To Live to Our Fullest, Weirdest, Most Resourceful Potential

"(A)s I gaze around the Hoh Rain Forest I see more than a soothing wash of green. I see a masterclass in living to one's fullest, weirdest, most resourceful potential." ~Zöe Schlanger

If you've been paying attention to national politics in US these past couple weeks, the word "weird" has emerged as a prominent feature of the presidential campaigns of both major parties. From where I sit, even wanting that particular job, and in particular doing what it takes to get that job, automatically qualifies a person as weird. 

I don't mean that as an insult.

Of course, I understand that in the context of presidential politics, "weird" is being used as a way to define which side you're on. Boiled down, it's a term that means "different than us" and when it's used to ostracize categories of humans because of their identity (e.g., race, gender, orientation, religion, class, etc.) it's an ugly insult. When it's used to ridicule individuals because of their behaviors (e.g., bigotry, bullying, criminality, etc.) it's a milder dig, but name-calling nevertheless.

Name-calling of any kind is the absolutely lowest form of discourse and I hope, although I don't expect, we can perhaps one day move beyond it. People often ask me, as a play-based educator who strives to allow children to figure things out for themselves, where do I "draw the line." I put a stop to physical violence and name-calling. 

I'm only bringing this up, however, because the current use of the word "weird" as a political insult, has caused me to reflect that I generally use the word as a compliment, even as a statement of awe, like in the above quote from science writer Zöe Schlanger who is expressing her feelings about the Hoh Rain Forest. Indeed, the more you learn about almost anything, the weirder and, therefore, more magnificent it becomes.

I suppose I usually employ the words "odd" or "eccentricity," but "weird" falls into the same bucket for me. I find that the older I get, the more I cultivate my own eccentricities, having learned that that is what makes me, me. That's also what I look for in my friends and neighbors. The things that make us the same are, of course, connecting, but ultimately sameness is tedious. For one thing, you learn little from sameness. Nothing inspires me more than having people in my life who let their freak flags fly because those are the people who encourage me to share my own weirdness in return. When I meet anyone new, that's what I'm looking for: I will politely listen as they tell me about their jobs and families, but dig in when they let slip that they, say, cure their own olives, compete in kite-flying tournaments, or awaken every morning at 4 a.m. That is where I'll find their fullest, weirdest, most resourceful potential. When you hit the right topic, you can see them come alive before your eyes as they relish letting you in on this thing that makes them weird.

Perhaps what I love most about working with young children is that most of them haven't yet learned to be "normal." I delight in their various eccentricities because those very often are things that makes them come alive. If part of their burgeoning weirdness causes them to harm others or themself, my job is to, as gently as possible, guide them away from that, to help them find better ways to cultivate their eccentricities, but I'm always cautious that I don't do anything to blow out their spark of weirdness.

For instance, I once knew a two-year-old named Joseph who loved to throw. I mean, he really loved to throw, to the point of obsession. He preferred balls, but he would hurl anything that fit in the palm of his hand. And he threw hard, far, and with great accuracy, a born baseball player. When he embraced his eccentric urge in the classroom, he invariably beaned classmates, so I convinced him, in the spirit of safety, that outside was the place for throwing. But even out there, his powerful arm meant that no one was out of range. 

The easy response would have been to simply ban throwing things altogether, then ramp up the intensity with which I enforced that edict until I finally succeed, but that would also risk killing something vital about this wonderfully weird boy. Instead, we had a long hallway of a room that we designated as the "throwing room," populating it with tennis balls. Five minutes in, we still had kids crying because, like I've said, Joseph had a cannon in place of an arm. It was Joseph himself who had the idea to make throwing a group activity. Everyone got a ball and lined up at one end of the long room, then on the count of three, they threw, all together, all in the same direction. Joseph's ball would bounce off the far wall, right back to him, so he waited until everyone had collected their balls before doing it again and again.

I didn't see Joseph after that year and lost track of him, but I keep looking for his name on a major league roster. But that's not the point: as a two-year-old we were able to allow him to live to his fullest, weirdest, most resourceful potential, and that is the lesson I hope he took away with him. 

This is, ultimately what education should be about: helping children discover and engage with their own weirdness. Modern schooling does the opposite, except when that weirdness happens to be math or literacy. And even then, those kids aren't left to their joy and self-motivation, but rather are made to "show" their work or push themselves faster in the direction the curriculum dictates. Standard schools see most weirdness as a distraction or even as a challenge for the educator to overcome instead of embracing it as the essence of who this child is. Not only does this approach teach children that their weirdness is wrong, but also that it is wrong in others. 

And that's why this political accusation of "weird" is both so effective and so troubling to me. I want weird in my life. I want odd and eccentric. I want a world in which everyone knows that the secret to coming alive, both as individuals and as a society, is to cultivate our eccentricities. That's when we can begin to live our fullest, weirdest, most resourceful potential.

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Hi, I'm Teacher Tom and this is my podcast! If you're an early childhood educator, parent of preschoolers, or otherwise have young children in your life, I think you'll find my conversations with early childhood experts and thought-leaders useful, inspiring, and eye-opening. You might even come away transformed by the ideas and perspectives we share. Please give us a listen. You can find Teacher Tom's Podcast on the Mirasee FM Podcast Network or anywhere you download your podcasts.

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