That's How Powerful We Are

A couple weeks ago, I posted about how making paper clip chains had become all the rage in the Woodland Park 3-5's class. It started with my uncovering a large stash of the things which I finally made freely available to the kids, and one child with knowledge of the chain-making technology. Like a wildfire, I tell you, it's spread. At any given moment there is at least one child, if not more, over there by the windows manipulating those most humble of office supplies into what they are calling "compliment chains."

They then, when they are finished, long or short, made from the standard-issue paper clips or the large ones, hand them to me, saying something like, "Here's a compliment chain for circle time."

The compliment chain is something we make every year using a set of plastic chain links one can get from Discount School Supply. It was something I devised as a new teacher to demonstrate to children how they can be powerful by making other people feel good. We raise our hands, taking turns saying kind things to one another, adding a link to the chain for each one. We know our powers are working when the other person smiles. Sometimes we give our compliments aloud, other times we whisper into their ears, but we know it's working because of that smile. Every year's class approaches the activity a little differently. Some years one child will add a hug to punctuate her compliment, and then like the paper clip chain trend, it will spread to all of them. Some years, the word "compliment" is interpreted quite broadly including wishes for after school play dates and statements like, "I love you." This year's group hasn't incorporated the hug, and has stuck to a stricter definition of the term, but has instead added the phenomenon of a child raising his hand to declare, "I didn't get a compliment," a statement that is often not even true, but nevertheless calls down upon himself a waterfall of love for his shirt or shoes or pants.

And now, to this, they've added the paper clip compliment chains.

Traditionally we've added one link at a time, slowly making it longer day after day, week after week, hanging it from hooks on the ceiling over our circle time rug, until somewhere around the beginning of May, it encircles us entirely and we celebrate those 500 times we've made one another feel good. The advent of the pre-linked paper clip chains, however, has forced a change in the program. We start by counting together every link in the new chains, typically somewhere in the 40-60 range. I then declare that we'll need to give that many compliments before we can add the new chains to the ceiling, usually telling them that we each need to give 2 or 3 compliments. Then we rise to the challenge together to give compliments to one another during a free-form minute of making our friends feel good.

Many of them go the express route, bopping quickly from friend to friend dolling out the same, "I like your shirt" to each of them, while others seek out a special friend, sometimes luxuriating in a hug in the midst of the crowd. Others keep a very accurate count of the compliments they give while others get lost in the process of seeking out a fellow traveler, looking her in the eyes and saying something they think will warm them.

I'll be the first to confess that there is an artificiality to all of this, but man they love it, they all do, and there is nothing like sitting there among them as they mill about saying kind words, smiling, noticing that they've caused a smile, touching gently, moving about a small space with care for and a hyper-focus on the other people. And frankly, I don't care how many times they've heard someone else say, "I like your shirt," every single one of them, when it's said to them, looks down at their shirts and smiles, feeling special. They haven't yet grown into their adolescent cynicism or our adult concern with superficiality.

Needless to say, we finished encircling our blue rug long ago. We started at one hook at the beginning o the year . . .

. . . made it to the next hook, link-by-link continuing on to the third and fourth hooks . . .

. . . we then made it to the bulletin boards behind where Teacher Tom sits . . .

. . . and around the corner, which is the point at which we began adding the paper clip chains, accelerating our progress.

We now have a double chain, one plastic, one metal, that goes back to the first hook . . .

. . . before taking off in the direction of our stated goal of reaching the loft on the far side of the room.

At close of business last week, we were within one good compliment session of reaching that goal, after which we will continue to the bathroom, then to the "outside" door, then into the gym, and then outside.

Each of those thousands of links designating a time we made a friend feel good. An undeniable record of how powerful we are.

Later we will return to being superheroes and princesses, but for now at least, we are practicing using our real powers, the ones we all have, if we only remember to use them.

"It's A Little Bit Scary"

This batch of stories were told by the children back in late October and early November, right around Halloween, and spans a number of storytelling sessions. There are a few plain, old silly stories here, and several based on movies or TV programs, but the underlying theme, as one might expect, is scary things.

I find it fascinating how young children almost instinctively use stories to deal with the things that frighten or confuse them. It makes me wonder if the urge to create mythologies is an adaptive trait, so easily, readily and universally they engage with it. I certainly see how being the storyteller gives us mastery over our subject matter, allowing us to examine it one step removed from reality, and hopefully that allows us to better understand ourselves and our fears.

