A Case Of and For the Sillies

Today was going to be one of those “lost” days.  I was without a car, navigating a meeting on campus, a conference at Audrey’s school, and trying to get both girls home via the train after Niamh’s nap and before the rain came pouring down.  With that in mind, I knew I had a couple of hours to spend with Audrey before picking up Niamh, but I decided that I wouldn’t lug any of my bags of tricks with me on the train.

 

You see, from the beginning of the year I created numerous bags of tricks.  I have the art bag complete with sketch pads, pastels, portable easels, etc.  I have the reading bag with literacy manipulatives and early readers.  I also have the math bag with dice, cuisenaire rods, and other activities.  Early on I envisioned using these bags with Audrey as we sat in coffee shops, gardens, etc.  To some extent, we have done that – just not to the degree I’d hoped. 

 

So, when I went to pick Audrey up after the parent conference, I was “bagless.”  Nevertheless, we went to Ruby Tuesdays for lunch and for a comfortable way to kill some time while Niamh slept merely yards away at “Horsey School.”  Audrey immediately became engaged with the children’s menu. It had cute little activities, some of which were designed for older kids.  Nevertheless, she dived into them – asking for help but insisting on ultimately doing it herself.  One of the activities was particularly challenging.  The sheet had musical notes symbolizing numbers (e.g. a quarter note equaled 4 while two eighth notes equaled 8).  The picture then had four notes joined together with addition signs.  Audrey had to first translate the notes into the values and then add the four numbers together.  In spite of her typical tenacity, I figured the activity would get the best of her – it didn’t.  While it required a lot of scratch paper and a lot of “dots” being drawn, she figured them out. 

 

This victory led to a barrage of math silliness.  She started counting by tens, and then by twenties; then together we played with counting by 200s.  All the while I was secretly bemoaning the fact that I didn’t have my Cuisenaire manipulatives to let her literally embrace hundreds, tens, and ones.  It didn’t matter to her – just adding the zeros to the ends of numbers that were more familiar to her was fun enough.  We added 6 + 6, and then we added 600 + 600.  She squealed with delight to see how BIG 1200 was. 

 

Throughout our mathematical play Audrey was her typical over-the-top silly self – making noises, playing with rhyming words, bouncing up and down on the restaurant booth (thank goodness there were very few customers at this point).  Granted, I have more tolerance for this silliness at some times versus others.  There are times – particularly at dinner or when we are getting ready for bed – when I tend to chastise her for such loud and silly behavior.  After all, those are times where other agendas (completing dinner in a civil manner or preparing for sleep) are more important than being silly.  Yet, I know that this silliness is so much of who my daughter is right now.  She revels in silliness from the moment she walks in the door in the afternoons until bedtime.  The only time she is lulled into some calmer state is when she is anesthetized by television. 

 

So, when given the space to be herself, Audrey is happy, laughing, and above all silly.  When she is “contained” for pragmatic purposes (dinner, bedtime) or when she is lulled into a less active state by something like television, she is subdued and quiet.  What does that say about formal schooling?  Don’t get me wrong.  I was a teacher for many years.  I know that most of the instructional day must be spent in a subdued mode.  There is a time and a place for silliness, and even back in those pre-NCLB days, those times were sparse.  But I can’t help but wonder – if this is, in fact, a natural mode for children, what are we doing when we subdue it – and do we, in fact, eradicate it by virtue of the amount of time in which we subdue it?  In other words, at what point do children learn that it is not o.k. to be silly?  After all, we’ve certainly learned it as adults.  On the whole, most adults are not silly.  We may crack a joke on occasion, or if you are like my brother, uncle, or late grandfather, you may exhibit wit and more elaborate jokes around those who are close – most of which are calculated and appropriate for your age and circumstances.  However, on the whole we have become subdued.  I am so thankful that the girls have a silly father.  Those of you who know Rick may be surprised with that assessment, but at home, he dives headlong into the silliness with them.  It is because of his openness to silliness that our house if filled with laughter most of the time. 

