Carved Books

If you read the profile attached to this blog, you'll notice that I refer to myself, among other things, as an artist. I shared some of my illustrations here a few days ago, but to be honest it's been a long time since I broke out the paints. More recently my artistic endeavors have been expended in what I call "carving books." And while Teacher Tom's Blog exists primarily to address matters related to my role as a teacher, I'm going to be exerting myself this morning in the garage, scrambling to get ready for my first art installation. I thought I'd share some images of my work by way of inspiring myself to build a dozen black easels for the display.

The show will at the main library of North Seattle Community College. I'm planning to get it installed on Monday, September 14, right after my first day of school. Needless to say I'm excited and grateful, especially to librarian Elinor Appel who has been advocating on my behalf.

The process is to use a small, sharp knife, tweezers, and a headlamp to very carefully carve down one page at a time. I wish my photography was better. I hope you can make out what I'm up to.


Funk & Wagnall Standard Dictionary, A-Lobar















Funk & Wagnall Standard Dictionary, Lobate-Z















Arabian Nights
















Whole Earth Catalog
















Vogue, December, 2008
















The Illustrated Almanac of Historical Facts
















The Iliad and the Odyssey
















The Dark Thirty
















The Believer, Forty-Seventh Issue, Beoufcake, September 07















Synapsida
















Pinocchio
















Now We Are Six (A.A. Milne)
















Madel Waffe
















Harper's Bazaar, December, 2008
















Elle Magazine, May, 2008
















Elsewhere, Perhaps (Amos Oz)
















First Aid, Fourth Edition, American national Red Cross

It Will Be Our Fault

If I were a public school teacher, I think I’d be relieved if my principal forbade me to let my students watch President Obama’s back to school address on September 8. Sure, I’d make a show of outrage, maybe even write a sternly worded letter of protest, but deep down inside I’d feel the same kind of relief I felt when my wife, mother and mother-in-law told me my 2-year-old daughter was too young to be in preschool: It’s the right thing to do, but the higher ups won’t let me.

In 2003, during the run-up to the Iraq War a public school teacher in Indiana was using an officially approved Time Magazine for Kids curriculum to discuss current events. She was required to teach that Iraq possessed weapons of mass destruction along with other historical “facts” about the relationship between our two countries. The curriculum included a short story about anti-war protests. When one of her students asked her if she would ever take part in one of these demonstrations, she answered, “I honk for peace” when I drive by demonstrators with signs reading I Honk For Peace.

A small group of parents raised a ruckus. The teacher lost her job and ultimately her home. She took her case all the way to the Supreme Court, which declined to hear it, thus confirming the lower court decision:

. . . a teacher’s speech is a commodity that she sells to a school in exchange for a salary.

While this technically only applies to teachers in the 7th Circuit (Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin) it could, and probably would, be used as a precedent in other parts of the country.

Thousands of teachers will air President Obama’s speech in their classrooms, but in our current political environment they will need to walk on eggshells to avoid having their lives destroyed for doing so. An opportunity for meaningful civics education will be missed if teachers are cowed into silence by a few exercised parents.

In 1988, Ronald Reagan spoke directly to students. So did George H.W. Bush in 1991. In both cases, objections were raised, but no one was censored over it, let alone lost their jobs. Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter, and Bill Clinton all also spoke directly to students without controversy. Heck, George W. Bush was famously sitting in an elementary school classroom when the tragedy of 9/11 happened.

And now there’s a controversy over the president of the United States speaking to students? Really? And it’s such a big deal that teachers' livelihoods will be threatened over it? Really? Really? Already, entire school districts have succumbed to pressure and banned the president’s speech. What the hell is going on here? This is the elected leader of the free world we’re talking about, not some dangerous fringe figure with the magic powers to brainwash children through the television.

The only conclusion I can draw is that a noisy minority of our fellow citizens has suffered a psychotic break with reality. They are calling our president a Nazi, a socialist, a communist, a terrorist, and a race-hater, sometimes all in the same tirade. They are openly and threateningly carrying guns to places where he appears. They are even insisting that he isn’t really the president. As outright crazy as this is, our constitution protects their right to engage in all of this insanity.

But it does not protect their right to censor the president, especially when, by all accounts, the subject of his speech will be the universally accepted values of hard work, setting goals and staying in school. As ludicrous as it sounds, this is the message they want to censor.

Yet in many parts of the country they are successfully doing so. A frothy fringe of parents has been hammering school districts, administrators, and even teachers for weeks now. And frankly, I can’t blame them for giving in. They don’t want to lose their jobs and homes. Our public educators are in a bind. They cannot speak out without great risk.

Thankfully, we as parents are free to speak our minds. And even better, the courts have held that students do not sacrifice their free speech rights once the school bell rings. It’s up to us as parents and students to support our teachers. If you want to make sure your child has the opportunity to hear the president encourage them to work hard and stay in school, then let your school officials know about it. If your school is already planning to broadcast the address, then thank them for doing it. If a teacher makes the mistake of actually voicing an opinion, stand up for her.

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, it’s clear that there are some very frightened people in this country. Change can be threatening. We have chosen a new political direction. The leader of the free world is now a man who might have been a slave only a few generations ago.

