"White Supremacist Liberal"

A couple weeks ago I wrote a post about how I was done talking about race and made a vow to start listening instead. Little did I know that I would be put to the test so soon.

I was at a rally on Saturday to support and celebrate the success of Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid. It was an afternoon of many speakers to be capped by some words from Presidential candidate Bernie Sanders. It was a feel good event, with speaker after speaker telling their stories about these most important parts of our nation's social safety net, but when it got time for Sanders to speak, a pair of young women, who said they represented the #BlackLivesMatter movement, Mara Jacqueline Willaford and Marissa Johnson, rushed the stage. They were allowed to take control of the microphone, and Sanders, along with the event organizers, more or less stepped back and let them have their say, part of which included calling the crowd "white supremacist liberals."

Many of my fellow rally-goers booed, some called for the women to be arrested. I was angry too, and disappointed. Not only had I come specifically to hear Sanders speak, but more to the point, it's upsetting to be called a white supremacist. I mean, I've participated in Black Lives Matter protests, I've written about it here on this blog, I've spoken about my outrage with friends and family, yet here I was being told that despite all of that, I was a white supremacist. And to top it off, I reminded myself as those around me became increasingly agitated, I had vowed to shut up and listen.

So that's what I tried to do. I heard some things I already knew about my city and a few other things that I'd never heard before. It was hard to tamp down my anger and even harder to stop myself from judging and analyzing what was going on. I heard very angry black women, yet through that anger I also heard the voices of intelligent, educated women. I thought they were stupid for undertaking this particular action at this particular time, targeting this particular politician. I kept my lips shut, but I heard my thoughts and emotions echoed by the white people who surrounded me:

"Oh, come on, this is a rally about Social Security."

"This is just hurting their cause."

"Don't they realize that Sanders is their best friend?"

The news reports have made it sound like the crowd was uniformly jeering the protesters, but that's simply untrue. Most of us were silent. Some were shushing the angry shouters. A group of young white people near me started chanting, "Black lives matter! Black lives matter!" And yes, some were quite livid and vocal about it. People bitched and moaned when the women said they would not let the event continue until we had honored a 4.5 minute silence in remembrance of Michael Brown, the unarmed victim of a police shooting in Ferguson, Missouri a year ago. I thought, "Fat chance of that happening," but amazingly, the crowd of around 2000, aside from a few, remained silent for the full time. That wasn't the end, however, and the event organizers finally decided to pull the plug on everyone, leaving Sanders to work the crowd for a few minutes, then we all went home.

I was tight lipped as I made my way through the crowd, as I shook Sanders' hand, and as I made my way back home. I had promised to listen when people of color talk about race. I had largely failed at that in the moment, but I tried really hard to "listen" upon reflection. Part of listening, I think, is to give the speaker the benefit of the doubt, so I started with the question, "Am I a white supremacist liberal?" What did they mean by that? I didn't think I was a white supremacist liberal. I sure didn't want to be one. There was something I didn't understand.

I asked myself, "Why Sanders?" One of the answers is clearly that he makes himself more accessible than any other candidate. He will soon likely receive Secret Service protection and then it will become impossible for actions like this to take place, so I'm guessing that part of their motivation was to take advantage of this window of opportunity, which is smart. But why else? There is definitely something they want Sanders to understand (this is the second time he's been interrupted by BLM protesters), but it seemed pretty apparent that they also wanted to talk to us, his supporters.

I had trouble sleeping on Saturday night thinking about what those women were trying to tell me. I spent Sunday morning digging through all the BLM stuff I could. At least a few black commenters said that Sanders supporters were targeted, in part, because we are the most likely to actually listen, although based on the comments I found from those white supporters, most were judgmental and angry. Many were speculating that the women had to be some kind of plant, sent there by enemies of Sanders or the Democratic party or the Hillary Clinton campaign or even Sarah Palin (really).

Then I came across this expert from Martin Luther King's Letters from the Birmingham Jail:

First, I must confess that over the last few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Council-er or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says, "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I can't agree with your methods of direct action;" who paternalistically feels he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by the myth of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait until a "more convenient season." Shallow understanding from people of goodwill is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.

Holy cow. I mean, isn't that exactly what I had done as those angry young women ranted at us? I had been that white moderate, and frankly, so had most of those in the Sanders crowd. Someone had sat at our lunch counter. Someone had refused to move to the back of the bus. Someone had used our water fountain.

On Sunday evening, I cycled up to Capital Hill where a Black Lives Matters march was scheduled to commemorate the anniversary of Michael Brown's death. I went specifically to listen. I was hoping that the women who had interrupted Sanders would be there. I was hoping I might even get to speak with them.