 

So, how do schools create spaces for silliness?  In this era of performance-based measures for children, how do we ensure that children continue to perform this zest for life, this uninhibited embrace of fun and laughter?  And how do we use that incredibly excited energy as the impetus for learning for the sake of learning?  At this point, I have no idea how we do this, but watching Audrey’s antics at the Ruby Tuesday today helped me to realize how essential it is that we try.

Differentiation in the Garden

It has been a while since I’ve posted an entry.  Life and allergies have been getting in the way.  I decided it was time to get back on track, so when I picked Audrey up from school I let her choose whether she wanted to go to the Botanical Gardens or the High Museum of Art and try to reengage in our afternoon learning experiences.  She chose the garden.

On our way there, Audrey protested that she did not want to go without her sister.  While I enjoy spending time with both girls, bringing Niamh would mean interrupting her nap time – a very, very important time of the day for her and for the rest of the family that must endure her disposition should she miss it.  Nevertheless, we made a detour to “horsey school” and picked Niamh up.

The trip began as most trips to the garden do.  They had fun running up and down the paths.  They quickly made their way to the children’s garden, and once there they quickly made their way to the large slide and clubhouse at the back of the garden.  We managed to get in a few “learning” moments en route – looking at the beehive and looking for frogs in the pond.  The playground frolic was cut short by a large group of boisterous boys running around.  

By this time Audrey was protesting that she wanted to go do art.  Niamh, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with art.  She managed to convince her sister to delay the art activities and join her on the outdoor stage for a reenactment of Disney on Ice.  For a girl who is so pensive around strangers, Niamh lights up on stage.  She loves to dance – so much so that her whole body seems to beam as she glides across the stage.  After each performance, she hides behind the log column and hurries through her pretend costume changes so that she can perform her next number.  Audrey enjoys being silly on the stage and doing a pliè or two, but her response is nothing like her sister’s.   

After numerous encores, we make it to a secluded area of the garden where there is a small fountain and flowers.  We pull out the art pads and the pastels.  Audrey is in her official mode: she is ready to do art.  Niamh, on the other hand, continues her protests regarding the objective and dances around the fountain.  She then explores the area and returns to the fountain to throw leaves into the water and watch them.  Eventually Niamh decides to join us – of course, it had to be her idea.  She draws a series of flowers on her paper and excitedly points out that they are sunflowers.  She goes off again to explore and soon returns to add round objects below the flowers.  She later explains that they are the seeds that the flowers came from.  After more exploring she returns and adds grass below the seeds.  Later, upon Audrey’s suggestion, she adds a blue stripe at the top for the sky.  When she is done she looks at me excitedly and notes, “Mommy, I did the whole thing – the flower, the grass, and the sky!”  Meanwhile Audrey has been drawing the whole time – working diligently to create flowers similar to those she has drawn in the past.  When she talks about her pictures she notes the colors and the lines she has used. 

The whole time we are in the garden I try desperately to look beyond my “Mom” eyes to see my two girls.  If I was back in my educational psychology class at Oglethorpe and was conducting a case study on each of these girls, what would I notice?  It was much harder than I thought it would be.  In addition to being their mom and absolutely adoring them, I struggle with not seeing one in relation to the other – particularly Niamh.  Perhaps it was because they were born so close together that Rick and I are the most thrown by our youngest daughter.  It shouldn’t surprise us that she is not Audrey.  Other than in her appearance, she is really nothing like her sister.  Perhaps too it was because Audrey is predictable in many ways.  She responds to things in life much like I did when I was young, so I know what to expect from her.  Niamh, on the other hand, is only predictable in her unpredictability.  The same situation could bring belly laughs or full-blown melt-downs, so we just have to brace ourselves for both.  As challenging as her mood swings are, Niamh’s sensitivity to details in life and for people is amazing and her smiles and her sense of humor our uniquely her own.  She really does exemplify her name: “brightness illuminating from within.” 