These sad people are so afraid that when they look at the president, they see a boogeyman from whom they must protect their children. They deserve our pity, but that doesn’t mean we have to let their irrational fears win the day.

Now is a time to stand up for our public educators. If a single one of them loses her job, it will be our fault.

This Is How Democracy Works

Last night I took our cool new light rail link to Westlake Center for a health care reform rally. I found out about it via email a couple of days ago. I knew our congressman-for-life Jim McDermott was going to be keynoting, so I figured there would be a decent crowd, but otherwise national press coverage lead me to expect a milquetoast turn-out and some unruly opposition.

But this is Seattle. We’re a kick-ass, professionally run Democratic Party city. Political opposition more often comes from the left than the right. We were not going to let the loyal opposition drown us out. I’m terrible at guessing these things, but the turnout impressed me: at least 2000, and maybe as many as 10,000, but it didn’t really matter.

This is how democracy works. I was not there out of ideological passion, but I wasn’t there cynically either. I go to political rallies because it’s important to sometimes vote with your body. Earlier this summer, the opposition scared me by its ability to turn out bodies at health care town hall meetings, but we are clearly in the majority and the only way we can fail to achieve meaningful health care reform is if we don’t make this fact clear to our political leaders by showing up.

Every political rally to which I’ve ever been, starts out the same way. We kind of mill around while efficient young people representing various unions and other organizations hand out signs, stickers and the opportunity to sign a petition or two. There are a few hippish-types, but mostly it’s a bunch of the middle-aged, middle-class people we see at the grocery store. It’s just us and we’re always a little awkward and self-conscious.

A band called My Parade kicked off the event. Many of the older people felt they were too loud, but no one seemed upset that the very charming lead singer kept saying fuck. A few of us tried to rock out, but you know, we're out of practice. I’m sure my 12-year-old would have been embarrassed.

Nothing unexpected happened. We heard from a father with employer provided health insurance whose son has lymphoma, but has to wait 6 months to start treatment for purely bureaucratic reasons. The owner of Cupcake Royale told us how 25 cents of every cupcake she sells now goes to pay for her employees’ insurance, and that’s for coverage that’s not nearly as good as what she could afford last year. The pastor who emceed the event had us practice 3 simple chants. Dr. Jim McDermott was there to assure us that he is doing the job he was elected to do: represent us in congress.

As each speaker stepped up to the microphone, with each repetition of Hey Hey Ho, with each heartbreaking story, with each repetition of the simple facts, with each reference to the two dozen frightened people “across the street” with their signs that read socialism, or government is evil, with each mention of Teddy Kennedy, we became less awkward, more united. By the time the pastor asked, “Can you feel it? Can you feel that we’ve already won?” our confidence was soaring. This is how you’re supposed to feel at a kick-ass, professionally run political rally.

We will wind up with meaningful healthcare reform. We will wind up with a strong public option that will, over time, evolve into Medicare for all. We will pay for it through the premium payments from those under 65. These premiums will be much lower than private insurance can charge because there is no need to the generate profits, bizarrely high executive salaries, or gigantic marketing/lobbying budgets. Health care costs will be controlled by the bargaining power of an enormous pool of customers, which the public option will inevitably attract. It will kick the butt of the private sector by being more efficient, while producing better results, like what happens in the rest of the industrialized world. Private insurance will have to compete or die.

Ayn Rand (who I was into as a 9th grader until I realized that I didn’t want to live in a world in which selfishness was considered a virtue) will just have to roll over in her grave. Capitalism is cool, but not unregulated capitalism. And sometimes it’s just plain immoral. There is no morality in an industry that is motivated to deny healthcare and/or drive families into bankruptcy.

By now, I don’t think there are many regular citizens who haven’t made up their minds. The lines are drawn and the time for persuasion is over. All that’s left is to make this fact clear to the US Senate, which still seems to think there’s something left to debate. Our own Washington State senators are on our side. Patty Murray has been on the bandwagon from the start. Maria Cantwell has been slower to come to the table, but when I called her office earlier this week to ask about her position, the woman I spoke with assured me the senator is in favor of a “strong public option” and not the watered down “co-op” idea as was rumored.

But we must keep the pressure on. Yesterday, the White House re-floated the idea of giving the private insurers a couple years to meet some sort of benchmarks and only if they don’t, would it “trigger” a public option. This plan would mean the sacrifice of thousands more American lives and thousand more bankruptcies, while executives take home billion dollar paychecks. I simply do not trust them to do anything but make one more last grab for money. This is what’s called a trial balloon. If we don’t shoot it down, our political leaders will run with it. Please call your representatives and the White House and let them know you are against the “trigger” idea. This is how democracy works.

As the rally broke up, the pastor urged us to shake one another’s hands and say, “Thank you.” Loud, motivational baby-boom music like Don’t Stop and Higher Ground filled the void left by the speakers causing middle-aged, middle-class people to unselfconsciously dance in public.

Many of us took a tour of the tiny fenced-off area across the street where, at most, two dozen counter-protesters morosely mingled. They were not the kind of people you see at the grocery store. I thought it was an urban legend, but there really was an elderly man who proudly announced that he was on Medicare, but carried a sign that read, “Keep Your Government Hands Off My Private Insurance.” Shame on those who have lied to him. There were several guys in their late teens wearing baseball caps with images of guns or Confederate flags, and a couple more who were slightly older wearing suits that looked like they might have belonged to their fathers. Most of them covered their faces when someone turned a camera on them. They seemed frightened. They looked like they needed a hug and a whispered assurance that everything was going to be alright.

