process. When talk turned to how we could get the ice to melt even faster, we had the idea of heating it up in a pan over a burner. We encircled the pan to watch the ice quickly turn to water, then to steam. What else could we melt? We tried a crayon. We learned that crayons melt, but the paper wrapper doesn't. We tried a candle. We learned that the wax melts, but the wick does not. One of the children wondered about wood. Would it melt? Many of the children thought it might, but others were sure it would burn, so we put one of our blocks in the pan and, sure enough, after a few minutes it began to smoke. We learned that wood does not melt; it burns. Then one of the boys suggested metal.

Now, I knew they had me on that one. I know that metal can be melted, but our little hot plate couldn't generate nearly enough heat. We tossed a paper clip in the pan. It got hot, but didn't melt. That's when I said, "Listen, metal does melt. The problem is that this burner doesn't get hot enough. If we could make it hotter we could turn it into liquid."

There was a moment of silence as the kids processed what I'd said, then as a unified front they pushed back:

"No, Teacher Tom!"

"You're wrong!"

"You're joking!"

All of them doubted me. They weren't prepared to take my word for it. I tried to persuade them, but at the end of the day the kids went home firm in their belief that metal could not be melted. And I went home feeing frustrated. How would I prove it to them? The next day I phoned a steel mill locate in the south end of the city, thinking that a smelter might be just the kind of dramatic evidence the kids needed. Naturally, they laughed at me saying, "We're not letting preschoolers into a smelter." Then I thought maybe I could just find a video of a smelter, but rejected it under the reasoning that I don't want the kids to believe everything they see on the internet either.

And so it remained this way for several weeks until I one day recalled that my wife had grown up in Vienna where they have a New Years tradition that involves melting small lead figurines in spoons over candles. The liquified metal is then tossed into a bowl of water and the new shape of the lead tells your fortune for the coming year. I got in touch with one of my wife's friends who sent me a package of the figurines.

When they arrived, I told the kids, "Today, I'm going to prove to you that metal can be melted." We went outdoors because I was somewhat concerned about the fumes (I've since learned that a candle can't generate enough heat to cause the lead to release toxic fumes). I lit the candle and the children stood in a semi-circle around me as I held a spoon over the flame, staring at that figurine until, finally, it melted into a pool of liquid metal.

It was only then that the kids believed me. These are the kinds of people I want as my partners in the great project of self-governance.

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