Where It All Begins

Completed in 1985, the Columbia Center stands as the tallest building in the Seattle. When people think of our city's skyline, the Space Needle typically leaps to mind, but this building dwarfs it. Indeed, at 76 floors it has more stories than any other building west of the Mississippi River. It was completed shortly after I first moved to Seattle and it's sheer size contributed to the passage of what was called the "Citizens Alternative Plan" in 1989, placing a cap on building heights, one that can only be over-ridden by including public accommodations, artwork, childcare, and other amenities, which is part of the reason why the tower has not been surpassed in the intervening two decades.

The reason I'm telling you about this is that last week our 4-5's class caught the bus downtown to take in the views from the public viewing level on the 74th floor. The last time I was up there was 1985 when the Columbia Center was twice as tall as anything else, and while the rest of the city has grown up around it, the view from the top of the black tower (which often reminds me of the sort of place a terrestrial Darth Vader might reside) is unimpeded in all directions.

As we approached the building, we craned our necks to take it in, enthusing over the adventure ahead. We were met in the lobby by the father of one of our classmates who works in the building and escorted up a pair of escalators before breaking up into two groups for elevator rides halfway up the building. We then transferred to a second set of elevators that took us the rest of the way to the top. Our ears popped as we moved into the atmosphere, a feeling that some of the kids recalled from their experience with air travel. 

If you look carefully, you might be able to make out the Space Needle in the distance.

Most of the kids pressed themselves against the windows. It was fun to stand with them as they slowly began to recognize familiar sights from this height.

"I see the ferry boat!"

"There's the Space Needle! It's so small!"

"Is that really the ferris wheel?"

"The cars look like toys!"

I stood with a pair of kids looking down on the Duwamish Waterway where we saw the giant Port of Seattle cranes lifting containers from the vessels and stacking them on the docks. Behind the stacks we spied a queue of trucks awaiting their loads. We found Lake Union and the bridges that are near our school. The observation deck provided a fascinating view of many construction sites, including several buildings that are just being topped-off.

Several of the kids, as they tired of the view, turned to the maps, models and other displays that decorate what is essentially a functional space. Maps and models can sometimes confuse young children, but here, in context, they seemed to make sense as kids traced the roads with their fingers and drew connections between the real world they saw from nearly 1000 feet in the air and the abstractions humans have developed to make sense of them.

There was a time when the Smith Tower (lower left corner of this photo) was the tallest building west of the Mississippi.

As spectacular and interesting as that view was, however, it could only hold our interest for so long because there was something far more spectacular and interesting commanding our attention. By the end of our hour there, few of the children were standing before the windows. Instead, they had turned their attentions back toward one another, using sentences that began with the creative invitation of "Let's . . ."

"Let's play super heroes!"

"Let's pretend this sofa is our house."

"Let's play hide-and-seek."

It was time for us to go.

I'm prone to feeling inspired by feats of engineering like the Columbia Center. Humans are amazing. We are capable of so much and yet, when it comes right down to it, there is nothing more spectacular than what the children were doing: turning toward one another in inspiration and saying, "Let's . . ." That's where it all begins.

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Unless He Understands This

The small, landlocked South Asian Kingdom of Bhutan uses an index called "Gross National Happiness" to guide all of it's economic and development plans. They take it very seriously and the success or failure of every governmental policy is measured according to this index. One must even submit a GNH impact statement for review before undertaking any new endeavor, public or private, that may impact on the general well-being of the nation.

I just mention that by way of pointing out that there are ways other than money, perhaps even better ways, to assess the real value of an economic activity, just as there are ways other than test scores and grades, perhaps better ways, to assess the real value of education.

For instance, I've never come across a standardized test that measures the ability and willingness to take turns, but everyone knows that it's one of a happy life's most essential skills.

And you're sure not going to get very far if you don't work well with others, but you don't see that on any of the corporate academic assessment matrixes.

Or how about curiosity? I'll take curiosity over knowing the capital of Bhutan any day. (It's Thimphu. I was curious and looked it up.)

And anyone who has studied what it takes to get what you want out of life knows that boldness . . .

. . . and the willingness to take risks . . .

. . . and the ability to fall down . . .

. . . and get back up is far more important than the ability to diagram a sentence or deduce that the answer is "none of the above." What meager things we've come to expect from our schools.

A well-educated person is skeptical and often full of doubt.

She looks at things closely and doesn't necessarily take my word for it.

An educated person tries new things . . .

. . . and plays dramatically with his friends, practicing the complex interpersonal skills that will ultimately get him through life.

When I'm assessing students, I want them to be able to stand on their own two feet.

And to invent new things (at least things that are new to them) . . .

. . . and to feel proud of their accomplishments.