As I boarded the train to head home, I fell into conversation with an older Mexican-American man. We talked about healthcare reform and art. It turns out he is a Beacon Hill neighborhood activist with whom I have several friends in common. When he got off at Qwest Field to go to the Seahawks game, a young African-American man leaned across the aisle to tell me that he knows my companion and he is, “a great man.”

We talked about the rally and reminded each other that Barack Obama has proven to be a smart politician who plays chess while everyone else is playing checkers. I said, “I hope he takes a strong stance on the public option in his speech next week.”

He answered, “I think he will.”

I said, “He hasn’t so far, but he’s fond of the FDR line about if you want me to support change you’re going to have to . . .”

And he interrupted to finish my sentence, “. . . make me.”

This is a truly historic opportunity. When the G20 meets later this year, the US will be the only nation represented that does not provide universal healthcare. We will be dead last on the list in terms of health care outcomes, and first on the list in terms of cost. There will never be a better time. We’ve been trying to get this done since the other great Teddy – Roosevelt – first proposed it. The mid-term elections will likely see the opposition taking back some seats in congress and that may be enough to doom us if we don't get it done now.

The next couple months are important. We must make them do it.

This is how democracy works.

When Anastasia Became a Monster

(Note: I wrote and illustrated this story several years ago, but never did anything with it. So this is it's publishing debut! I have many more ink and watercolor illustrations, but it was looking too cluttered. I'd love feedback.)

The monsters under Anastasia’s bed had been keeping her awake. Their usual growling, snarling and belching had been bad enough, but lately there had been an increase in howling, moaning and bellyaching. Anastasia had become increasingly indignant at the utter rudeness of her neighbors dwelling down there in their land of dust bunnies.

“Of course they must live,” she said to herself. “And of course they must live in their natural habitat. And they will, after all, make some noise, but I simply must be allowed to sleep!”

Up until then Anastasia had more or less ignored the monsters. They were down there; she was up here. She let them have any toys that rolled under the bed, while they avoided attacking her ankles as she got in and out of bed. Otherwise she rarely thought of them.

But now, in the darkest part of the night, she was thinking about those monsters. She pulled her flashlight from under her pillow and hung over the edge of her bed to shine its beam into the monster’s domain. “Hey, keep it down!”

The monsters fell silent.

Satisfied, Anastasia pulled her self back into bed, but minutes later the monsters were back at it.

“Hey, monsters! I’m trying to sleep up here!” she shouted.

They again fell silent before a single monster voice cried out, “Just who do you think you are?!”

“I’m Anastasia, that’s who -- the girl who sleeps in this bed. The one who keeps a roof over your head.”

Anastasia heard some scrambling, then felt something moving on her bed. She turned her flashlight in that direction and sure enough it was a very angry monster.

“Ho-ho,” said the monster. “So it’s you who keep a roof over our heads, is it? How about it’s us who keep a floor under you!”

This was outrageous. “For your information, monster, you’ve been making entirely too much noise under there. If this keeps up I’ll be forced to ask you to leave.”

The monster sputtered and putrid yellow bile flew from his lips. “Perhaps it will be us who ask you to leave!”

“Why would I leave my own bed?” Anastasia demanded.

The monster answered, “Because of that racket you’ve been making on our roof every morning, just as the babies are getting sleep. They keep the rest of us up half the day with their crying. And now listen to them. It’s the middle of the night – normally the most cheerful part of the day – and they’re howling, moaning and bellyaching.”

Anastasia reflected that she had lately developed the habit of jumping on her bed each morning before getting dressed for school. It was her workout. Who were these creatures to tell her not to jump on her bed when even her own parents allowed it?

Just then a heart-piercing wail came from below.

“This is your fault,” said the monster who stomped off in a fury.

For the rest of the night the monsters’ hideous sounds were louder and more varied.

The following morning, exhausted and bitter, Anastasia jumped so furiously on her bed that even her mother asked her to stop.

Her day was monstrous. She growled at her father. She snarled at the bus driver. She belched during a spelling test and was laughed at by the whole class. She dozed through lunch and was sent home with a note from her teacher insisting that she get more sleep.

She didn’t put up a fight when she was sent to bed early. When the monsters began their cacophony she leapt to the floor with her flashlight and presented the note.

“Do you see this?” she asked. “My teacher commands you to let me sleep.”


“Do you see this?” answered the monster, wielding a paper of its own, “This is a cease and desist order from the high court. If you jump on that bed again, we’ll call the cops!”

“You’ll hear from my lawyer!” shouted Anastasia, who bounded onto the bed and gave it a thorough jumping.

The monsters responded with yowls, caterwauls and shrieks.

The following morning came far too soon for Anastasia who was barely able to drag herself from bed. She dozed and crabbed the entire day.

That night as she lay there grinding her teeth at the monsters’ ruckus she formulated a plan. Anastasia slipped quietly into the hallway where she retrieved the vacuum cleaner from the closet. Then she directed the nozzle under her bed. With a sudden whine the machine came to life, sucking up everything in sight. “That should take care of them,” she muttered with an evil chuckle.