Sadly, neither woman was there, but we talked about them. Several people told me they didn't necessarily agree with everything they had said, but every person of color with whom I spoke said they supported the action, and specifically, that the women were justified. There has been much made in the media and elsewhere about the fact that Willaford and Johnson aren't "really" a part of BLM, but from everything I could gather from these local BLM activist, they are embraced by the movement and known by many of the people there on Sunday. There has been much made in the media and elsewhere about the fact that Willaford and Johnson's actions would hurt both BLM and Sanders, but over the weekend the Sanders campaign announced the hiring of a BLM activist as his national press secretary and released a racial justice platform, both signs that, in fact, these kinds of actions had helped make both the movement and Sanders' campaign stronger.

There were no official speakers before the Sunday evening BLM march, but rather a megaphone and an invitation for anyone to speak who had something to say. Speaker after speaker stood up, telling personal stories, each one sounding as angry as the women who had interrupted the Social Security event. One man pointed at a sign depicting the faces of black people who have been killed by American police and said, "The only difference between them and me is that I survived." I heard people saying that they were sick and tired of having to explain themselves, of having the justify their anger, of having to listen to their white allies explain how they are doing it wrong. And honestly, most of the crowd was white. One speaker even said, looking out over the 200 or so of us who had turned out, "It looks like a chocolate chip cookie without enough chocolate chips."

I'd not intended to actually march, but when we took to the streets, I followed along, echoing the words of our chant leaders. When we got to the Capital Hill Police Station, we blocked an intersection, circling it, leaving the center open. Cops in combat gear lined the sidewalks. One at a time, individuals came forward to offer their own testimony. Every one of them was angry. At one point a man brought his wife and two sons into the middle of the intersection. He spoke not of anger, but of fear; fear that his boys would be the victims. As he spoke, his wife cried, hugging her sons. Then, looking over the heads of the protesters, he spoke directly to the cops, "I see you laughing at me. You think I'm a joke, but let me tell you, I'll do anything to protect my family."

Every one of the speakers was angry. They tell us that anger is usually a secondary emotion, one that really stems from fear or sadness.

I've been listening. I've learned that I have been a "white moderate" for most of my life, more devoted to the false peace that comes from order rather than the real peace that comes through justice. I still don't think I'm a white supremacist, but I still might learn that I am. I sure hope not, but I do now understand why someone might say that to me. I cannot set the timetable for another man's freedom and it is not my place to judge his methods or his season. The two angry young women who prevented Bernie Sanders from speaking may or may not be "right," but they are justified, and I'm am grateful that they did what they did.

I'm not here to argue the rightness or wrongness of any of this, but rather to bear witness to the power of listening. If you are interested, here are three links that I found enlightening.

The Political Beliefs of the Protester Who Interrupted Bernie Sanders

Why Saturday's Bernie Sanders Rally Left Me Feeling Heartbroken

Bernie Sanders, Black Lives Matter and the Racial Divide in Seattle

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Instead Of Commanding "Be Careful"

Recently a parent told me she thinks I'm like Roald Dahl's character Willy Wonka. "You always tell the kids: 'If you want to get hurt go ahead and try it.'"

I do say those kinds of things. I once told a kid, "Hey, you could try sticking your finger in that electrical outlet!" He responded, "No, Teacher Tom, I might die!"

At least once every field trip I'll ask something like, "Should we run out in the street?" I know I can count on someone to remind me, "No, Teacher Tom, we'll get hit by a car!"

And yes, sometimes, when kids are apparently bent on attempting a feat that looks particularly hazardous, I'll say something along the lines of, "I'm going to watch to see who gets hurt so I know who I'm going to take care of while they're crying." To which the reply is, "Neither of us is going to get hurt because we're being careful."

If a couple of boys are racing our wagons down the hill, I might ask, "Hey, are you guys planning on running over anybody?"

And they'll answer, "No, Teacher Tom, because we're looking where we're going."

If someone is on the tire swing, I might suggest, "Hey, swing that direction and see if you can hit your head on the tree."

And they'll answer, "No, Teacher Tom, that would hurt."

If a couple of girls are using our homemade ladder to climb onto our monkey bars climber, I might say, "Which one of you is going to fall?"

And they'll answer, "No, Teacher Tom, we won't fall because we're holding on!"

Or if children making a yarn spider web start wrapping it instead around their necks, I'll say, "If you don't want to breathe any more, you can put a whole lot more around your neck."

And they'll answer, "No, Teacher Tom, I want to breathe!"

I guess it's what I do instead of commanding, "Be careful!"

In Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the children did not fare too well. As a boy I recall feeling that they were all, with the exception of Charlie, quite stupid for acting with no consideration of the possible consequences. As an adult I now see Dahl's larger point: that their stupidity was the consequence of bad parenting.