Sometimes the stories are rather grim, to my mind, and are left unresolved, but that may just be my years of experience with traditional stories that do resolve themselves with at least some glimmer of hope. It must be said, however, that none of these storytellers betrayed any signs that they themselves saw these stories as "grim." On the contrary, they told them in a rather matter-of-fact way.

It's about my dad. And my dad goed into a cave. And then in that cave there was a goblin. And then a bear. And then Charlie M. was in there. And then Teacher Tom was in there. And then the bear hitted everyone down. And then the flower came and throwed honey at him. And then the person came and killed everyone.  ~Lachlan

A monster shooted a knife through a dinosaur. Then there is a magic sword. And then a dinosaur took it. And then it was not very sharp. And he threw it on a house. And then it lighted the house on fire.  ~Orlando 

There was an invisible monster. It took over the world.  ~Max 

It called a monster truck ran over a ghost. Then a ghost comed in and ran over a ghost. Then a bad guy comed and killed him. Then he splashed into the water. Then he falled into a boat.  ~Charlie B. 

Often, however, there is what I would call resolution. In the first example, if I understand it correctly having not seen the movie, Charlie M. clearly borrowed the convention from the professional storytellers in Hollywood. It seemed to give him great satisfaction coming to an end like this. I remember him putting a period on it by saying decisively, "That's the end," then getting up and walking off.

My story's all about guns. So gun fired something made out of fireball. And he throwed them at bear. And he throwed them at Kung Fu Panda. And then throwed them at Tigress and Thai Wong. And then Thai Wong got them. ~Charlie M.

Sylivia's protagonists set out on the classic adventure to face their fears, do so, then return to the comforts and concerns of home, much in the style of many children's stories such as Where the Wild Things Are or Storm Boy.

It's all about one bat and a baby bat. One time they went into spooky woods. And then they saw a skeleton, spiders, ghosts and Jack-o-lanterns. They fly home so they don't be late for school in the other morning. ~Sylvia

In Connor and Charlie B.'s stories, the fearsome creatures are no match for heros.

About a scary, scary monster. It's a skeleton ate a monster. Then a ghost came. Then they start to decompose. It gets dark and the sun goes out. And then there's more. Well, somebody rode and ate up the monster and the skeleton and the ghost. Somebody ate the ghost, more monsters, and then more and more an more and more and more and more. ~Connor

A little kid gets lost. The monster comed and scared him. Then he said he was a nice monster. And a monster comed and a kid comed and spanked the monster. Then he told he was a nice monster. The clown got lost in the woods.  ~Charlie B.

Benjamin's fear is handled quite simply by the random occurrence of an apparently just universe.

It's about a truck ran over a ghost. It ran over a monster. Then it's done now. ~Benjamin

Max, however, takes matters into his own hands, literally turning a fearsome being into a harmless decoration.

My story is there once was a skeleton. He became alive. He came out of the water from his ghost ship. Then he came up to land. He saw a big house and decided to move in. When I woke up, he was standing in my bedroom. I didn't know what to say. And then I decided to make the skeleton and put him into wax for a Halloween decoration. ~Max

I think this is what's going on in many of these stories, really, even if they don't follow the conventions of beginning, middle and end. The kids are making jokes of their fears, much the way the ancient Greeks turned theirs into Olympic gods who were, after all, not much different from you and me, with the same faults and foibles. All of these stories were intended to make their audience laugh even though it might not be evident from the words alone.

It's about a ghost. A ghost hit a monster. And then a truck run over a box. And then a present came and bumped into a wheel. A tiger came. Hit a ghost. ~Ariya

It's all about monsters. A monster. A pump bumped into a monster truck. A car came and bumped into a sword. A bat ran over a ghost. ~Ariya 

It's a spooky spider. It bumped into a truck. And then a box came and bumped into a wheel. And then a person crashed into a truck. ~Charlotte

It's about a monster. A monster truck ran over a car. A car went over a truck. And a truck went over the ghost. And the ghost went over a people. ~Hisak

A monster bumped into a skeleton. And then a skeleton bumped into another skeleton. And then Batman put stuff in their stocking. Even candy! ~Lachlan 

Some of our storytellers want to address scary things, but don't really get around to it, like Benjamin does in these two efforts . . .