When she returned from restoring the vacuum to its spot in the hallway closet, she found her bed striped down to the bare mattress – her sheets, pillow and stuffed animals were gone. Then with horror she remembered, “Blankie!” Her beloved Blankie was gone!

Blind with despair and rage, Anastasia snatched up a baseball bat, fell to her stomach, and began swinging it wildly under the bed. Moments later she screamed in pain as the monsters sank their fangs into her flesh. An enormous battle ensued. Blood and bruises proliferated. Nasty things were said. Viciousness ruled the field.


After a very long battle, Anastasia lost consciousness.

When she awoke she lay amidst the ruin of her room, surrounded by the nearly lifeless bodies of the monsters. Everything had been decimated. She barely had the energy to raise her throbbing head. That’s when she noticed small bits of Blankie scattered about. She looked at the monsters with cold hatred.

It was that hatred that allowed her to finally move her hand. She picked up a chunk of ceiling tile with which to clobber her nearest enemy. As she raised her weapon over her head she took aim, then hesitated. It was a monster baby, sleeping peacefully.

She couldn’t hit a baby, could she? Even a monster baby?

The monster baby growled gently, snarled with satisfaction, and belched in contentment.


Anastasia dropped her arm. Her hatred wasn’t strong enough. In fact it was no longer even strong enough to keep her awake. She drifted sweetly asleep to the familiar sounds of the monster baby.

After a long rest, Anastasia and the monsters awoke together. As they were barely able to move from their wounds, a truce was called.

Anastasia agreed that the monsters had every right to live under the bed, but only under the condition that they avoided excessive growling, snarling and belching, while foregoing howling, moaning, bellyaching, yowling, caterwauling and shrieking altogether. For their part the monsters conceded Anastasia’s claim to sleep on their roof, but only if she agreed to relocate her morning jump to her parents’ bed.

Then a very important thing happened. Anastasia said, “I’m sorry.”

The monster smiled. “We’re sorry, too. How could we have let things get so out of hand?”

“All of this and we’re right back where we started,” sighed Anastasia.

Her room was a shambles, her body injured, and her reputation besmirched. She no longer had Blankie. And even worse, her heart felt wounded from all the rage, despair and hatred.

The monster replied, pointing to the destruction, “All of this and we’re even worse off than we started.”

They tried to laugh, but it hurt too much.

Over the next few days Anastasia’s body began to heal. The abrasions clotted and the bruises faded.

One night she pulled out her flashlight and peered under the bed. “Is everything all right down there?” she asked.

“I hurt right here,” the monster said, pointing to his heart.

“Me too,” she answered. Then without thinking she said, “I became a monster.”

“And I,” said the monster, “became a human.”

It hurt them to laugh, but a little less than before.

A Grown Man’s Blankies

Woodland Park’s Pre-3 class had its Fall Orientation parent meeting on Monday night. It was my first time back in the school for 3 months and I’d forgotten how much in disarray we’d left the classroom last spring. All 42 families, from both the Pre-3’s and 3-5’s had pitched in to give the place a year-end scrubbing, but since our rooms weren’t going to be used for awhile, there was no real effort made to put things back into place. That will be the job of our set-up crew next week, but in the meantime, the gym had become a sort of catch-all temporary storage place, and our courtyard/playground had collected more than its share of the urban debris that comes with the territory, not to mention the unpleasant reminders of the vagrant who had taken refuge there during part of the summer.

If this had been a mid-year meeting, I would have just waited for the first parents to arrive and in true co-op fashion ask them to help me tidy up, but since the Pre-3 class is mostly populated by families new to our community, I was concerned with first impressions, so rolled up my sleeves, put on some gloves, and got to work.

The first order of business was hauling the pile of left-behind street person bedding down to the dumpster. It took three trips to get it all cleared away and as I worked I noticed our garden hose had been uncoiled from its usual spot. Beside the spigot was a blue sponge, like the kind we’d used to scrub small toys during the year-end cleaning. Our anonymous “house guest” had apparently been taking sponge baths in the courtyard.

I avoided looking into the secluded corner that will be receiving the attentions of hazardous waste removal professionals this week, new ground cover, and additional pressure washing for good measure.

Amanda and Jaimee, a pair of parents who live near the school, and who both have kids in this year’s Pre-K class, took the lead in working with the police, our landlord, and the church-run soup kitchen across the street to get our visitor moved along. They consulted with the parks department and other facility manager types who have to deal regularly with these situations. Based on their work, proper clean-up is underway, our fence is now over 7-feet high, our gate locks, and our outdoor lights come on at night with every movement.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being pissed off, especially considering what it’s cost us in terms of time and expense.

At the same time, it was melancholy work carrying a grown man’s blankies down to the dumpster. One of the sheets even had little teddy bears printed on it. As I tossed them, a part of me felt as if I were tossing away a human being.

Our school is located across the street from Seattle’s Woodland Park Zoo and we’ve all noticed that the last year has seen a huge increase in people living in campers and vans parked along that blank space where there are no residential driveways to block or homeowners to complain. They are the same vehicles in many cases that I used to notice parked a few miles away near the B.F. Day Elementary School until the city put up signs forbidding overnight parking. This is a safe, middle-class neighborhood which is probably why these people, like the rest of us, want to live here.