But that's fiction. In the real world, young children are capable of assessing many of their own day-to-day risks, but only if they've had the chance to practice; only if they're well versed in the art of critical thinking and not the habits of mere obedience. An adult who commands, "Don't slide down that banister!" might be keeping a child safe in that moment, but is also, at the same time, robbing him of a chance to think for himself, which makes him that much less safe in the future when no one is there to tell him what to do. Better to state the facts ("If you slide down that banister you might get hurt.") and let him practice thinking things through for himself, to consider the possible consequences of his actions, to assess his own risks, to ask himself, "Is this a risk worth taking?" 

There are no guarantees, of course, but the habit of critical thinking is, I think, the best safety precaution there is.

Note: It has come to my attention through many of the various comment threads on Facebook and elsewhere that some people have interpreted these comments as sarcastic. I would never use a sarcastic tone with a young child (and hardly ever with adults). I offer these comments either as earnestly as possible or as silly jokes.

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If We're Serious About Improving Education

Recent research simply confirms what most people know: talented teachers help their students tremendously. They also help realize democratic society's highest potential by educating students to ask how to live and what to live for, not just how to make a living. In the words of educational analyst and former teacher Pasi Sahlberg, they make and protect the place where children are encouraged "to know, to create, and to sustain natural curiosity." In this capacity, teachers are models of a commitment to values that extend beyond expediency, narrow self-interest, and the present moment. ~from the report, A  Life of Consequence, a Profession of Status: Enhancing Respect, Recognition, and Retention of Talented Teachers

I've done some college level education coursework, but most of my "training" as a teacher came via what I consider to be my period of cooperative preschool apprenticeship combined with my experiences coaching both youth and adult baseball.

I'd previously thought off and on in about teaching, but it was more in the vein of a process of elimination as I approached the end of my high school career and was looking forward at what was next for me. I saw some appeal in the profession, but since nothing was really exciting to me at the time, I chose to major in journalism because the degree pretty much let you pursue your intellectual interests for two years as a "pre-journalism" student before having to commit. That's why I found myself sitting in courses like "The Byzantine Empire," "Mann, Kafka, and Hess In Translation," and "The Sociology of Leisure," classes that were emphatically not vocational; that opened for me new ways of thinking, new paradigms for how to see myself in the world, and lead me to pursue interests about which I'd previously had absolutely no inkling. I was not at all excited about the prospects of a job, but rather by the idea of spending my life just learning about interesting things, hanging out with smart people, and holing up in libraries like a kind of academic monk.

Seriously, had that been a realistic option I'd probably still be there today, the opportunity cost of course being the life I have today. So, you know, no regrets, but that's what was going on with me, really, even as I cobbled together a career that included being a junior business executive, a PR flack, a baseball coach, and a freelance writer, before landing in the apprenticeship that taught me where I belonged.

I intend to teach at Woodland Park until they wheel me out on a gurney, and even so I hope that by then someone has invented a Teacher Tom robot that I can operate in the classroom from my hospice bed. You see, this is where I get to spend my life learning about interesting things and hanging out with smart people, without all that monkish austerity. 

I understand that this is not the path most of my fellow teachers have taken. Most of them were far more decisive and idealistic than I. A study conducted for the Woodrow Wilson National Fellowship Foundation, which works to recruit and prepare teachers found:

Many new teachers in the United States are committed to values that extend beyond expediency, narrow self-interest, and the present moment. These are precisely the kind of people who can help young people learn, not just how to make a living, but how to live and what to live for.

That's certainly the kind of teacher I strive to be, as well as the kind of teacher I wish for my own child and the children of Woodland Park as they move out into the academic world beyond our walls. And, indeed, the teachers I know fit this description. Sadly, as the report points out:

(T)he system almost forces these new teachers toward other occupations.

Even while we as a society look at teaching as "a profession whose influence on individual lives is more significant than that of nearly any other occupation, whose role in society is universally acknowledged to be among the most critical to the future, and whose practitioners are often described as "heroic," "beloved," and "admired," we "cannot recruit and retain the best people because (the profession) is seen by many as a dead end, neither financially remunerative, nor socially and creatively fulfilling."

The perceived low status of teaching is . . . a serious obstacle to keeping teachers in classrooms. So, of course, are compensation issues and questions of how teachers' effectiveness is evaluated, the subject of frequent and corrosive headlines that often reduce teaching to test scores . . . many new teachers reported a phase where they felt disillusioned, defeated, and a deep sense of having failed. Teachers who have been academic high-achievers often cannot deal with this sense of failure; they have been hard-working, motivated, and successful in virtually everything they have done. They blame themselves for not better overcoming the shortcomings of the system and soon begin to believe they they are not good teachers.