Mine is kinda scary. It's not too scary. A person came and bumped into a truck. And somebody got some paper. ~Benjamin

It's about a ghost and a witch and a dinosaur. My costume's a dinosaur. I'm kind of a meat eating dinosaur. It's a Halloween costume. It's a little bit scary. When they were alive they could eat people. The meat eating dinosaurs didn't eat people. The ones with the long necks are nice. A giraffe is like those dinosaurs sometimes. ~Benjamin

. . . or have the scary things fight amongst themselves without endangering the "innocent" . . .

It's about a wicked witch and a ghost. The witch swallowed the ghost. A shark came and ate the witch. The shark got swallowed by the ghost because he got out of the witch. ~Benjamin

. . . or simply acknowledge the scary things, while holding them off at a distance as Sadie does in her story . . .

The pony went to the party and went to see some pizza and some cake. And he had cupcake. And he had chocolate chips in them. The princess wanted to have a party with them. The princess had a party too. And but the wolf with sharp teeth went far away. ~Sadie

And some of them aren't about fears at all.

Everyone was taping the door so we don't go outside. And then Hisak cut all the tape open so we could go outside. And then everyone went outside to play. And then they were going inside to build with animal Legos. And then they went back outside. They went back inside. ~Hisak

A princess named Sleeping Beauty went in a castle. ~Sasha

It's a big giant that rolled over a car. ~Charlotte

A baby. She had a birthday and I had to squish her food. Well, we both had a birthday party. And then all of my friends had cake. Then we went home, brushed our teeth, and went to bed. ~Cora

There was a little kitten. And then the kitty ate some cheddar cheese. ~Jasper

It's all about light swords. There was a story of a robot named Wall-E. Then Wall-E the robot went on his tracks and saw a paper airplane in front of him and he ducked because it was  pointy on the front. Then he had to duck because there was a lot of paper airplanes. Then he had to find Eva because she was trapped by Moe and his friends. Well, any time he actually had to go on a felt board because he rescued Eva. ~Charlie M.

Dinosaurs. They went down a rocky hill. They were going to a party. ~Sylvia

The princess went to the the party with the ponies. And the fairy went to the party with the ponies too. ~Sadie

I like Sponge Bob a lot. He likes to laugh like that, "Ha, ha, ha!" Him has a snail that goes, "Meow," like a kitty cat. Sponge Bob: he's silly. ~Sasha

My story's mommy went into a rocket with lots of people in it. ~Jody

If you're interested in reading more of our stories, here they are in the order of appearance:

And Now The Children Tell Their Stories

And Now The Children Tell Their Stories 2

"There Was A Bad Dream In My Bed" 

Where The Wild Things Are

Stories From The Edge

Short, Smart, Sweet And Silly

A Muddy Puddle Of Morality

Wearing His Cape Every Day

One Thing At A Time

And Now For Something Completely Silly

"I'm Thinking Something To Ella"

"Then A Monster Truck Came"

Inspirations And Influences

Squirrel Stories (So Far)

Preschool Poets

"I Eat A Dragon"

"Then He Weared The Whale As His Hat"

"I'm Going To Tell A Submarine Story"

"There Was A Pig Jumping On Your Head"

"She Feeled About Sad"

"Mommy Went To Somewhere Really Dangerous"

Context (Because We Say So)

Sorry for the long, late post, but . . .

I have a hundred difficulties which I have promised to clear up, and a thousand distresses and domestic misadventures crowding in upon me thick and threefold, one upon the neck of another. ~from Tristram Shandy, Sterne

The single greatest influence on me as a teacher was my own daughter's preschool teacher and North Seattle Community College parent educator Chris David. No matter how many books I read or classes I took, I learned most of what I started out knowing by working as a parent-teacher in her 3-5's class for two years. Our daily schedule, our songs, our stations, our over-arching philosophical approach to working with young children are all rooted in what I learned from Chris. For my first year or so as a teacher, I spent a lot of time consciously trying to be her. I found myself constantly searching my mental files for not only the exact words I thought Chris might say or thing she might do, but even trying to reflect her body language, her cadence, and her vocal tone.

