The Work Of Creating A Community

We didn't have a huge set of big wooden blocks, which was okay because we didn't really have enough space for more and besides, if the kids are going to play with them, they generally needed to find a way to play with them together, which is what our school was all about.

The kids in our 4-5's class had been playing a lot of "super heroes." It was mostly boys, but they hadn't been particularly exclusionary, with several of the girls regularly joining them, often making up their own hero names like "Super Cat" due to the lack of female characters of the type in our popular culture. This in turn inspired some of the boys to make up their own hero names like "Super Dog" and "Falcon," along with their own super powers. And although there had been a few instances of someone declaring, "We already have enough super heroes," in an attempt to close the door behind them, most of the time, the prerequisite for joining the play was to simply declare yourself a super hero, pick a super hero name, and then hang around with them boasting about your great might, creating hideouts, and bickering over nuance.

At one point, however, a break-away group began playing, alternatively, Paw Patrol and Pokemon, which looked to me like essentially the same game with new characters. One day, some boys playing Paw Patrol used all of the big wooden blocks to create their "house," complete with beds and blankets. A girl who was often right in the middle of the super hero play wanted to join them, but when they asked, "Who are you?" she objected to being a Paw Patrol character at all. Indeed, she wanted to play with them and with the blocks they were using, but the rub was that she didn't want to play their game.

After some back and forth during which the Paw Patrol kids tried to find a way for her to be included, they offered her a few of their blocks to play with on her own, then went back to the game.

She arranged her blocks, then sat on them, glaring at the boys. They ignored her. I was sitting nearby watching as her face slowly dissolved from one of anger to tears. An adult tried to console her, but was more or less told to back off. I waited a few minutes, then sat on the floor beside her, saying, "You're crying."

She answered, "I need more blocks." I nodded. She added, "They have all the blocks."

I replied, "They are using most of the blocks and you have a few of the blocks."

"They won't give me any more blocks."

I asked, "Have you asked them for more blocks?"

Wiping at her tears she shook her head, "No."

"They probably don't know you want more blocks."

She called out, "Can I have some more blocks?"

The boys stopped playing briefly, one of them saying, "We're using them!" then another added, "You can have them when we're done," which was our classroom mantra around "sharing."

She went back to crying, looking at me as if to say, See?

I said, "They said you can use them when they're done . . . Earlier I heard them say you could play Paw Patrol with them."

"I don't want to play Paw Patrol. I just want to build."

I sat with her as the boys leapt and laughed and lurched. I pointed out that there was a small building set that wasn't being used in another part of the room, but she rejected that, saying, "I want to build with these blocks."

I nodded, saying, "I guess we'll just have to wait until they're done." That made her cry some more.

This is hard stuff we working on in preschool. And, for the most part, that's pretty much all we do: figure out how to get along with the other people. Most days aren't so hard, but there are moments in every day when things don't go the way we want or expect them to and then, on top of getting along with the other people, there are our own emotions with which we must deal. Academic types call it something like "social-emotional functioning," but I think of it as the work of creating a community.

It's a tragedy that policymakers are pushing more and more "academics" into the early years because it's getting in the way of this very real, very important work the children need to do if they are going to lead satisfying, successful lives. In our ignorant fearfulness about Johnny "falling behind" we are increasingly neglecting what the research tells us about early learning. From a CNN.com story about a study conducted by researchers from Penn State and Duke Universities:

Teachers evaluated the kids based on factors such as whether they listened to others, shared materials, resolved problems with their peers and were helpful. Each student was then given an overall score to rate their positive skills and behavior, with zero representing the lowest level and four for students who demonstrated the highest level of social skill and behavior . . . Researchers then analyzed what happened to the children in young adulthood, taking a look at whether they completed high school and college and held a full-time job, and whether they had any criminal justice, substance abuse or mental problems . . . For every one-point increase in a child's social competency score in kindergarten, they were twice as likely to obtain a college degree and 46% more likely to have a full-time job by age 25 . . . For every one-point decrease in a child's social skill score in kindergarten, he or she had a 67% higher chance of having been arrested in early adulthood, a 52% higher rate of binge drinking and an 82% higher chance of being in or on a waiting list for public housing.