It shouldn't come as a surprise, therefore, that a third to one-half of all teachers, despite entering the profession with the most noble of intentions, wind up leaving the profession within the first five years. In any other profession, especially one considered as vital as teaching, this would be considered a national emergency, yet it appears to me that many of those who hold the purse strings and are in positions of the most power over our educational system, view this not as a problem, but as a feature of the system.

It started with the Bush administration's primary education initiative No Child Left Behind and has continued with the Obama administration's identical twin Race To The Top, programs heavily supported by corporate lobbyists. As Lois Weiner, professor of eduction at New Jersey City University puts it:

(These initiatives are) part of this global project to deprofessionalize teaching as an occupation . . . the thinking is that the biggest expenditure in education is teacher salaries. And they want to cut costs . . . that means they have to lower teacher costs. And in order to do that, they have to deprofessionalize teaching. They have to make it a revolving door, in which we're not going to pay teachers very much. They're not going to stay very long. We're going to credential them really fast . . . We're going burn them up. They're going to leave in three, four, five years. And that's the model they want. So who is the biggest impediment to that occurring? Teachers' unions. And that is what explains this massive propaganda effort to say that teacher's unions are an impediment to reform. And in fact, they are an impediment to the deprofessionalization of teaching . . . It's a disaster for public education.

This, in fact, is the whole idea that underpins such corporatist initiatives like Teach for America, a program that recruits young college graduates, and in exchange for a mere two-year commitment, with the promise that it will be a stepping-stone to a more lucrative career in some other profession, gives them five weeks of summer training, then for rock-bottom prices, sends them into schools with just enough knowledge to coach kids up to do well on standardized test. 

It's a model that treats teaching, this profession that most consider vital to both our democracy and economy, as a kind low level turn-key operation, something like a stint in the Peace Corp with burger-flipper pay and no room for advancement. In fact, these Teach for America grads aren't even encouraged to consider teaching as a longterm profession -- it's about putting in the time, then moving on to greener pastures, like a kind of educational mercenary.

Or worse is this advent of scripted lessons, where teachers aren't even trusted to to use their own words and to squelch their personalities in the name of standardization. Most heinous is the nausea inducing program known as "No Nonsense Nurturing" in which teachers are trained to minimize emotions and to expect 100 percent compliance from students, all while mouthing a script designed to "human proof" the educational experience. The scripting is so extreme that teachers are "trained" by wearing a earpiece through which they are coached word-by-word, moment-by-momet on exactly what to say and when to say it. That's just plain demoralizing cruelty being inflicted upon both teachers and children.

That's certainly not the kind of teacher I strive to be, nor the kind of teacher I wish for my child or the children who pass through Woodland Park.

And that's not the only way corporate education reformers are attempting to dismantle the teaching profession. Union busting (both overt and through the advocacy of low paying non-union charters) is another of their attack fronts, as is the bizarre idea to pit teachers against one another for promotions and raises by using their student's standardized test results as a kind of scoreboard that determines who gets to keep their jobs and who gets fired. Quality teaching has always been about collaboration, sharing ideas, and supporting one another. It's about an ongoing quest, over years and even decades, to improve and perfect our skills. I would not be here today without those three years of apprenticeships in cooperative preschool classrooms. And let me tell you, I'm a much better teacher today than I was a decade ago.

There are many good young teachers, don't get me wrong, but as in any profession, what we learn in school is only a starting point. It's experience that makes for great teachers, those who not only teach the children, but also mentor and support their less experienced colleagues so they don't burn out and leave after only a few years. I would assert that the greatest challenge facing American education is this high teacher turnover.

Teachers are the single most important part of our educational system. The answer can't be to further devalue what we do. The Woodrow Wilson National Fellowship Foundation report's authors recommend going in the opposite direction, calling for a teacher education model that institutionalizes mentoring and apprenticeship, that emphasizes creating a culture of achievement and support (as opposed to competition) within schools, and that heightens the status (and thus the appeal) of the teaching profession by creating opportunities for growth and distinction. I urge you to read the report for yourself.

I got lucky, I think, to land in a place where I, whether by accident or design, received, and continue to receive, the kind of support, training and education I needed to continue to grow and achieve as a teacher, where I feel respected and challenged every day. It's why I've not burned out despite being exhausted at the end of each day. I'm proud that today several of the parents who have come through our school are now working as teachers themselves. I think that means they've felt supported and encouraged as well. We're all in this together. If we are serious about improving education, this is what what we need to do.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

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The Humbling Reward

Last week, I posted here under the title "Stupid Questions." Occasionally, a post will take on a life of it's own and this has turned out to be one of them. As of Wednesday it had cracked the list of top ten most read Teacher Tom posts of all time and is still rising. I don't usually share this sort of information, mainly, I suppose, because after six years of doing this every day I don't pay that much attention to it any longer, but I knew something was happening with this one because I started receiving anonymous mean-spirited comments so I checked the stats.