Over time, of course, while I believe I've remained true to the core principles I learned from Chris, my teaching style has become my own to the point that I doubt there are many people who would observe the two of us and find similarities beyond the superficial ones of schedule, songs and stations. And that's how it ought to work, of course, Chris and I are different people. It is only natural to expect that we would form different kinds of relationships with the people in our lives. Yet we are both progressive educators.

The biggest challenge in communicating about how progressive education works, I think, is that it really can only be discussed and understood "in context." When guys like Bill Gates (who for better or worse has become the poster boy for a cookie cutter model of education) promote their versions of education, it's a much easier task because it's a one-size-fits-all theory with a pot of gold (literally, in the form of a "job") as a reward. And like all "beautiful" theories (e.g., Marxism, libertarianism, neo-liberalism) it may be made to work in a small scale, well-funded, incubator-like setting, but it will always fall apart when tried out in the context of actual humans behaving like actual messy, wonderful, diverse human beings, and not the theory's concept of how human beings ought to behave.

Education is the kindling of a flame, not the filling of a vessel. ~Socrates

Progressive education, by it's very nature, means different things to different people. To me, it starts with relationships among the people involved: the kids, the teachers, and the parents. Alfie Kohn writes, "Progressive education is marinated in community," and that has been my guiding principle since before I'd heard of Kohn, or indeed, ever really thought about progressive education. The factory approach to education that has been largely in vogue since the Industrial Revolution relies heavily on a hierarchical model of a boss-teacher to fill all those empty vessels with the information deemed important by those higher up the chain of command, which more often than not meant the guys who own the "factories" in which these kids were presumed destined to be employed. Up until this point in Western society, education had been a much more free-form, community-based (what we today might call "progressive") endeavor, but people educated in this way simply don't do so well in the mind-numbing repetitious factory jobs industrialists were creating. So even more important than the information they sought to pour into those kids, they shaped schools to reflect what they saw as the "realities" of the modern workplace, making it more about things and specific skills, and less about people and their relationships.

As it turns out, most of us don't spend our lives working in factories, but this rather radical (in the context of history) educational model has stuck with us, serving business, but not necessarily children or our wider community. 

We keep hearing that public education is in crisis, and I don't doubt it, but the solution is not to double down on the factory model, making school more competitive, more standardized, more hierarchical, which is what the Gates-lead reform movement seems to be all about. But, of course, what can we expect from these guys? As our colleague Barbara Zaborowski wrote in the comments the other day, "Remember, Microsoft is just a couple of geniuses and a whole lot of worker bees." In this new age of technology, they still need all the "trained" drones they can get.

As I see it, we need to return to the "traditional" (e.g., pre-Industrial Revolution) models of placing relationships at the center of education.

When I look at progressive schools, no two are alike. We are Reggio Emilia and Montessori and Waldorf and forest and outdoor and alternative and free and cooperative and every permutation and mixture imaginable. My own school, Woodland Park, is even different from year to year, depending on the relationships that form between the children, the parents, and with me. As a teacher, I play to my strengths, as we all should. I learn from other teachers and other programs, of course, but ultimately there is no "progressive template," no one-size-fits-all. Progressive education is not an off the rack endeavor, but rather a community sewing bee in which everything is custom made. And there are no bosses, only relationships between people, who have equal rights and responsibilities even if some of them are "just kids."

That's the context in which progressive educators teach. When I write about putting children in charge of their own education, I'm writing about the struggle all of us have to "forget" our industrial education backgrounds and treat children as people, not underlings.

See what I mean about context? It took me 900+ words to explain my version of one aspect of the context of progressive education. Nine hundred words of preamble to get me to where I feel like I can make my point. (It's a real "competitive" disadvantage to not be able to rely on everyone understanding the shorthand of progressive education the way Bill Gates can count on a general comprehension of the context of his advocacy for an industrial model for education.)

I do not teach children, I teach people. It would never occur to me to resort to, "because I said so," with a person, big or small.

In response to yesterday's post, a few people admonished me, insisting that there must be times when "the adult just as to be the adult" and boss the kids around. While I reject the idea that this is part of the definition of being an adult, I will, however, be the first to concede that teachers in our prevailing system are far too often expected to perform functions beyond that of education, like crowd control. That's because factory education is not about the children as much as it is about adult agendas that dictate with what and when we're going to fill these empty vessels. Children are expected to learn certain things at certain times in certain places, and as anyone knows who works with people of any age, the only way to make that happen is to put them at the bottom of a hierarchy and tell them what to do.