Here is a link to the actual study. And this is far from the only research that has produced these and similar results, just the most recent one.

If our goal is well-adjusted, "successful" citizens, we know what we need to do. In the early years, it isn't about reading or math. It's not about learning to sit in desks or filling out work sheets or queuing up for this or that. If we are really committed to our children, we will recognize that their futures are not dependent upon any of that stuff, but rather this really hard, messy, emotional work we do every day as we play with our fellow citizens.

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With My Bucket Full

"Teacher Tom, look how many jewels I have."

I peered into her bucket, responding, "That's a lot of jewels." The word "jewels" referred to the colorful florist marbles that she had collected from the playground.

Her friend in turn held her bucket out to me. "Look at my jewels, Teacher Tom."

I replied, "You have jewels too."

The girls were playing a semi-competitive game, hunting as a team until a jewel was spotted. Then it became a mad dash as the girls ran, dove, elbowed, and pushed in order to secure the sparkling bit of glass treasure for their own hoard. They had been playing the game all afternoon, side-by-side. Occasionally, one would complain, "Hey, you're getting all of them," or mope, "I'm not getting any," but their words were directed to one another, not adults, which meant it was none of my business.

As they stood beside me with their buckets, one of the girls boasted, "I have more than you."

"You do not!" her friend answered hotly before continuing in a more downcast voice, "I want more."

She replied dismissively, "Well, I guess you're going to have to find more."

Her friend didn't answer, remaining glumly silent with her head down in an exaggerated show of emotion. Her friend studied her for a moment, then chirped, "I know! I could give you some of mine!" She grabbed a fistful from her bucket and dropped them into her friend's bucket, instantly cheering them both up.

"Hey, Teacher Tom, do you want to play with us?" Before I could respond she ran off, returning with an empty bucket for me.

I looked into my empty bucket and said matter-of-factly, "My bucket is empty."

They looked into my bucket. They looked into their own buckets, which now contained roughly the same number of jewels. "I know! I could give you one of mine!"

"And I can give you one of mine!"

They took turns then, adding to my bucket one jewel at a time, until I said, "Now I have enough jewels. Thank you." With that, they ran off to play their game of hunting, running, and elbowing, leaving me with my bucket full.

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"You Can't Play With Us"

We were playing with cardboard boxes and cardboard blocks. A group of three-year-olds began to play a game that involved standing in a rough circle around a box while drumming on it together with long blocks. Before long they began to chant which allowed them to find a mutual rhythm. Periodically, they would then all fall down on the ground in a kind of pig pile. After a lull they began their drumming again, repeating the cycle over and over, joyfully.

It was a noisy, full body game that attracted others, both as participants and observers. Before long, we ran out of long blocks. Some children allowed this to be their barrier to entry into the game, so they either moved on or griped while watching the game as an outsider. A few, however, simply picked up shorter blocks and attempted to join in. Unfortunately, the nature of shorter blocks meant that they had to stand closer to the box that was the target of their drumming, placing them in position to be hit and jostled by the longer blocks. Each time this happened, and it began to happen a lot, the child with the shorter block complained, "Hey, you hit me!" which meant the game had to momentarily stop.

Before long, this previously fun game was paused as often as it was in motion, which caused the game to lose much of it's savor for the kids who had originally begun playing it. Not only that, but those complaining about not having long blocks began to become louder and more insistent. First one, then another of the long blocks were dropped to the ground as the game was given up. These blocks were fallen on by other children who bickered and tussled over them. The game resumed with an altered cast of participants. There was no chanting. They were not smiling. The joy had been sucked out of it.

Meanwhile, three of the kids who had originated the game, moved off together to an empty space, picked up short blocks and began to play their game together, just the three of them, joyfully, beaming into one another's faces and chanting as they had when the game first spontaneously erupted. They were clearly having more fun than the others,whose game had dwindled into almost nothing. Before long, another child attempted to join this new game, to the annoyance of the three short block drummers.

"You can't play with us," one of them said. "You have the wrong kind of block."