I’m sure it will be only a matter of time before the city puts up more signs and another safe, middle class neighborhood will be forced to install motion-sensitive lighting and 7-foot tall fences.

After making the courtyard presentable, I attacked the helter-skelter mess in our gym.

I was sweating by the time the parents arrived, but at least things were presentable. We set up our snacks in anticipation of the break that would come an hour later. I gave our new health and safety officer a tour of the classroom, showing off our first aid kits, fire extinguishers, and emergency evacuation plans. We engaged in slightly nervous getting-to-know-you chatter while waiting for everyone to arrive. Per usual, more that a quarter of our families are alumni, and they demonstrated their experience by casually arriving just as the meeting was about the start.

When we convened, we sat facing one another in a circle. Our fantastic parent educator, Dawn, kicked things off by having us introduce ourselves and tell the group a few things that “help comfort your child when he’s upset.” Listening to each parent share about her child is, for me, one of the most life affirming exercises on earth. There were no surprises: these 2-year-olds, like the ones before them, respond to books, singing, hugs, toys, talking, and distraction. But in the mouth of each parent, speaking from her love, these banalities told heartwarming stories about unique, beloved treasures.

We then got down to nitty-gritty of running the school. We learned about our budget, the schedule, enrollment, tuition, fundraising, cleaning and maintenance, health and safety, each report delivered by the parent in charge of that part of the school’s business. In what has become an annual ritual, Rene warned us about her daughter’s peanut/tree nut allergy and taught us what to do in an emergency, including a demonstration of how to use epi-pens. I’m always impressed by this down-to-business exercise in community building on behalf of our children.

During the break we filled our vacant parent jobs, created “buddy” alliances, and learned about the challenges of our co-ed bathroom.

As we mingled cozily around our table of crackers and sparkling water, I stole glances through the window at our now darkened courtyard that had until recently been the lonely summer home of our unknown intruder. I thought about the beer cans I’d carried down to the dumpster and wondered if he even remembered the hugs, stories and songs that been the true comforts of his childhood. I’m haunted by the image of that teddy bear sheet. I hope he didn’t need it to sleep last night, wherever that is.

The Woodland Park Pre-3’s are going to have an amazing year because of the safe, middle class “neighborhood” we’ve created for them here at school. Amanda, Jaimee and the rest of us spent our summer trying to figure out how to keep it that way. I honestly believe we approached the problem with love in our hearts, but I think we all know that a higher fence with a locking gate represents a failure, just as it will be a failure when the city puts up its “No Parking” signs by the zoo.

In His Element

(Note: This is a follow-up to a post I wrote last Friday about our tendency to label children who for whatever reason fall outside the narrow band of what we call “normal.”)

I receive two magazine subscriptions: Popular Mechanics and ESPN, the magazine. I learn a lot of cool stuff from the first, and the second I originally subscribed to only in support of my friend who landed a job as their head of ad sales. He long ago left ESPN, but for whatever reason I’ve not bothered to figure out which credit card is getting billed for it, so it keeps arriving.

And as luck would have it, I finally learned something from the most recent issue (Sept. 7, 2009) of ESPN. (I’m not going to link to the article because ESPN has a policy of making people pay to read some of its content. If you want to pay for it, the article is entitled, “In His Element.”) It’s the story of a kid named Clay Marzo who is a surfing prodigy. He struggles in school. He struggles socially. He pretty much struggles as long as he’s on land. Everyone just assumed he was a typical surfing stoner malcontent until his coach got him evaluated by an autism specialist named Michael Linden who diagnosed him as having Asperger’s, with symptoms of both ADD and OCD.

As a medical professional, Linden is exactly the kind of person in whose hand these labels can effectively be used. He knows they do not necessarily describe “disorders.” In fact, the doctor goes on to assert that it’s probably these very conditions that make him such a mind-blowing surfer. In other words, a “normal” kid would struggle trying to do what Clay does, just as Clay struggles doing things that come more easily to them.

In a sidebar to the story, journalist Alyssa Roenigk writes:

Michael Linden . . . believes 20% of pro athletes have ADD or ADHD – more than four times the rate of all adults. Kids with ADHD are drawn to sports because activity helps them release excess energy, plus the focus required to develop skills can calm their minds. Linden also says kids with ADHD have quick reaction times and tend to move instantly to the next moments. “They rarely dwell on mistakes and losses.” . . . Similarly, an athlete with OCD can practice shooting free throws or throwing a slider over and over without losing interest. And those with Tourette’s . . . may also have the ability to master quick, precise movements, which is why some are drawn to high-risk activities requiring extreme concentration.

As I suggest in my post entitled, "The Only Way To Learn About Each Other", we need to figure out a way to include these children in our educational communities without medicating or segregating them. Rather than trying to force these square pegs into the round holes of our current educational systems we need to find ways to adapt the way we educate to suit these perfectly normal kids, not just for the sake of these kids, but for all of us.

Instead we see school districts across the country cutting athletic, physical education, music, and arts budgets, in favor of yet more of the sitting in desks, facing forward style of education, taking away some of the few areas in which we’ve traditionally done a good job of serving these kids. Couple this with ever-growing class sizes and it’s almost criminal.