I'm looking for kids who help others . . .

. . . and can work well on their own . . .

. . . concentrating . . .

. . . and persevering . . .

. . . and just being silly.

I want to see that they are full of awe and wonder.

And ultimately, like the King of Bhutan, I'm always looking out for our Gross National Happiness.

Because in this world if we are to be truly happy, we are to be happy together. No one can call himself educated unless he understands this. And therein lies the most important academic skill of all -- the capacity for unmitigated . . .

. . . unbridled joy.

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Falling Happily Into One Another's Orbits

It's a game that regularly pops up, year-in-year out. All you need is a rope or a strip of fabric or anything long and flexible. We once played it with a cord we'd cut off a decrepit vacuum cleaner. In the case of the kids in these pictures, it's a piece of decorative mesh that's been getting underfoot since before the December holidays.

The game requires at least two people. Sometimes that's the right number but often it includes a half dozen or more. Everyone grabs ahold and doesn't let go no matter what. Beyond that, the "rules" of what comes next vary from game to game in an ad hoc manner. It usually starts out with the classic tug-o-war with everyone pulling against one another, every man for himself, but invariably the game turns cooperative and that's when the real fun begins.

A classic move is to run, which is not so easy to do when everyone is connected like that. Sometimes people fall when it gets going too fast. Adjusts are made as the kids and their collective intuition find a speed that works for everyone. It's a wordless process, although not silent, what with all the shrieks and laughter. 

There are sometimes conflicts and objections, but those most often arise from the innocent bystanders who find themselves involuntarily roped into the rowdy game. These become another kind of obstacle  to navigate.

The game usually reflects some version of follow-the-leader with one playmate taking the others on a wild ride about the place, getting tangled around tree trunks, swing sets, and other obstacles, then getting untangled, then getting tangled again. The "leader" of the moment is typically determined by whoever lurches off in a new direction first. When there are just two of them, it turns into an impromptu turn-taking process whereby first one then the other takes the lead, but as the game grows larger the process by which the group chooses which impulsive lurch to follow appears as a kind of miracle, much in the way birds or bees amaze us as they flock or swarm.

The opportunity to vie or compete is there, and while that may be where it often starts, the endgame is always cooperative as these individual suns around whom the earth revolves fall happily into one another's orbits.

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My Work Here Was Done

I happened to look into the play house as one boy hit the other in the shoulder with a shovel. It wasn't a hard hit. In fact, knowing the boy who did it, I'm pretty sure he meant it as an act of friendship, a kind of rowdy invitation to play. I was some distance off and began to walk that way.

As I approached, I saw the second boy's face tighten in anger. He retaliated with a fist, again not hard, but more by way of sending a message of displeasure. By now I was close to the play house and when he looked up, he caught my eye. Without acknowledging me, he dropped his hands and replaced them with words, "I don't like you to hit me with a shovel!" He pointedly did not look at me again, but I knew he was aware of my presence.

One of my earliest mentors, parent educator Jean Ward once said, "Young children often have a hard time with self control. Usually it's enough to just move closer as a reminder that they can do it." And she meant exactly that, not speaking or scolding, but rather just being physically near children in conflict. Our physical nearness, especially if we have a history of working together on resolving conflicts, is often all they need from us. We stand as a reminder that they already know a better way. Jean spoke of it as "supporting with our presence," kind of like a stake for a growing plant.

The boy with the shovel responded, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me," his sullen friend replied, "But I don't like to be hit."

"Okay."

If either of them then turned to look at me, I'll never know because I was already walking away. My work here was done.

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 Sort Of Thing Caring Adults Too Often Do

It was born as a whicker picnic basket complete with plates, cups and cutlery, but was converted a decade ago into the container in which we store a collection of dolls along with their wardrobe. They aren't particularly popular dolls as playthings go, but I continue to trot them out a couple times a year because there is occasionally a kid or two who will drop everything else they're doing to engage in the challenge of dressing and undressing those dolls.

The basket is held closed by a pair of leather straps secured by metal clasps that operate in a manner that most preschoolers haven't before encountered. I had put the basket on a table with the straps fastened, which I intended as a sort of invitation, figuring that few kids would be able to walk past without wanting to solve the mystery of what was inside. And sure enough, as the kids began to arrive, my invitation was accepted as a cluster gathered around the table, asking, "What's in here?" their fingers prying at the edges of the lid, struggling to get it to open.

I was standing a distance away, watching, even a little excited to see how the children would solve the challenge of those clasps. That's when an adult stepped in and opened the clasps for them. The kids said, "Dolls," then stood looking at them for a moment before moving on to something else. It's the sort of thing caring adults too often do: the kids were working together to solve a kind of puzzle, but they were robbed of an opportunity for independence, collaboration, and perhaps even epiphany by a well-intended adult. I was determined that the same thing wouldn't happen with the afternoon class.