The ground was covered with dozens of short blocks identical to the ones being used in the game, but no matter which one he tried, he was told, "You have the wrong kind of block." They were excluding him based on what appeared to be arbitrary grounds, but having witnessed the entire episode, I knew that their exclusion was based on experience. The previous game had been fun until it had gotten too big and even though the children weren't able to put it into words, they had learned that three was the right number for this game of drumming with cardboard blocks on a cardboard box.

Few things are more icky, emotional, and complicated than when children exclude one another. Had I only stepped in during the second phase of this game, I would have likely interpreted their attempt to exclude as unfair and would probably have intervened in some way on behalf of the child being left out. But as it was, I knew that their reluctance to add another child to their game had a basis in reason and experience, even if their way of expressing it, of drawing the line, appeared arbitrary. This isn't to say that children (and adults) don't sometimes exclude one another arbitrarily, but only to point out that there is more gray area here than not, which is why children must explore it if they are to ever understand it.

I helped them with their words, "This game is a game for three people," and I supported the boy who had been excluded for the rational reason that he was a fourth person to find another game to play.

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Teaching The Children A New Game

Among the first games we play with our babies is some version of give-and-take. We show an object to them and they take it from us wth their little fingers. As they get a little older, they often enjoy a more advanced version of the game in which they hand the item back to us, then take it again, then give, then take, delighting in the pattern, the cooperation, the interaction. Over time, we stop recognizing it as a game, it's just part of how we interact as we play with our kids. If they snatch a block from our hand as we're building them a tower together, we hardly notice it. If they commandeer the book we are reading to them to turn their own pages, we find it cute. If we're rocking a doll in our arms and our child wants to imitate us, no words are spoken as they take that doll as their own.

This is all as it should be at home, but as any parent with older children will attest, it's not a game that goes over well with other kids. As adults we don't attach any particular value to playthings, indeed we tend to think of them as rightfully belonging to the children, but other kids, be they older siblings or preschool classmates, tend to be far from sanguine about having valued things snatched from their grasp. At any given moment at this time in the school year, there is likely to be a child who is upset about it and a child who is equally confused about the fuss. After all, this is how they've learned the world of play works: I want something, I take it.

As a preschool teacher, I do not allow children to snatch things from my hands. Whenever I see a tiny fist reaching for the object I'm holding I tighten my grip and say, "I'm using this." I then follow that up with something like, "If you want it, you can ask me for it," or "You can play with it when I'm done." If the child is very young, I then relinquish it almost instantly. With older children, I might play with it for a few seconds, or even minutes, before saying, "I'm done with it. Now it's your turn." My objective is to simply role model a pattern of interaction that I hope becomes, so to speak, a new "game" for the children to play.

The other day, we were playing with our Fisher-Price toys, a significant collection amassed over the decades as families have donated their old toys to the school. The big plastic tub contains dozens, if not hundreds of those squat figurines representing both people and animals. A group of children were struggling with snatching and emotions were on edge, so I sat beside the tub, picked out a polar bear, saying as I held it up, "I found a polar bear." As I expected, one of the children immediately reached out to make a grab. I pulled it back, "Hey, I'm using this!" She looked stunned. I then said, "If you want it, you can ask me." She said, "Please?" and I handed it to her, saying, "Sure, I'm done with it now."

I then proceeded to remove other animals from the tub, "I have a tiger," "I have a parrot," "I have a bear," and so on. Children gathered around. At first many hands grabbed for the toys and I went through the process again and again. Soon, as you would expect, the children began to catch on, many of them clearly delighted with the game we were playing. Occasionally, I would answer them with, "In a minute, I'm still using it," or "I'll give it to you when I'm finished," an addition that the children accepted with apparent patience. Before long they were playing it with one another, practicing both sides of the equation.

I'm under no illusion that we will be a snatch-free classroom going forward. Old habits die hard, but we have plenty of time -- weeks, months, years -- plenty of time to learn new ones.

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Democracy Amongst The Canada Geese

There was a time when the City of Seattle was trying to rid our waterfront parks of Canada geese, but that effort has clearly fallen by the wayside in recent years. We have nicknamed our neighborhood park at the southern tip of Lake Union "Goose Poop Park" in honor of the non-migratory population that has taken up residence there. Throughout our history, humans are notorious for killing off, driving away, or domesticating other species, but the Canada goose is the exception that proves the rule.