Colored Guns Lined Up In Cubbies

(Note: This post is a follow-up to my piece from a few days ago entitled “Playing Guns.” It’s been republished on Dad-Blogs, where I’ve just started as a regular weekly contributor. It’s a cool site dedicated to providing a father’s perspective on parenting and just about everything else.)

During the summer before I went to kindergarten, part of my daily routine involved meeting my best friend Phoebe Azar in John Sain’s front yard. This being South Carolina in the sunshine, I wore nothing but shorts, usually a pair of Toughskins that mom had cut off just above the knees.

Phoebe was a year older, a year more sophisticated, and the only girl I knew. She always greeted me, “Hey Tarzan,” which I took as a high compliment.

We would then round up the other kids we could find, which might include our younger brothers or the Beale boys, then set about playing army. As I mentioned in the post from a few days ago, “Playing Guns," I spent a lot of my childhood playing army, but this was my first foray into the world of guns and it was unlike any other that followed.

Phoebe took the role of “general.” She would line us up according to seniority (which meant I was first in the line) then march us around the neighborhood with our stick rifles on our shoulder. “Hut two three four, Hut two three four . . .”

We carried guns every day for months, but I don’t remember ever once firing them. That was the game of army with a girl in charge. The Azar family moved away before the following summer, I got to know some of the older boys, and from then on it was a blood bath in which death lasted until the count of 10.

I have no memory of adults being a part of any of this other than the time Mrs. Sain scolded us from her bedroom window for peeing in her rose bed. (Yes, Phoebe just "stood guard.")

I completely support any parent or teacher who wants to ban violent dramatic play, just as I support anyone who allows it. What I don’t support are adults who encourage it, especially in an educational setting. That’s not just giving children the chance to explore the real and imaginary violence they see around them, that’s actively teaching children how to be violent.

That’s why I was shocked when I read former Crown Hill Co-op parent Katy’s post that was accompanied by this photo of an officially sanctioned art project from a summer camp her 5-year-old attended in Luxembourg:


In the comments, Katy wrote:

It was an eerie feeling to see all the colored guns lined up in the cubbies ready to be taken home.

It’s an eerie feeling just thinking about it.

In Case You Missed It

A lot of new readers have been visiting the blog during the past month. In fact, the average daily readership has nearly quadrupled over the past 30 days. Thank you!

Since it’s a lazy Sunday and the post I’d planned for today will take a little more time, I thought it might be a good opportunity to draw attention to some things from the archives you might have missed.

“Why We Wrestle”
I’ll bet Woodland Park is the only preschool on earth at which wrestling is an official part of the curriculum.

“What’s So Bad About Ronald McDonald?”
This is my treatise on protecting young children (and your own sanity) from television advertising

Waiting For Me In Peace and Joy
Death is a difficult topic for most parents to talk about with their preschoolers.

“Up, Up And Away!”
Superheroes and princesses are only two of the ways children explore power through their dramatic play. At Woodland Park we also try to teach them how to be powerful without resorting to violence.

“A Cooperative Manifesto”
Our school is a cooperative preschool. This is my attempt to explain and glorify this model of early childhood education, with a dash of radical left-wing economic thinking thrown in for good measure.

“Won’t You Be My Neighbor”
When I grow up I want to be Mister Rogers.

Thanks for reading!

“Good Job! You’re So Smart!”

When my wife Jennifer and I were kindergarten shopping one of the schools we looked at required an I.Q. test. I recoiled at the idea, phoning a child psychiatrist friend, looking for support for my knee-jerk response. Of course, testing the intelligence of a 5-year-old is a bad idea.

Richard responded by saying he’d spent his entire career around these tests and had never seen them damage a child in any way. In fact, the kids he tested usually enjoyed taking them. “But,” he added, “I’ve see a lot of parents use the tests to hurt their kids.”

He explained that a high percentage of parents who have their children tested also tend to be of the high strung, hovering variety, and that these tests just give them one more way to pass their anxiety on to their kids. That’s kind of what I’d expected him to say, but then he went on to add something I hadn’t thought of. He said that these tests are just snapshots and not predictors of the future. “I try really hard to make sure parents hear me say that I.Q. test results for a 5-year-old are only valid for 6 months, but they just don’t listen. If they get a high score, parents like sticking the label of genius on their kids as if it’s a badge they get to wear for the rest of their lives. Then they burden them with praise.”

Praise is a tricky thing, especially when it comes to our children.

A 10-year study of New York City 5th graders conducted by Carol Dweck while a professor of psychology at Columbia University, found that praising kids for their intelligence might actually be causing them to underperform academically. It seems that children who have been praised for their innate intellectual gifts tend to give up more easily when challenged, suffer more emotionally when they fail, and avoid taking risks when they perceive there is a chance their genius could fail them.

As Dweck puts it:

Teachers should focus on students' efforts and not on their abilities. When students succeed, teachers should praise their efforts or their strategies, not their intelligence.

I would assert that this is not only true for intelligence, but also for anything that could be construed as “innate,” like beauty, athleticism, or artistic ability. Effort is where praise is best applied because unlike inherent traits, it is something a child can actually control. In Dweck’s study, the children who were praised for their effort rather than intelligence were far more likely to persevere, try new things, and be less hard on themselves when they failed.