This time, I gave specific instructions to the appropriate adult to not help. She asked, "What if they ask me for help?" I answered, "Play dumb."

Sure enough, a group of kids gathered around the basket as they had in the morning, asking the classroom at large, "What's inside?" The first attempts to open the box involved force, but soon they discovered the clasps. They tried pushing the mechanism; they tried sliding it. One boy thought that maybe the leather straps needed to be cut, but others were sure that the solution involved those clasps. After several minutes of hive minded teamwork, they managed it. As they opened the lid to reveal the dolls, they squealed, "Dolls!" "Cool!" "This one has a baseball hat!" Never before had this particular collection of dolls received so much enthusiastic attention.

It's quite possible that the kids would have responded this way even if one of us adults had "helped" them with the clasps, but I tend to believe that the dolls' newfound popularity, something that has endured into mid-week, had a lot to do with the kids' common struggle with those clasps: it's the struggle, especially the common struggle, that makes the reward so sweet.

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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Music That Can Save Us All

Yesterday, I spent most of my afternoon as the "teacher" of four and five year olds, chatting with their parents about matters of school management and puttering about with various organizational and maintenance chores. I was always near at hand, but if my presence was necessary it was mostly as a sort of talisman or in my capacity as keeper of the keys.

As adults who work with young children, we spend a lot of time and energy discussing their conflicts and challenging behaviors. Indeed, if you were to attempt to learn about the young second hand through the literature we create about them, one could not be faulted for concluding that kids are a rather selfish, combative lot. The truth, however, is that for most of the kids I've taught, most of the time, our days together are characterized by a beautiful, natural cooperation.

It's mind blowing really, when you stop for a moment to reflect on it, these newly minted human beings turning toward one another, eagerly, curiously, driven by an urge to figure out how to get along, bickering of course, but ultimately striving together toward, if not common goals, at least compatible ones. When it boils over into genuine conflict or when one child is chronically at odds with his classmates, the adults step in, but it's this instinct toward cooperation that rules the day.

I have a habit of romanticizing this, of pontificating that we adults have a lot to learn from the kids, and we do, but the truth is that when I step back to reflect on society as a whole, I'm inclined to also be inspired by how much of our day-to-day lives is governed by cooperation. When I'm cruising on the freeway, for instance, my issues with this or that driver aside, I'm often amazed at how we can do this thing of sharing the road at breakneck speeds. Indeed, if we weren't driven to cooperate, very little of what we call "life" could exist.

From a recent piece in the New Yorker called "Why Facts Don't Change Our Minds" by Elizabeth Kolbert, while discussing the work of cognitive scientists Hugo Mercier and Dan Sperber:

. . . Mercer and Sperber's argument runs, more or less, as follows: Humans' biggest advantage over other species is our ability to cooperate. Cooperation is difficult to establish and almost as difficult to sustain. For any individual, freeloading is always the best course of action. Reason developed not to enable us to solve abstract, logical problems or even to help us draw conclusions from unfamiliar data; rather it developed to resolve the problems posed by living in collaborative groups . . . "Reason is an adaptation to the hyper social niche humans have evolved for themselves."

It's a fascinating article focused on addressing the question of why, it seems, that humans are so often inclined to not be able to "listen to reason," even when presented with seemingly incontrovertible evidence. The main gist being that reason did not evolve as a tool of competition, but rather as one of cooperation.

. . . (T)he task that reason evolved to perform . . . is to prevent us from getting screwed by the other members of our group. Living in small bands of hunter-gatherers, our ancestors were primarily concerned with their social standing, and with making sure they weren't the ones risking their lives on the hunt while others loafed around the cave. There was little advantage in reasoning clearly, while much was to be gained from winning arguments.

From the perspective of human evolution, we evolved our ability to reason not to get at truth, but rather as a way to negotiate with the other people, an essentially cooperative act, a way to guarantee our communal survival, because we wouldn't have survived for long if everyone had pursued the most reasonable course, which is to spend our days loafing around the cave. (And I think we can all clearly see how this seems to shows up as a maladaptation when it comes to our current political situation, where we're all trying to misuse "reason" to win arguments about "the truth.")

The article dwells on these political implications and I urge everyone to give it a look, but for this teacher who spends his day among children, I find the implications of this sort of insight life-affirming. When I hear adults arguing, I so often find myself wanting to cover my ears, but when the children are doing it, instinctively using "reason" as it was evolved to be used, as a tool for thriving in the hyper social niche we've carved out for ourselves, for cooperation, I hear the music that can save us all.

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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