I'm not making the claim that I, or anyone, is so perfect in their relationships with others that they don't sometimes take the shortcut of commanding, especially when health and safety are at stake. But still, we wash our hands at preschool, not "because I said so," but because we don't want to give one another swine flu. And that's actually what I've been saying to the people I teach for the last couple years, "I want you to wash your hands because I don't want to catch your swine flu." I do not command them to wash their hands, I express my desire along with a real reason, just as I would with an adult, and I have never had a child refuse to wash his hands. Yes, a few of them will say something like, "I already washed my hands at home," but when I take the time to reiterate my desire and my reason, they wash their hands.

In my relationships with people I sometimes have responsibilities, one of which is to make sure the people in our school respect the rules that we have made together. When I see a child hitting another child, for instance, I don't make her stop, "because I said so." I make her stop because "you and your friends made a rule against hitting." I'll even say, "I can't let you hurt my friends," because it is my responsibility to this community, not because I'm the adult.

Try as I might, I still boss at least one kid around every single day, and when I reflect on it, I almost always find that it's because I placed my agenda over that of the child's. I suspect that's when most adults find themselves bossing the kids around, especially as parents when we are trying to get somewhere on time, or as teachers when we are following a schedule of bells that dictate when and where children should be and what they need to learn. As in every relationship between people, there is a balancing act between all those agendas. When I must insist on my agenda (like not wanting to catch the swine flu) it's still not "because I said so." It's because "if we're late, we'll miss the ferry and not get home tonight," or "if we don't go inside now, we won't have time for a story." Informational statements of fact, not commands. And this is not just semantics, the difference between directional and informative statements is real.

I'm not suggesting that anyone else can or should do things the way I do, just as I would never presume to tell any person how to manage their relationships. Chris David and I may be very different, but we are both progressive educators who understand that what we are doing is about community, not hierarchy, and we do not have the right to say, "because I say so."

This leads some to conclude that what we are advocating is some sort of hippie dippy, law-of-the-jungle style classroom, in which children are allowed to run wild. Many people, I think, have a hard time understanding how humans can get along without an "iron fist" of some kind, often evoking the novel Lord of the Flies* as evidence.

And I suppose the children in progressive schools do run wild. Their minds are ignited by the prospects of being in a place where their power, imaginations, and abilities are given free rein. They run wild within the limits and expectations of their unique community, which is the thing they come together to build, and by which they are nurtured, every single day. It's not because I say so, but because we say so.

It's not easy and it's not something anyone can manage right out of the box. We need experienced teachers because there's no instruction book on how to do it, and there's perpetual tinkering involved. And, frankly, I think that's what the so-called reformers find so threatening about progressive education: it tells them that teachers are not something you can make in a factory.

(*This book gets referenced so often in these discussions that I must address it. Lord of the Flies is a work of fiction and philosophy. While this is a solid novel from a narrative point of view, the only British novelist I can think of with a dimmer view of the human condition than William Golding is Thomas Hardy. This book gives us a lot to think about, of course, but we can't forget that it's a parable written by a person who saw man as essentially evil in the tradition of Thomas Hobbs. Progressive educators, almost by definition, see the world through the John Locke-Jean Jacques Rousseau prism of man as essentially good, whether we know it or not. That's why I'm much more likely to quote Enlightenment influenced authors like Laurence Sterne -- as I did at the top of this post -- than Golding.)

But Man, It's Worth It

Disobedience is not an issue if obedience is not the goal. ~Daron Quinlan

I have never been interested in obedient children. They tend to either grow into rebellious teens who are a danger to themselves as they try to "make up for" all that time spent living under a regimen of artificially repressed urges, or perhaps worse, obedient adults who are a danger to the rest of us.

This is why the children at Woodland park make their own rules. This is why we adhere in to the law of natural consequences. This is why we strive to avoid bossing the children around with directives like, "Sit here," or "Put the blocks away." This is why I actively teach children to question authority and why we celebrate when they engage in civil disobedience.

I have no patience for people who justify their authoritarian approach to children by arguing that it works. If I'm bigger and stronger than you, if I have more power than you, if I have more money than you, I can use that strength, power or money to force you into doing my bidding no matter how hard you fight back. Of course it works if the goal is mere obedience. It's a lazy, short-term, adversarial approach, one that will ultimately backfire, but sure, in the immediate moment threats and violence shut the kid up and make him submissive.