Yesterday, my wife and I were walking the dog when we came upon a large flock of about 40 geese that were moving together toward the water, a course that caused them to cross the sidewalk. Ahead of us, another dog walker passed through the group, dividing it as the geese shied away from the dog. This caused the entire flock to come to a stop. The leaders, a group of a half dozen, remained poised, bodies forward, bills pointed insistently toward the water, seemingly waiting for the others to follow. One even stood with a foot raised, as if about to take the next step. A larger group just behind them, however, seemed to be less certain about which direction to go. Most were pointed toward the water, but without the urgency of the leaders, while others were pointed in other directions. Several looked as if they were concerned about the part of the flock that had remained on the other side of the sidewalk, who were, in turn, facing every which way, some even lying down in the grass.

The leaders stayed frozen for a couple minutes, while the other geese seemed to be making up their collective mind about what to do. Some started grazing. A few more laid down. A couple of smaller, contrarian birds that my wife and I labeled "teenagers" started slowly waddling away from the water. The leaders then, in unison, broke their stillness and took a few steps toward the water. No one followed. They froze again before taking a few more tentative steps, still without persuading those behind them. Indeed, among those standing, more and more of them began to turn away from the water, pointing their bills this way and that as if voting to stay just where they were. Slowly at first, then more decisively, as if giving up on the rest of the flock, the small group of leaders plunged into the water without the rest, but remained right near the shore so as not to lose touch with the flock.

To me, that looked a lot like democracy in action, something that we don't typically ascribe to the "lower" animals, yet here it was as clear as day. Whereas we once interpreted animal societies through the lens of the strong leader "Alpha Male," increasingly, we're coming to see that democracy is more the rule among group-living animals than the exception. Rather than being an "unnatural" invention of humans, it appears that we were born to democracy.

We see it every day on the playground, when adults leave children to play according to their own devices: one child may lead for awhile, even behaving as a kind of dictator, but there is a natural ebb and flow, and over time the others stop following if they find that their voices are silenced and desires thwarted. Most of what children choose to do together follows the patterns of deep democracy with thoughts, ideas, and directions being discussed and debated; where the majority most often rules, but where individuals still retain the option to plunge into the water if they really want to.

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Because They Are Human

I sometimes tell the children I teach the truth about adulthood. I say, “The best thing about being a grown-up is that you can eat ice cream any time you want.”

Their parents usually laugh, although I sometimes get a glare, but the kids always nod earnestly because I’m simply confirming what they already know. Most children, most of the time, want to grow up. They know that childhood is a raw deal, a time of life when you are under the control of others, when you’re forever being told that you’re too young, that you must wait, that you must be this tall. They know that grown ups get to do all the driving, stay up as late as they want, and eat when and what they want. By the time they’re, say, middle schoolers, they’ve figured out that the grass isn’t necessarily greener, but preschoolers are all about looking forward to the time when they’ll be “big.”

Adults, on the other hand, tend to want to keep the children small, but since we know that’s impossible, we at least seek to extend their “innocence” as long as possible. We talk of preserving their childhood, of protecting them from the harsh realities, of letting them “just be kids,” even as those kids are doing everything they can to break free of what they rightly see as an artificial world, both separate and unequal to the real world in which adults get to eat ice cream whenever they want.

When I try to imagine myself as an impartial judge, I find myself more often than not, siding with the children. Their case is strong: childhood is a kind of confinement for most of them, one from which they are daily striving in every way to escape. It’s a beautiful cage we adults have built for them, full of the best of intentions. We try to tell them (and ourselves) that these are the “best years of their lives,” but what a crappy set up that is. They and we know that they are going to grow up. Are we trying to convince them that it’s all downhill from here? Is that a good thing to be telling them even if we believe it to be true? And what of the children, who are struggling against their gilded cages, still experiencing pain, disappointment, sadness, and fear, nevertheless, all while being kept from the adult freedoms they crave? What kind of message is that?

The children I know are eager to grow up and I don’t think we do them any favors when we hold them back. They know in their hearts it isn’t fair and it’s a kind of gaslighting to tell them otherwise. Children also want the freedom to eat all the ice cream they want, not because they are young, but because they are human.

