Putting Away The Blocks

We don't tell the children at Woodland Park that they must take part when it's time to tidy up the place, but most of them, most days, do.

I signal that it's clean-up time by banging my drum, then the adults start making informative statements:

"It's clean-up time."

"The blocks go in these orange boxes."

"I see a block on the floor."

The power of informational statements is that instead of commanding children (e.g., "Pick up the blocks," "Put them in the orange box," "Stop playing, please"), we create a space in which children can think for themselves instead of just react: It's clean-up time, there's a block on the floor, I can pick it up and put it away. When we command, even if we add the word "please" at the end, we leave children with only two choices, obey or disobey, while when we simply make statements of fact we greatly increase the odds that any individual child will make their own decision to participate.

The most powerful of the informative statements, I've learned, is to start naming names:

"I see Claudio putting away a long block."

"Sara and Monica are carrying a block together."

"Wow, Arnold is carrying five blocks!"

On Friday, I was making these sorts of informative statements as the two-year-olds were putting away our builder boards. One of the children was carrying a block atop her head. I said, "Amy is carrying a block on top of her head." Within seconds, nearly all her classmates had their own blocks atop their heads, each making eye contact with me as they passed me on the way to the orange boxes where we are temporary storing the blocks, waiting to hear their own name, so I obliged: "Claudio is carrying a long block on his head, "Sara is carrying a small block on her head," "Monica is carrying a medium block on her head," "Arnold is carrying five blocks on his head . . ."

It was not the most efficient way to put away the blocks, but that's hardly the point. When we were done with the blocks they then turned to the stuffed animals of their own accord, eager to keep carrying stuff on their heads, so I just went right on narrating the story of "us" I saw unfolding before me.

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Rolling In The Aisles

I probably shouldn't post this, but it was just so perfect and, I suspect, it's something almost every teacher my age has at one time or another been tempted to do.

It's been a fun week, but a long one, made even longer by the cold, wet weather. The kids have been cooped up more than usual, not at school, but in the rest of their lives, naturally. It shows up at school as the need to move, to shout, to rough house, and to laugh. It also means more conflict, more hurt feelings, and a general intensification of our time together. These are days when adults joke about there being a "full moon."

Yesterday afternoon, following a week during which we lived on the edge from moment to moment, terrific days, but intense ones full of big feelings, big bumps, and big weather, we assembled on the checker board rug to end our final day this week with a story. Some of the kids got hung up in the mud room, removing soiled boots and whatnot, so I was just goofing around with the baker's dozen who had made it through the obstacle course of door matts, sinks, toilets, and parents just arrived to to pick them up.

The kids were rowdy. One girl danced back and forth at the back of the room while the rest yucked it up over what I expect was the word "poop." There was a general almost out-of-control vibe.

I was suddenly 12-years-old again, a boy in a library study carol at the American Community School in Athens, Greece. It had finally been my turn to check out the Cheech & Chong comedy album. There were turntables in these special nooks and my friends and I, one-by-one, took our turns sitting alone and listening to what may not qualify as classic comedy, but nevertheless had a big impact on the younger me.

For better or worse, I began to channel the Sister Mary Elephant bit, the one where she says, starting meekly then ending with an all caps roar: "Class . . . Class . . . Class . . . SHUT UP!"

I said, "Class . . ." in a falsetto which drew their attention, something that it did not do for Sister Mary Elephant. I was so pleased with the effect that I said it again, "Class . . ." This time they laughed. Great, I thought, we can do this until the rest of the kids assemble. "Class . . ." Even more laughter.

Kids were trickling in as we played the game, meaning that each time I said the word "class" in that high pitched voice, the volume of their response rose.

Then by way of explanation, I said, "When I was a boy, there was a funny teacher named Sister Mary Elephant and she always said, 'Class . . . Class . . . Class . . .'" More laughter. They were all there by now, eyes on me. I was, for better or worse, doing a show so I went with it: "Class . . . Class . . . Class . . . SHUT UP!" The crowd went freaking wild. They wanted an encore, so I did it again. Then again. Then again. They were laughing from the bottoms of their bellies, looking into one another's eyes, laughing into one another's mouths, connecting through their collective joy.

Figuring that if I was going to be fired, this would be the way I'd want to go, we did it again and again and again. My throat is still sore. Next time, if there is a next time, I'll remember to finish with the polite, "Thank you," the way Sister Mary Elephant did. They'll be rolling in the aisles.