What children learn from authoritarian parenting and teaching is that might makes right. What they learn is to follow leaders, not because they are doing something great, but because they can punish you if you don't. What they learn is that someone else is responsible for their behavior and decisions, that the powerful know best, and that knowing "their place" is their highest calling.

Adults who have internalized these messages make wonderful factory workers. They are reliable votes for one political party or another. They are easy prey for cults and crazies. And when they do find themselves with an upper hand over someone else, like a child, they are far more likely to wield that authority abusively because that's what, in their experience, the powerful do.

As a teacher, I am always looking for ways to give away whatever power is implied by that title, to let the children be in charge of their own learning, of their own bodies, of their own small society. I want them to make the "right" decisions, not because I've told them so, but because they have learned through experience that it is the right decision. I want them to know that they are always responsible for their own behavior. I want them to know that their feelings, their thoughts, and their opinions are just as important as anyone else's.

I want them to know, most of all, that this is true even for people with who are stronger, more powerful or wealthier. I want them to grow to be adults who make their own decisions and will not be pushed around.

And yes, it's a lot more work for the loving adults in a child's life, but man, it's worth it.

Not Better, Just Different

"Together we're a genius." ~Six Feet Under

The kids in our Pre-3 class emptied the "big block" box.

Until this year, the big block box has been kept in the hallway in a dead corner that seemed specially designed for mere storage. For eight years, the most reliable ways to get all (okay, most) of the kids working together on anything was when it was time to put those big blocks away. They paraded into the hallway carrying those blocks, through the bottle neck of a doorway and up two stairs to where I stood playing the Tetris game of getting them fitting them into the box as fast as they brought them, singing the song of what I saw happening:

Sophia is bringing a big block

Jack has a medium block on top of his head

Nia and Jane are working together . . .

Nearly all of the kids took part, crying sometimes if they missed their chance by being in the bathroom or helping out elsewhere. It was a challenge, navigating all those bodies and unwieldy blocks, not getting hurt, not getting stuck, not hurting someone else, balancing a block on your head, or figuring out how six kids could carry a single block.

A couple years ago I floated the idea of moving the big block box into the classroom, adjacent to where we actually play with them, but a small group of parents revolted, one of them saying, "Taking the blocks into the hallway is the best part of the school!" a comment I took as a compliment. But this year, for various reasons, it just made too much sense to move the blocks, which I managed by simply not saying anything about it in advance. The Tetris game has moved to a much faster level now, and I miss the team project of hauling those blocks into the hallway, but overall it's better this way.

And after all, we now have a new project: emptying the box in order to make a tippy, slidey, precarious monstrosity of a structure, which took all of about 15 minutes to create. Okay, so now what will we do?

Play in the box, of course. They "played a story" together, these three girls, one that involved pointing in different directions. I kept my distance, not wanting my lumbering adult presence to in any way affect what they were doing, but that also meant I couldn't quite make out what they were saying. They pointed at the ceiling, then they pointed at the wall.

When they pointed at the carpet I knew what was coming, but somehow also knew there was even greater danger in my stepping in with warnings and admonishments. This was play in full swing, at it's highest level, two and three year olds in a cooperative, imaginative game intertwining all three genius minds. They could have been building a rocket or creating a vaccine or some other thing the world really needs.

It's the kind of thing that happens sometimes, when you're really focused and still learning about the forces of nature, like gravity. Several grown-ups rushed over, worried that they hadn't been paying close attention. They thought Teacher Tom was watching, I suppose, and he was. He was watching the girls learn about playing in that empty block box.

Once the adults had returned it to its upright position, they got back in, this times joined by one more friend who had been attracted by the dramatic upsetting of the cart, not asking, just joining the way master players do.

This time when they looked at the carpet, they didn't lean quite so far. 

They spotted a "spider web" in the dark crack between the box and the wall, pointing, then putting their heads together to peer into that dark space, "Spider web! Spider web!"

I asked, "Should we move the box away from the wall so you can see it better?" Like a super-being operated by a hive mind, they clambered out again, while I pulled the box away from the wall. It's on casters to make it easy to move. They were not disappointed when it turned out to be a false alarm because now they knew something new about the big block box: it was on wheels.