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Should Children Have The Right To Vote?

Without an educated population, the grand experiment of democracy cannot flourish. This is why we educate our children, not so that they can one day join the workforce as a cog in the economy, but so that they can acquire the knowledge, skills, and habits required for self-governance. We need citizens who are critical thinkers, who ask a lot of questions, who question authority, who stand up for their beliefs, and who understand that they contribute to society in ways far beyond their ability to earn a greasy buck. These are not necessarily the traits of a good employee, but they are those of a good citizen.

We spend so much time and treasure preparing our children for citizenship, but what we too often neglect to recognize is that our children, even our newborn babies, are already citizens. Children are citizens who make up approximately a third of the US population. One in five of them lives in poverty. Their schools are underfunded. Infrastructure like playgrounds, swimming pools, and parks are typically the first on the chopping block. Children are exploited, abused, and trafficked at rates far above those of any other demographic group. Their freedoms are greatly restricted compared to the rest of the population, both by law and by common practice. In most places adults can even physically assault them ("spank") with impunity.

And, not coincidentally, children are also the only category of people who are denied the fundamental right of citizenship: the right to vote.

It might at first sound like a ridiculous idea, granting voting rights to children. After all, they aren't mentally fully developed, so how can we expect them to think rationally enough to vote? Of course, this is, in a nutshell, the same argument that was historically used for denying women and people of color the right to vote: it was a "ridiculous idea" because they simply didn't have the brains or temperament to participate in public life. And as for thinking "rationally," we don't deny adult citizens their right to vote if, say, they become senile, develop mental illness, or are otherwise mentally disabled. Indeed, I might even argue that anyone who doesn't vote the way I do is voting irrationally, but that doesn't mean they should be disenfranchised.

Voting is about representation, not rationality. Children are citizens who, like women and racial minorities, don't necessarily see the world the way the majority does, and if their perspective isn't included, democracy isn't going to work. History shows us that those whose voices are not included are invariably the ones who are also poorest and most likely to be exploited, which is exactly where we find ourselves today.

If children had the vote, elected leaders would have to begin to take the concerns of children seriously. Imagine that.

I understand that for many, this idea of children's suffrage is a non-starter. Even if you agree that children must be better represented, the idea of giving them the vote is simply too far out there to be seriously considered. I felt the same way until I read that the great John Holt, a man whose work I admire greatly and who continues to inspire my own work with young children, was one of the earliest advocates, a position he detailed in his book, Escape from Childhood. The idea has been percolating in my head for some time, then yesterday, encouraged by a reader, I dug in. I still have a lot more reading and thinking to do, especially around the mechanisms for how children's voting could be implemented, but the more I read, the more I'm coming to see that not only is it do-able, but necessary if we are truly interested in democracy.

There has already been progress in other nations, places like India where they have institutionalized children's parliaments, or nations like Brazil and Austria which have lowered the voting age to 16. Germany has even recently considered a proposal to grant its citizens voting rights from birth. Even the New York Times as taken the issue seriously. There are dozens of idea out there. Among the most compelling is the concept proposed by John Wall of Rutgers University writing in the International Journal of Human Rights (italics are mine):

My own proposal would be for an amended version of the German model in which suffrage is granted to all citizens at birth and exercised by a parent or guardian until such a time as each child or youth claims it for him- or herself. The difference here is that the right to vote on one’s own behalf is not granted by an adult but claimed by the child. A child claiming the right to vote can be taken as basic proof that the child possesses sufficient understanding and desire to exercise it competently.

Children represent one-third of the US population and as our youngest citizens, they will be living here long after the rest of us are gone. How can we move forward in good faith, without their active participation? And honestly, I seriously doubt that children would make a worse job of it than our current adult-only electorate. Indeed, I welcome the voices of children in public life: we need to hear them. It's time to get serious about true universal suffrage.

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What Do We Do With All Those Keys?

We have a lot of keys, hundreds of them, collected over many years, both in batches and one at a time. What do we do with all those keys?

"I'm putting red keys in my bowl."

"I'm trying to find black keys."

"Hey, this one has a face."