But what about self-esteem? How do we help our children build that without praising them?

Researchers at Florida State University have concluded:

. . . it is more likely that good performance leads to high self-esteem rather than the other way around . . . (T)he researchers found that efforts to boost self-esteem have not been shown to improve academic performance and may sometimes be counterproductive.

In other words, self-esteem is not built though hollow praise, but rather from mastering skills, which can only be done through experience and hard work. We help our children build confidence by giving them the opportunities to try, try, try again. Encouragement, not praise is our greatest tool.

North Seattle Community College Instructor Tom Drummond takes it one step further. He recommends avoiding praise altogether unless it is absolutely genuine, claiming that children, even very young ones, know the difference between sincere and insincere praise. He asserts that an endless barrage of “Good jobs!” teaches children to seek external validation rather than looking into themselves for motivation. Instead, he advises teachers and parents to concentrate on observable facts about a child’s activities.

Instead of, “What a beautiful red circle!” one might simply say, “You used a red crayon to draw a circle.”

Instead of, “You’re a terrific jumper!” one might say, “You’re jumping very high.”

Instead of, “You’re so smart!” one might say, “You worked hard at that.”

In the end, it seems to me that this is really the most important gift we can give to our children: the capacity to continue to strive even when things are difficult. And ultimately that can only come from within.

So now you’re at the end of this post. “Good job! You’re so smart!”

There Are No Adequate Metaphors

I was the official host of Woodland Park’s traditional final play date of the summer yesterday, and it was so much fun!

Dennis was the first to greet me. He ducked behind his dad’s leg to summon up some courage before launching himself at me, arms wide. Last year at this time, he would have bowled me over, so I braced myself. But now, as a mature 3-year-old big brother who has clearly learned the importance of gentleness, he pulled up just before a collision to enfold me in a tender embrace.

The next child to discover me was my old friend Sammy, who’s a first grader now. When she was a 2-year-old she would flee to another part of the classroom whenever I came into the area in which she played. Yesterday, not only did she run up to me, but she was already in the midst of a conversation about the bubbles she had caught in her hand, almost as if it were a continuation of a conversation we’d been having the last time we saw each other. Right behind her was her 3-year-old sister Alex who has more or less grown up in our classroom with never a moment of shyness around Teacher Tom.

Seconds later I was encircled by a dozen kids ranging in age from 3 to 7. I got lots of hugs, my hands were tugged, everyone had something they urgently wanted to tell me. I was buffeted, wrenched and wrangled from all sides. There is no metaphor adequate for the magnificence of that moment.

I could have stayed that way forever, but I had other important business to attend to. Among the dozens of children swarming through the sunshine, I needed to find the 2-year-olds who didn’t yet know that I was their teacher and friend.

Once the initial tide of big kids pulled back for a moment, I found Charlie. We became friends in a moment. I met Owen, who’s still unsure about me, and Aedan who seemed to accept our friendship as a matter of course. I made a few quite moments for Ruby by sending the big kids off on missions to “climb the mountain” and “run fast,” which gave us a chance to chat a bit and smile at each other. Judging from his expression, Ben seems to think I’m some kind of a big goof, which shows he has the capacity for piercing insight. I’m sad that I didn’t get to spend as much time as I’d like with Sylvia, because I had to leave shortly after she arrived, but I get the sense we’re going to be great friends, she just doesn’t know it yet. And yellow-shoed Violet is another confident life-long Woodland Park-er following in a sibling’s footsteps.

The people who got short shrift, I’m sad to say, are the adults the children brought with them. This won’t be the last time I’ll apologize for seeming rude, but know they’ll understand.

I did, however, have a nice moment with Charlie’s mom who had just recovered from a small moment of panic when she couldn’t immediately find her boy, only to spot him a ways off, right in the midst of a gang of big kids, some of whom were twice his size and more than twice his age. She said she’d been trying unsuccessfully to satisfactorily describe to her relatives in another part of the country about “this community we’ve become a part of.”

Before leaving the park, I made the rounds trying to say a personal goodbye to each of the kids. Some had already slipped off and others were far too engaged in playing with their friends to care. Others gave me hugs. The kindergarteners and graders promised to visit and keep me updated on their new schools.

And to each of the 2-year-olds I sang:

Boom boom,
See ya’ later,
Later alligator.
After while
Crocodile
Bye for now.

It’s a song that means nothing to them now, but will be the bane of their parents’ existence by the end of September.

As I walked to my car, I stopped several times to scan the playground, making sure I hadn’t missed anyone. And there they were, chasing bubbles, that incredible community of which I’ve become a part. As I drove off, it occurred me that I have the same problem as Charlie’s mom: it’s hard to describe things when all the adequate metaphors sound like hyperbole.

More Mothers Tied Into Knots

(Note: This blog has a large number of email subscriptions and many readers access it through my Facebook page, which explains why the comments to my posts tend to get spread out over email, Facebook, and the blog itself. Sometimes the comments are so much better than my original posts, that I feel a need to corral some of them into a post of their own.)