Another friend joined them, climbing inside with the long plank he was too proud to be able to carry all on his own to leave behind.

They could move him around if they worked together. Getting those casters over the edge of the rug and around the discarded costume was challenging, but together they managed it.

There wasn't a lot of room to maneuver, however, so I suggested, "Maybe you could spin him." There were several frustrating moments as the girls worked at cross-purposes, their faces showed it with furrowed brows and tight lips. I thought for a moment that maybe they had given up together, but then suddenly it clicked and they all got going in the same direction. They spun him one, two, three times.

Then, without any apparent reason, they went their merry ways and I returned the big block box back to its new, not better, just different home right here next to where we play.

Teaching The Skills Of Democracy Through Play

I must run in the right circles because I keep hearing that there are people out there who are skeptical, even antagonistic, toward the idea that play is the natural way for children to learn, but I've never met any of them. Or maybe people just avoid the topic with me, you know, the way you don't bring up the subject of Monty Python or The Lord of the Rings with some people because it will be the topic that consumes the rest of the evening. Or maybe, and this would really make me sad, they don't think preschool is important enough to worry about.

"The very existence of youth is due in part to the necessity for

play; the animal does not play because he is young, he has a

period of youth because he must play." ~Karl Groos

There are business guys out there who are looking to our schools to train their workers for them and if that were the only purpose of education, I suppose, we could just put them on an assembly line and let our quality control team remove the defective ones in the interest of producing the best blueberry ice cream in the world. But there is so much more to a real education than mere vocational training. In fact, I would argue that preparing children for jobs is a small, perhaps incidental, part of what school should be about, especially public education.

There is no adult there to help these guys crossing the bridge

in opposite directions. They've already democratically determined,

along with their fellow citizens of our little self-governing society,

that they will live in a world where might does not make right,

so they are left to stand there, face-to-face and talk it through.

The reason we have public schools in the first place is for the purposes of the grand experiment of democracy, a well-educated populace being the foundation of self-governance. We are not here primarily to create workers, we are here to create thoughtful, questioning, critical, and yes, assertive citizens, ones who understand the people, and only the people, can make important decisions.

Self-governance requires an understanding of the subtleties of

sharing resources and space with others. These guys are working

out the complex balance between one man's right to build with

another's right to be secure in his own physical space.

People who have been poorly educated in the principles of democracy have a hard time with this notion. It frightens them, I think. They don't understand how the world can work without some kind "iron fist" of leaders or, at least, strict hierarchies. People of different faiths or ethnicities or class make them fear that their own faith or ethnicity or class is besieged.

These girls found a box in the corner, closed, and opened it. They knew

they didn't need to ask anyone for permission because they've come to 

understand that this classroom belongs to them, the citizens of 

Woodland Park. Inside they found something new: building blocks

that allowed them to seek their own path, not one pre-determined

by the dictatorship of those big wooden blocks.

A well-educated citizen understands that the challenges presented by our differences are also our greatest strength, but only if we are firmly convinced of the truth that all men are created equal, not just in the eyes of god, but in the eyes of one another. This does not, of course, mean that everyone gets their own way all the time, but it does mean that we get to argue for our own point of view, to have our voices heard. It also means that we must negotiate, compromise and, yes, sometimes even step aside.

Sometimes we need help figuring things out as we play, 

because it is serious business. As teachers we step in, not as

"bosses" or HR departments with solutions that come directly from 

the employee manual, but with listening ears,questioning words, and 

respect for our fellow citizens. The goal is not to impose 

peace, but to rather help clarify the situation so the two parties

can hammer out their own compromise.

Play as a curriculum is the only way I know to imbue students with these citizenship skills. No amount of testing or drilling or lecturing will get us there, although it might well produce docile, productive workers. You can't learn the skills needed for self-governance from flash cards or rote memorization or being put on an educational "fast track." No, the only way to learn the skills needed for democracy is through the kind of experience that comes from the real world laboratory of playing with your fellow citizens.

And, indeed, the skills of citizenship are often diametrically opposed to those expected of mere workers. Citizens must know that it is not only their right, but their responsibility, to question authority.

And when we do that, guys like Bill Gates call us their "enemy," which tells me were doing the right thing.