Sure enough. It happens every time a post picks up any kind of steam. It means I've burst out of our progressive play-based bubble. You don't usually see the comments because I moderate them and it's my blog and I don't chose to argue with anonymous people on the internet. It's one of the reasons I prefer Facebook for online debate, everyone has to identifying themselves, and if you're familiar with my personal page, you'll know that I often get into it there, usually with people I know, and we therefore strive to keep it civil even as we disagree. I call it "doing democracy," and I think Facebook is a wonderful medium for it.

In this case, the post in question hardly seemed controversial. It was just a few paragraphs based upon a bit I've started including in one of the talks I give when invited to conferences and professional development events. My audiences usually chuckle, but apparently there is something in the simple idea that got under some people's skin enough that they needed to anonymously give me the business.

Whatever the case, if any of those commenters are still reading here, which I doubt, and you are feeling dissatisfied with my lack of engagement with you over that or any post, please take your comments to the Teacher Tom Facebook page where we can have a civil discussion about our differences.

Back in 2011, I posted a piece entitled "The Language of Command" in which I challenged all of us to take stock of how we speak with children. As I wrote that one, I knew there would be push back, even from people inside the bubble, and I was right. A few days later, I wrote a follow-up piece entitled "Spoiled Brats" in which I attempted to address the questions and concerns that came up from readers. That post shot to the top of my most read list where it remains today, almost exactly four years later.

Readership is thrilling. I'm flattered when something I've written is not just read, but shared by others. But, I'll never forget how my excitement mixed with fear the first time one of my posts "took off." It was the first "political" post in which I wrote about my experiences at a healthcare for all rally in downtown Seattle. In those early days of blogging I followed my readership statistics so closely that I would sometimes just sit here refreshing the page, counting readers one at a time. Until that day, I'd never had more than a couple dozen readers, but this one raced up over 100 in a single day! It was both awesome and terrifying.

And today, six years and 2000+ posts later when even my least popular posts receive thousands of readers, I still experience a knot of fear as I hit the "publish" button. I guess I'm just worried that today will be the day I piss off the entire internet.

But, you know, I keep doing it, every day, posting my reflections here. I do it for myself, of course, because that's the nature of a blog, but I also do it because I think I've figured a few things out about young children and I want to share it with as many people as I can in the hope that in some small way I can make the lives of all children better. There is an ever-growing group of us who are doing this, hopefully making our bubble bigger and bigger. Most of it is preaching to the choir of course, but (to borrow a brilliant line from the TV show West Wing) "that's how you get them to sing."

I've ruminated on my fears and the "negative" comments in this post, but, of course, most of what comes from blogging here is pure joy. Almost every day I receive notes of thanks from readers -- teachers, parents, students. Those positives far outweigh the negatives.

Last August, I was on a speaking tour in Australia when my hosts asked if I would mind popping down to New Zealand for an unplanned event. A preschool teacher I'd met on a previous trip had expressed a strong interest and had been willing to do all the leg work required to organize an event. I was a little surprised because I remembered him as having been somewhat irritated with me, often interrupting my presentation to challenge me. My schedule was already quite full, but we shoehorned this one into my itinerary in such a way that I landed in Christchurch at 2 a.m. where my new friend met me at the gate. As we walked to his car, he said, "I have to confess that have an ulterior motive for wanting to see you in person. I heard you talk last year and have been reading your blog ever since. I wanted to tell you in person that you have completely transformed my relationship with my daughters and the children I teach. Everything is so much better now."

That moment stands at the top of my list of professional highlights, a list far more important than any list of readership statistics.

I don't expect to ever stop blogging just as I don't expect to ever stop teaching at Woodland Park. This is early childhood education. It's not always pretty and it is always highly emotional. I can stand the slings and arrows because of the humbling reward of knowing I've made a difference. 

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Deconstructing

Awhile back, I made what I thought was a fairly unremarkable reference to a Common Core "teaching" technique called "close reading." I had watched at least a dozen videos that purport to demonstrate this method, all of which involve slowing the class down to study a piece of literature word-by-word, idea-by-idea. Maybe I'm misusing the term, but to me this is what I've always called "deconstructing" literature/art. I enjoy doing this. My friend and colleague Toby, who goes by Floor Pie on the internet, pointed out that I often do this exact thing with the children I teach. She used The Little Red Hen as an example. And it reminded me that we did this sort of thing with prints of great paintings when her daughter was a 4-5 year old in our Pre-K class.