"I know, let's take turns!"

"Yeah, I'm first!"

"No, I'll be first, you be second, and you be third, and you be fourth, okay?"

"Okay, your turn."

They proceeded to go around the table, each child selecting one key at a time, some doing so with quick assurance, with others taking their time, hunting for just the perfect one as their friends waited patiently, anticipating their next turn or studying their own collections. As the game went round and round the table, others joined them. Some watched for a while, making a study of the game, before saying, "I want a turn." Others started with the question, "What are you playing?" or the statement, "I want to play."

Room was made, more bowls were found, the key game continued round and round. Every now and then, controversy arose. 

Some of the keys are connected by key rings, forming bundles of keys. Did they count as one key or too many to take on a single turn? If someone walks away, do their keys stay in their bowl or get returned to the common pile? 

"Hey, you took a golden key! I'm collecting goldens."

"It's not your turn."

"I don't have enough keys."

But more often, as the game progressed, the children began to work cooperatively rather than competitively. If a child had made their collecting strategy clear (reds, blacks, goldens, etc.), their friends made suggestions, saying things like, "I see a big key!" or "This is a beautiful one!" Sometimes they would even offer one from their own collection if they felt it would better fit in that of a friend's. Indeed, the game finally evolved into a trading game with children sharing keys with one another, making the case for why their friend needed this one or that one. Then two girls formed a team, combining their collections into a single bowl. More teams formed, until finally they were all one team, going around the table, each still taking a turn, adding a key to the community bowl until it was overflowing.

What do we do with all those keys? It's different every time.

  

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Adult Blather

Two freshly-minted three-year-olds were playing on the floor, not together, but near one another. I was lying amidst them, fiddling with whatever came to hand. The boy picked up a toy that was meant to impersonate a tiny version of the cast iron hand pump we have on our playground. After a moment, the boy said, perhaps to me, "Hey, it's a pump!"

The girl responded, "I want it."

That's what we have been encouraging kids to do all year, ask for things they want rather than just snatching them. The boy continued playing with the toy pump without saying a word. I briefly considered saying, "When you're finished with that, she wants it," but let the urge pass. The boy silently played with the toy for 30 seconds longer, then unceremoniously handed it to her. I was going to say something about that, some words of acknowledgement or even praise, but again thought better of it.

A five-year-old once told me, unprompted, as if it was something he'd given a lot of thought, "I don't like doing things people tell me to do. I like thinking of them myself and then doing them." Of course, that's how we all feel, right through our lives.

Adults say entirely too much to children, most of it either commands, which no one likes, or blather, to which no one listens. For whatever reason, we seem to feel that children are not listening simply because they don't respond to things like well-trained dogs. When the boy hadn't instantly acknowledged the girl's statement that she wanted the toy by saying, "I'm using it" or "You can use it when I'm done" or by simply handing it over, I was sorely tempted to say something, to amplify or translate or suggest. It was almost as if that silent space left after "I want it" was there for me to fill with blather.

And I know that whatever I said would have been blather because by remaining silent, I discovered that not only had the boy been listening, but it had prompted him to think. In that space of silence, he considered the information she had provided him, thought of what to do himself, and did it. He needed no reward from me, no pat on the back or "Good job," no benevolent overlord wielding carrots, sticks, commands, or blather.

We've been living together for eight months now and both of these kids apparently understand that this is how free and equal humans are meant to live together: thinking of things themselves and doing them, and that is its own reward.

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"I'm Gonna Try This"

"I'm gonna try this."

"You're gonna get hurt."

"I can't get on. Everybody hold it."

"Was that funny?"

"My turn."

"I want a turn."

"You can go after me."

"I'm next."

"Okay, so guys, after me it's you, then it's, you."

"Then I'm after you."

"We each get four turns."

"I'm gonna try the wagon."

"Somebody, help me. I'm stuck."

"I'll push you."

"Settle down."

"After my turn, it's your turn."

"I never had a turn."

"Get in a line. We're in a line."

"Let's go together!"

"Don't push."

"Wait! I'm going to get something. Everybody wait."

"While you're gone, we're gonna go."

"Are you okay?"

"Will you help me?"

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