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A Nooks And Crannies Solution

We're an urban school in one of the most densely populated cities in America. This is where our families are raising their children so I feel it's important that the school reflect that, just as every school should reflect the community in which is located.

In our case, that means that we must learn to live in close proximity with the other people, often bumping up against them whether we like it or not, learning to share both space and resources in ways that children from suburban or rural areas do not. It makes a blessing of the fact that our physical space tends to be compact and crowded, both with children and adults, continually accommodating and being accommodated. It means we have to talk to each other, a lot, as we negotiate and navigate, but it also means that we must also become expert at reading facial expressions and body language because living densely means always being conscious that there is someone else who may or may not be okay with what you are doing.

Of course, these are skills that all children must learn, but there is a special onus upon us because not only do we live in a place where we choose to live closely together, but we are also a community that values inclusion, cooperation, immigration, civil rights, science, and our natural environment, all of which are likewise values of our school. This means that we tend to take the posture of a community with open arms, always seeking to include everyone who seeks inclusion.

These are not just my values, but rather values we as a community talk about, both in the classroom and in how we seek to operate as a non-profit cooperative enterprise. We don't always succeed, but we at least strive in that direction in everything we do.

All this density and talking means that we can be quite noisy both auditorily and visually, a feature of urban living that we all deal with daily. Many of us, over time, become used to it. I, for instance, find it difficult to sleep without the hubbub of street sounds. Others must find techniques or strategies for carving out a bit of solitude amidst the din. For instance, the girl in these pictures accompanying this post really wanted to build with our Duplos unmolested so she dragged a box into the midst of the din and set up shop, hopping in and out as she needed more blocks, talking quietly to herself, contentedly, as she worked.

It's the sort of nooks and crannies solution that emerges from living closely with the other people, all the other people, the way we must at Woodland Park.

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Our Queen

Yesterday it rained hard as we convened on the playground. Most days I try to role model playing in the rain, but this was quite a bit beyond our normal misty drizzle, so I ducked into the playhouse along with a clutch of four and five-year-olds. Someone suggested we play "family." Two kids chose to be "baby princesses" and one agree to be their mother, the queen. I said that I would be the "servant."

Our queen, a girl I've known for her entire life, commanded me, "Wash this plate." It was a joke.

I played along, "As you wish, madam" and pantomimed washing the plastic plate she had handed me.

She appreciated my turn of phrase.

"And cook the dinner!"

"Right away madam." My emphasis on the word made everyone laugh, our queen included. There was some hubbub as other children tried to bring their crime fighting game into the play house. I stepped out of character for a moment to explain what we were doing: "She is the queen, they are the baby princesses, and I'm the servant."

Someone asked, "What's a servant?"

I answered, "That means I have to do whatever the queen wants."

"That's right," agreed our queen, then turning to me, she demonstrated, "Wash that table!"

By now, she had fully adopted her role as imperious queen. I said, "As you wish, madam," again evoking general mirth, even from the crime fighters.

Someone found a large scrub brush among the debris that inhabits our space and our queen handed it to me, commanding me again, but this time fiercely, "Use this! Now clean the floor!"

"Right away, madam!"

We were interrupted again as others sought to join our game. I said, "She's the queen, they are the baby princesses, and I am the servant."

"What's a servant?"

"That means I have to do whatever the queen wants."

One of them asked, "Can I be a servant too?" We all agreed, sure, so now we were a staff of two. Our queen handed a plate to the newcomer, commanding, "Wash this plate!"

"I don't want to."

"Wash this plate!"

"I don't want to."

Our queen was going to try one more command, but stopped herself, instead handing the plate to me, saying, "Wash this plate!"

"As you wish, madam!"

Our queen, paused to appreciate that hilarious word, madam, then stepped up to me until her face was only inches from my own. She screamed, "Cook the dinner!" It was an act, a good act, informed I assume by the movies she's seen with mean queens bullying meek protagonists.

I said, "At once, madam!"

Then she announced, "Everyone to the roof!"

I replied, "Very good, madam!"

As the rest of us once more enjoyed the silliness of that word, our queen clambered the ladder to the upper deck. I was willing to follow her, but by now I was hemmed in by children either playing our game or watching our game. I can barely fit through the child-sized ladder hole so I have to ascend to the top by climbing the exterior of the structure. I was expecting at least some of the kids to follow her, clearing a pathway for me to do so as well, but not one of them budged.

Our queen called down to us, "Come up at once!" When no one responded, she shouted, "I command you to come up!"