I love deconstructing art, and literature in particular, but, you know, I don't expect everyone to enjoy it, especially if they really didn't like the book I'm hankering to deconstruct.

When we deconstruct things, when we engage in "close reading," it emerges spontaneously from our mutual interests, not because I, or anyone else, has decided that this is something we need to look at more closely, but rather because we all agreed, in the moment, that it was worth pursuing. I acknowledge that because I'm the teacher, because I'm the one moderating the discussion, that I have an undue influence on the proceedings, but I strive to let the discussion go where it wants to flow, starting from where it wants to start, diverging where it wants to divert, and dwindling out where it wants to dwindle out.

I hope every teacher has experienced this: when it's flowing there is nothing better: a child lead, child directed free-form discussion about a single piece of art. If you haven't had the pleasure, then know that this is the goal. 

When I watched the "close reading" videos, what I see are teacher lead, teacher directed forced marches through minutia, with lots of "Good jobs" and "That's rights" to make sure the children know there are right and wrong answers. Of course, these are instructional videos so the children tend to appear rehearsed or, quite often, there are no actual children present at all. The reality of engaging in this sort of activity with 20+ actual children is that it only takes one or two who would rather be doing something else to turn it into a struggle: the sort of struggle that puts the entire class on the path to disliking reading.

So, how do you know when you're doing it wrong? When it's a struggle. When you find yourself managing behavior, rather than discussing ideas. That's when it's time to move on, even if your own agenda has not been met, because, ultimately your agenda is just one of a dozen in play in that moment and it has no special significance to anyone but you. "Close reading" is vital only when you're following the children's lead, investigating their questions, not yours. That's when you begin to approach the ideal of what we call "critical thinking."

What the videos I've watched have failed to address, is that there is no right answer in these kinds of discussions. The point is the discussion and there is no way in hell to devise a test to "prove" the learning that takes place in this process. You simply can't get data out of this because everyone is going to walk away with his own understanding.

I love taking things apart with children, be it a work of fiction, an old appliance, or just breaking a piece of glass, but only if the children themselves are driving the inquiry. This is my secret to success and I share it with the world. And this goes for . . . everything.

Every teacher upon occasion falls in love with her own agenda. We've all been there, with our brilliant idea usurped by a better idea, yet we're so in love that we drive it forward nevertheless, commanding, demanding, coaxing, and scolding. And everyone winds up frustrated.

I can't tell you how many times I brought that stack of art prints to school, hoping for the sort of discussion we had that one time when Floor Pie's daughter was in class. And I've often sat with 2-3 interested children deconstructing those masterpieces while the rest of the class played at their own things, but only once during my tenure at Woodland Park did the entire classroom of children take the reins and, as a collective, drive a meaningful discussion of great art for a solid 45 minutes, nearly the length of a college class session, flowing beyond the time I'd allotted by a good half hour. We read The Little Red Hen every year in every class, and I'm always prepared for the discussion we had that time when the 24 of us agreed that the hen was a jerk, but it's never happened again, even when I attempt to prod things along. 

You can't waste a whole damn day

Loving what you need to caste away. ~Jim White

Sometimes, the hardest thing in the world is the put aside that stack of prints or to close The Little Red Hen without the discussions I know are possible, but I do it far more often than not, in favor of the better ideas of the children themselves. This, I suppose, is what bothers me the most about what passes for curriculum in our public schools: it's all about the teacher's agenda, and in the case of things like Common Core, it's about the for-profit test writer's agenda, or a future employer's agenda, or the agenda of some political ideologue. Where do the children fit into this?

A genuine democratic education is not imposed from above, even when it's a good idea like "close reading," but rather it emerges from within. A teacher's job is not to command, demand, coax, or scold: it is to jump in the flow and to be prepared for wherever that might take you, but that can't happen when you're still clinging to the things you need to caste away.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

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The Problem With Literacy In America

 

Poverty is not an accident. Like slavery and apartheid it is man-made and can be removed by the actions of human beings.  ~Nelson Mandela

Yesterday, I was reading about a Stanford University study about brain waves and how different teaching methods affect reading development. They looked at brain waves as teachers worked to teach their students to read and their findings were actually the opposite of what I would have expected.

Of course, I've never tried to teach children how to read, and I never will, but there are a lot of preschool and kindergarten teachers out there who are expected to, despite the overwhelming evidence that early reading instruction actually damages a child's reading future. What I do, what is appropriate for children under seven, is read to them, write down the stories they tell me, play stories with them, tell stories as they happen, encourage dramatic play, write the rules we make together and post them on the wall where we can all reverently "read" them, and make sure there are always books among our loose parts.