The original inspiration for Tuesday’s post, “Mothers Tied Into Knots,” were email dialogs I’ve been engaged in this summer with a pair of a new mothers who are concerned about the job they’re doing as parents. As I was collecting my thoughts, I came across a powerful rant on a site I regularly read, which gave me some new insights into the broader social context about which, as a man, I’d not previously given much thought.

One of the most rewarding parts of my special teaching situation is that I get to know children and their families over the course of multiple years, and it’s not just the kids who grow and change. I’ve watched hundreds of families evolve from being “tied into knots” into confidence. It’s a pattern that repeats itself over and over at Woodland Park. In the beginning there is a tendency for our new parents to focus on me for advice and council, but it’s not long before they discover our school’s real parenting experts: their fellow parents. This is one of the primary, often unacknowledged, strengths of the cooperative model. It's a model with the mantra "It takes a village to raise a child" at its heart.

When I read “Victims of the Mommy Wars” I was at first a little stunned. My entire adult life has been lived in what most people would consider a gender role-reversal with my wife being the high-powered business executive and entrepreneur, while I’ve followed her around the world cooking, taking care of the home, and holding down a series of part-time and freelance jobs. When our daughter Josephine was born, we didn’t even have to discuss who was going to be the stay-at-home parent. Of course it didn’t escape me that I was often the only father involved in our playgroups and preschools, but it always felt like it was only a matter of time before that would change. And from my current perch as a male preschool teacher I’ve seen a slow, but steady increase in the number of fathers fully participating in our cooperative preschool. In fact, we had a Thursday two years ago that featured 7 working parents, only one of whom was a woman. Our Circle Time sounded like a freakin’ men’s chorus -- and I loved it!

From this admittedly narrow (and somewhat idealistic) perspective it looks like parenting is rapidly becoming a gender-neutral activity. But as I watched the comments section of the mommy wars piece fill up, I became aware that the parenting experience is a different animal for many women, than for men.

My high school classmate Rose, a family lawyer in the Portland area, commented on these pressures:

Despite the fact that we now have decades of women who are "doing it all," the housework, household management, child rearing and working, there is still much social pressure on defining women by their parenting skills. If a woman decides that Dad would be the better primary parent in a divorce, she is subject to social criticism about her lack of worth as a person, because of her alleged lack of worth as a mother, without any connection between Dad as primary parent and Mom as a good parent. Social pressure aside, I notice that women are much more likely to have their kids as being their first choice of conversation, whereas men are more likely to talk about their jobs, all other things being equal.

Susan had a different take on the pressures she feels:

. . . as a mom in these times, my own tensions are not caused by the parenting skills I never had the chance to learn from my own tribe, but the question of - Am I succeeding at giving my child every chance to sample every possible activity and interest that catches his eye, and how can I ever do that, since nowadays opportunities for kids are so plentiful? Such issues are the spawn of these rich times we live in. As little as a century ago, life was on the edge. Children worked on the farm. They ate their biscuit and syrup sandwiches cold at lunch, grateful to have food. They wore patched clothes and made their own games in the dirt with sticks. Parents didn’t give a damn about helping their child “find his bliss.” If he was healthy, respectful, and clothed in clean if not new clothes, fine . . . Now we have a society that is vastly rich by comparison. My son doesn't have to do any kind of real work. Instead, his work is practice the fiddle, study maps, play soccer, practice archery, sample ballet, act in a play. And if I can’t find the time in schedule for these things, I have a vague fret that I’m depriving him.

Toby, a Woodland Park parent and parenting blogger, commented on how the media helps strip women of their confidence as parents:

. . . it doesn’t help that most mainstream parenting media hypes up the anxiety with their “Top 10 Things You Think Are Safe That Can Actually Kill Your Baby” articles.

And, finally, P.J., a proud stay-at-home dad and blogger commented on the role of fathers:

I agree with your point that the expectations for fathers in society are different than mothers, hence the reason why we don't outwardly project the same concerns. Despite the generational shift we are experiencing with fathers becoming more involved in our children's lives, we are still not viewed as being capable of nurturing. As a result, less judgment is passed over the roles we play. 

Personally, I don't really care what people think of how my wife and I are raising our son. And I don't much care how other people are raising their children. As long as they love, provide for, and encourage them, that is all that matters .

 . . Books and parents magazines aren't geared towards us because they think we don't care or are too stupid to figure it out. That is fine, the only person’s opinion of how I am doing as a father that matters belongs to my wife. We discuss everything that involves our son and come up with what we both feel is in his best interests. And since I'm the one that stays home with him, it is my job to execute the plan. 

Does that mean it is always the right choice, who knows? Only time will tell.

Lord knows there are parental challenges that fathers are more likely to face than women, but when it comes to these types of societal pressures, I find myself tending to think the situation P.J. describes is the healthier one. It’s probably because I’m a man, and I know it’s much, much easier said than done, but whenever I’m working with a young mother who seems tied into knots, I now realize that I’m subconsciously trying to steer her to the position P.J. states so clearly, “I don’t really care what people think of how my wife and I are raising our son.”

To use a very masculine baseball analogy: P.J.’s is a statement of parental bravado that belies the kind of underlying confidence a coach looks for in his players.

And since baseball analogies don’t work for everyone, I’m very happy that the parents at Woodland Park have those other 40+ experienced and confident parents to talk to when Teacher Tom and his baseball analogies fail them.