One of the baby princesses said, "Madam," and everyone laughed. As we enjoyed the joke, our queen climbed back down, then as if nothing had happened she handed me a plate and said, "Wash this plate!"

"As you wish, madam!"

I don't expect or even want obedience from the children I teach. Indeed, I genuinely don't understand why anyone would ever want it from anyone, except perhaps by way of making things run more efficiently, like trains keeping to their schedule, the long suit of many dictators. I reckon that some of the kids come from families that expect at least a little obedience at times, although I'm confident that none of them regularly scream at their children like our domineering queen, even if they've had their moments, because impatience and frustration, as our queen demonstrated, is the natural state of one who would insist that others, even children, obey them. We had just been playing a game, but even then, I'm pleased that the baby princesses and others simply refused to be commanded. I'm pleased that our queen, throughout, despite the ferocity and screaming, was merely acting, playing a part she found comical.

Still, I think, it was a great experiment, playing with "tools" I hope the children I teach will never seek to pick up in the world beyond our little kingdom of pretend.

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The More Time Your Child Spends Playing Outdoors, The Smarter She Will Be

At the beginning of the 2015 school year Seattle's Public School teachers were on strike. They had a list of demands, most of which were ultimately met, including the requirement that all elementary school children receive a minimum of 30 minutes a day on the playground. As pathetic as that victory might sound to those of us who live and work in the world of play-based education, some schools were limiting their charges to 15 minutes of recess over a school day. This is not an uncommon phenomenon in America and indeed many other parts of the world.

As heartlessly cruel as this sounds, it's the result of administrators and teachers who have bought into the entirely unsupported myth that more "instruction time" will result in "better results," and that every moment of free play, especially outdoors, is a waste of time. Meanwhile, 17 million children worldwide have been prescribed addictive stimulants (like Ritalin), antidepressants and other mind-altering drugs for "educational" and behavioral problems, over half of them in the US. Already one in ten American students are on these drugs and the fastest growing segment are children five and under.

And now this from the UK: 

Tests to assess . . . children's physical development at the start of the first school year found that almost a third to be "of concern" for lack of motor skills and reflexes. Almost 90 per cent of children demonstrated some degree of movement difficulty for their age . . . The tests suggest up to 30 per cent of children are starting school with symptoms typically associated with dyslexia, dyspraxia, and ADHD -- conditions which can be improved with correct levels of physical activity, experts say.

What's to blame? Lack of physical play is a big part of it, but there's more. According researcher Dr. Rebecca Duncombe:

"Young children have access to iPads and are much more likely to be sat in car seats or chairs . . . But the problem can also be attributed to competitive parenting -- parents who want they children to walk as soon as possible risk letting them miss out on key mobility developments which help a child to find their strength and balance."

And why do we have competitive parenting: because our schools, indeed our entire educational environment, is built around the idea of competition; around the cruel caution that "You don't want your child to fall behind." Bill Gates and his ilk have succeeded in "unleashing powerful market forces" on our children and this is the result. Because we have to get them ready for the "competitive job market of tomorrow," we've herded them indoors, where they spend their days locked in being force-fed "knowledge" like it's some sort of factory farm. It's so bad that we have to drug them. It's so bad that 90 percent of our four-year-olds aren't even getting the opportunity to learn how to move their bodies properly. The only other human institutions of which I'm aware that regularly drug and confine people are prisons and mental wards.

Instead of understanding the truth about young children -- that they need to move their bodies, a lot, and preferably outdoors -- we have created a very, very narrow range of "normal" into which we are forcing our children. This is outrageous. It's malpractice. And it's on all of us for letting it happen.

I usually try to end these posts on a positive or hopeful note, but the best I can do right now is to say that at least Seattle's Public School kids are getting their 30 minutes outdoors this year . . . Unless, of course, they are being punished, because taking away recess is one of the more common "consequences" for children who can't sit still and focus. And if they fail too often, we drug them.

Parents: the more time your child spends outdoors, playing, the smarter she will be. Create it at home and demand if from our schools. Teachers: the more time your students spend outdoors, playing, the smarter they will be. Create it at school and demand more of it from your administrators. This is the science. This is what we know about children. What's happening now is nothing short of institutionalized child abuse and we're all a part of permitting it to happen.