This Stanford study talks about things like phonics and whole words and the rest of the stuff direct instruction focused teachers do with the children in their charge. So let me be clear, this wasn't a study about how children best learn to read, but rather on how teachers can best "teach" children to read. This is the kind of research that I equate to studying the orca whales at Seaworld and claiming to understand orca whales, but that's not the point of this post.

As I reflected on what I'd read, I thought about how high stakes standardized testing is increasingly narrowing our public school curricula to the point that they we focus almost exclusively on math and literacy. Then I asked myself: what problem are we trying to solve, especially when it comes to literacy? So I looked it up. I checked several sources. There are lots of different ways to measure literacy, but most agree that our average literacy rate, as compared to other nations, has declined over the past couple decades, a timeframe that matches exactly with the advent of No Child Left Behind and other federal interventions into our public schools. Perhaps these efforts aren't hurting our literacy rates, but they are failing to reverse the trend.

I'm not saying we shouldn't do anything; I'm just saying that we appear to be doing it wrong.

Meanwhile, tracking quite closely to the illiteracy rate, one in five American children now live in poverty. I'd like to suggest that instead turning our educational system upside down and spending billions on unproven efforts that may actually be eroding our children's ability and desire to read, maybe we should spend our billions on doing something about the 22 percent of our children (and fully 50 percent of public school students) who go to bed hungry each night. We know that poverty is directly linked to lack of success in school. There is nothing we could do that would have a greater impact on education in America.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

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The True Meaning Of Love

We need to help people discover the true meaning of Love. Love is generally confused with dependence. Those who have grown in true love know that we can love only in proportion to our capacity for independence.  ~Mister Rogers

I've been married for 28 years, all to the same woman, and I'm here to tell you it only feels like 27 years.

Jokes out of the way, I have continued to grow in my love for Jennifer throughout the three decades I've known her. I've loved her through my best and worst, and I've loved her through her best and worst. That love has changed as it's grown as all things do, but I've not once thought I might be better off -- more free, more independent, more manly -- without her. 

Admittedly, we've gone entire years when we really didn't like each other very much. I've not been happy, for instance, with directions she has chosen both personally and professionally, and I've even been mad at her, but who am I to tell her how to live her life? I might not like it, but since my connection to her is love, I support her and, thankfully, she has always done the same for me.

The love I feel for my daughter Josephine continues to grow in the same way, deepening and widening throughout the 18 years we've had together, and I regularly ask myself, who am I to tell her how to live her life? 

I mean, if you love something very much, you've got to go easy with it -- give it some room to move around. If you try to hold it tight like that, it'll always try to get away.  ~Harry Kronman

It was through my love for my parents that I learned to love my wife and daughter, and in turn through them that I've learned how to love the children I teach. I think sometimes about these people who want to boss and finagle and control what and how and when children do things. That isn't love, or at least not what I've come to understand as love. That is the idea of dependence or control. It's fundamental to all humans, every animal, to want nothing more than to be independent, out from under the control of others, to run free, to explore, to ask and answer their own questions. Hold them tight like that, and they'll always try to get away. Instead we must learn to go easy with our love and give those we love the room to move around, give them the gift of knowing that they can come and go forever: flying away and coming back then flying away again. Otherwise they just fly away the first chance they get and never return.

This is what we're doing in our schools today, taking the love out and replaced it with dependence, with grown-ups hubristically telling children how and what and when to learn. This damages children and they know it, they don't want to be harmed: that's why they want to be free.

If you want something very, very badly, let it go free. If it comes back to you, it's yours forever. If it doesn't, it was never yours to begin with. ~Jess Lair (quoting an unnamed student)

There is no greater joy than seeing those who we love act as free humans in the world. That is the meaning of love, I think, to let them go free, because freedom and love are the same thing. 

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

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Chasing A Bike Thief

On Saturday I did something stupid, but now that it's over, upon reflection, I'm feeling proud of myself.

I often joke that after my family and job, my bike is the most important thing in my life. I bought it about three years ago with a generous holiday bonus from the families at our school. It was an inexpensive fixed gear bike, orange and gun metal gray, which I've been slowly upgrading one part at a time ever since. I normally take long rides on the weekends, but it's been so incredibly hot this summer that I decided to just ride down to King Street Station in Pioneer Square for a special "Out of Sight" weekend exhibit of local contemporary artists, some of whose work illustrate this post. While there, I ran into my friend and brilliant fiber artist Cameron Mason who invited me to a wine and cheese open house later in the day at the Foster White Gallery, where she had a couple of new pieces for sale.

It was really a perfect Seattle afternoon of light cycling and art.

I'd locked my bike to a rack just outside the gallery doors. As I started to leave, I saw a guy just starting to ride off on my bike. I shouted, "Hey!" and started to run. As I burst out onto the sidewalk, I shouted again, "Hey!" I emerged to find my bike lying on the sidewalk and a man running off up the hill.

A bystander said to me, "I wondered why he was cutting the lock." (Most of the quotes in this post are reconstructed from an imperfect memory, but this is a direct quote.)

I said, "He fell down didn't he?"

"Yes."

My bike is a fixed gear style bike, single speed with clip-in pedals. Everybody falls down the first time they try to ride my bike. When I first got it, I let a couple of friends try it out, and they both fell, which is why I don't let other people ride it anymore. Now that a third person has fallen, I can even more confidently say that everybody falls.

As I watched the failed bike thief run up the steep hill in the heat, I took note of his clothing and general appearance. I spotted his cable cutters on the ground where he had dropped them and picked them up. I then noticed that in his efforts to cut the lock, he had also managed to cut my rear wheel brake cable. I grumbled, "He cut my brake cables" to the small crowd that my shouts had drawn around me.

This "carpet" is made entirely from baking flour.

That's when I did the stupid thing -- I started following the failed bike thief.

I had no plan. I had no rationale. I only knew that after running up that hill in the heat he would be exhausted and therefore easy to catch up to. I also knew that he was headed for City Hall Park at the top of the hill, a place known locally for being the year-round loitering place for Seattle's sketchiest street people. I figured he would try to blend in there.

Walking my bike and carrying his cutting tool, I achieved the top of the hill, where I spied him right away on the far side of the park walking quickly with his head down. I tracked him from across the park, paralleling his course. Then suddenly, he turned, backtracking the way he'd come. I had him.

I angled across the lawn. When I got within a dozen feet, I shouted, "Hey!" then I used a swear word, which I regret. I had expected him to run, but instead he stopped and faced me, droop-shouldered. I shouted, "You tried to steal my bike!"

He started to tell me a stammering story about how some guy had put a gun to his head. Really. I interrupted him, saying, "I don't believe you. You tried to steal my bike. Here's your tool," and I held it up for him to see.

That's when I noticed his forehead was bleeding and there was another fresh abrasion on his left cheek. I said, "You fell, didn't you? You couldn't ride my bike." He was about my size and I judged him to be 15-20 years my junior. This was a very stupid thing I was doing, but it didn't feel stupid as I was doing it. He looked sad. I thought maybe he was going to start crying. I felt a bit like a mad dad scolding a kid, and he seemed to take it that way. He asked, "Are you going to call the cops?"

Without hesitating, I answered angrily, "No, I'm going to give you your tool back." I held it out to him, but he wouldn't take it, so I dropped it on the ground. It looked brand new. Comically, a guy in a yellow vest on litter patrol came over, picked it up with his long grabber tool, and dropped it in the trash, almost as if he didn't notice the conflict taking place right in front of him. I said, "Now you don't even have your tool."

I showed him my bike. I said, "And you cut my brake cable. Now I have to walk my bike all the way home. I'm mad at you." With that I started walking away, calling back over my shoulder, inexplicably, "You tried to steal my bike. Come on, man, get with the times!" Yes, that's what I said.

As I passed a group of about a dozen guys sitting on the benches, I saw they were nodding. A couple were smiling. A woman called out to me, "You wanna come to my house?" I laughed, "No thank you, but that's a nice offer!" It was probably just a run-of-the-mill solicitation, but I choose to think I'd impressed her. It was a lighthearted end to a strange incident.

As I rode home (he had only cut one of the two brake cables), I felt a sense of power and pride, even while my heart fluttered at my stupidity. I mean, had I left it alone, I would have had my bike and a nice new pair of cable cutters in exchange for a brake cable and bike lock. I had taken a stupid risk, but had been rewarded with this powerful feeling that came from standing up for myself. And I'm proud that, except for that swear word (and perhaps a couple more that I've edited out), I had told him how he made me feel. I had even tried to return his belonging even as he had tried to take mine.

It doesn't take a cynic to doubt that mine is the last bike he'll try to steal, and I recognize that being a middle aged white male gives me a lot of advantages, but this experience was quite life affirming. I mean, I practiced what I preach and it worked! This is what we try to teach the children to do when they have a conflict with another person: tell them what they did and how it made you feel. Most of the time, that's enough. In my case, there was really no restitution possible, so listening to me, I guess, was his "natural consequence." It worked because I walked away feeling lightheartedly good about myself, when I could have felt weak and victimized.

I'll work on the swear words for next time, but otherwise, I'm quite happy with the result.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

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