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Recess

Adults habitually ask young children who they've just met about their favorite part of school, to which the stereotypical response is, "Recess." That was my response right through elementary school and would have likely continued to be my answer had such a thing as "recess" existed in middle and high school. Of course, the adults never accept that answer, clarifying, "I mean, what is your favorite subject in school," because, duh, if adults remember anything about school it's that recess is the best part of everyone's day.

I suppose there may be some kids who would choose, say, science class or choir or math over recess, but they stand out as the exceptions that prove the rule. After all, recess represents freedom and who doesn't choose freedom?

When people ask children from Woodland Park that question, however, recess is never the answer. That's because we don't have recess, or rather, ninety-percent of our time together would qualify as "recess" in a normal school. When ask, these kids might answer, "The water pump" or "play dough" or "painting" or "building with blocks." Some might mention the songs we sing or their friends or even "Teacher Tom."

Humans were made for freedom, we chose it whenever it's offered and rebel when there's not enough of it. None of us like to be told what to do, no matter or age. That's because every second we spend doing what others expect of us, is a second we spend not asking and answering our own questions about our world, which is part of our biological imperative to educate ourselves. 

And all children know instinctively that the best way to do that is though play, which is what we do when other people aren't telling us what to do, like during recess. We all know that animals like elephants and tigers and orca whales don't develop naturally while in captivity, so how can we possibly expect our children to develop naturally when we limit their freedom to a few minutes per day of recess?

The very existence of schools, even ones like mine, is evidence that we are failing as a society because one that truly served our educational needs would be one where children (and adults for that matter) were free to pursue their education without the compulsion that characterizes our institutions. In a heathy society, education (i.e., play) would be incorporated into our lives as naturally as it is into the lives of animals that live wild.

When children say that recess is their favorite part of the day they are expressing this great truth, one that emerges directly from their human souls that always yearn to be free.

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I Am The Boss Of Me

The other day, a boy commanded me to do this or that and I responded, "Hey, you're not the boss of me."

He replied, "I am the boss of you!" He intended it as a joke. Being a knee-jerk contrarian is where his sense of humor stands these days. His smile told me he was anticipating an argumentative response.

I obliged by saying, "You are not the boss of me."

"I am the boss of you."

"No," I corrected him, pointing comically at his chest, "You are the boss of you," then at my own chest, "I'm the boss of me." We went back and forth a bit, then I switched things up by saying, "I'm the boss of you," to which he immediately responded, "No, I'm the boss of me and you're the boss of you."

The iconic Patti Smith once said, "No one tells me what to do, except my daughter," a line that passes through my head each time a child attempts to boss me around. And there's a part of me that's always tempted to treat them all like my own child, of course, relenting in the name of love with an understanding that they don't mean to command me, that it's just a childish shortcut, but I don't. Instead, I hold my ground, sometimes adding in the spirit of Ms. Smith, "What do I look like, your mom?"

I say it first of all because it's true, but secondly I want to role model the stance that I would like to see all people be able to take toward the world: I'm the boss of me. You're the boss of you. I try to not say it with jerk-ish defiance, but rather as a statement of fact. If it's a child who knows me well, I can be confident that they all already know that they can usually get what they want from me by converting their command into a question. When it's a younger child or one I've only recently met, I generally add, "But if you ask me, I'll probably want to do what you want me to do."

There are some adults who recoil at this approach, certain that I'm teaching the children to be disrespectful and disobedient and they're half right. We are raising our kids to one day be adults in a democratic society, one in which we must be equal members if it is to work. We may as individuals choose to take a job or join a church or create other relationships in which we assume a subservient role, but the key concept is that it is a choice we make as a free human, one we should be able to quit the moment we find ourselves the victims of the abuse of power. The degree to which we don't have a choice about this is the degree to which we are not free.

As a middle-aged, white male, this is an easier stance to take than it is for others. The cards are clearly stacked in my favor, which is why I am particularly motivated to do what I can to ensure the children I teach grow up knowing that obedience, especially to me, is not required. I must earn their cooperation by cooperating with them the way I do with my fellow free adults. So yes, I am teaching children to be disobedient, at least to me, and I do so joyfully, but I hope, at the same time, I'm teaching them how to stand up for themselves on a day-to-day basis without being disagreeable. I want them to know that conversations about power, and particularly the balance of power, are not just acceptable, but necessary, be it based on age, sex, race or socio-economic status, and those conversations are most productive when they are done directly, calmly, and with the focus on finding ways to agree, because, after all, when obedience is removed from the equation, we are left with only our agreements.

And agreements among free humans are sacred.

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