The one minor “aha” I took away from our brief trip to the garden was how differently my girls encounter their worlds.  Audrey finds comfort in rules, and she practices to get things “right.”  If the flower she is drawing is not perfect, she gets very frustrated and often shuts down.  It’s as if the rules and the habits regulate her behavior and provide a predictable foundation for her learning.  Niamh, on the other hand, encounters the world in constructs.  Relationships between phenomenon animate her learning.  She makes connections – albeit often idiosyncratic ones – in order to understand her world, and as such the “outcomes” of her learning are not so easy to predict.  Audrey loves to memorize things.  She rattles off words that begin with specific sounds.  She learns foreign language easily, and she remembers series of notes in her piano book with little effort.  Niamh struggles with some of her letters and numbers, but she can pick sounds out of the middle of words quickly.  She remembers so many little details from stories we tell, movies, and books, and she often brings up these details at times when they connect with something else going on around her. 

This relatively minor observation made me realize how superficial most of our “talk” of differentiation in classrooms really is.  When we encourage teachers to “differentiate” in their classes, we typically assume they are going to pre-assess their students and group them according to how well they do on whatever outcomes they achieved.  Some teachers may assess students according to their “multiple intelligences” and occasionally differentiate according to their strengths, but I have a feeling this doesn’t happen often.  Even when it does, this still doesn’t address the beautiful complexity of the children in our classrooms.  It makes me think of the Huebner quote I enjoy so much.  I used to keep in next to my desk when I taught:

Think of it – there standing before the educator is a being partially hidden in a cloud of unknowing. For centuries the poet has sung of his near infinitudes; the theologian has preached of his depravity and hinted of his participation in the divine; the philosopher has struggled to encompass him in his systems, only to have him repeatedly escape; the novelist and dramatist have captured his fleeting moments of pain and purity in never-to-be-forgotten esthetic form; and the man (sic.) engaged in curriculum has the temerity to reduce this being to a single term – “learner.”

While Niamh may seem a lot more like the "cloud" of unknowing on many days, I love the fact that she is actually a beautiful ray of sunlight - sometimes peaking through and sometimes bursting forth with warmth and brilliance.

 

 

“It’s Just Art. . . .”

Anyone who knows me knows that I love John Dewey.  He has been the center of my research and scholarship since I was a doctoral student.  The first major scholarly project Rick and I did together was an edited book about Dewey that resembles a devotional book.  We even sent out Christmas cards one year with Dewey on the front (sporting a Santa hat) with the message “We hope you experience a wonderful holiday season!” I have framed a series of envelopes with the Dewey commemorative stamps in my office as well as the 1928  Time Magazine with Dewey on the cover.  I’ve even adapted lyrics to “Louie, Louie” to help students understand his theories.  This is not some superficial fascination.  The man and his ideas rock my ideological world.

 

So why would I be surprised by my daughter’s reactions this week?  On Monday we spent two hours sprawled out on a picnic blanket with pastels, easels, and art pads drawing the underside of a magnolia tree, trying to capture the fuzziness of the rabbit’s ear, and exploring patterns of leaves and colors while surrounded by the Decatur community garden.  Audrey’s thinking and conversation were incredibly animated and clever.  She made amazing observations about lines, colors, and patterns.  She played with a variety of ideas – determining that the wind was yellow, musing that mushrooms are ants’ trees, and making countless other amazing five-year-old interpretations of nature.  By the end of the day I felt as if we’d accomplished no less than Van Gogh and Gauguin had completed in their brief time in Arles.  We had a pile of pictures rolled neatly in our art bag and wonderful memories of a beautiful Decatur afternoon. 

 

With my new High Museum membership card in hand, I was already planning the extension activities for Tuesday afternoon.  Throughout the afternoon on Monday I talked about Van Gogh and Gauguin and how they both did art very differently.  I talked about how Van Gogh painted on the spot and tended to represent as much of how he felt as what he saw.  In contrast, Gauguin would sketch and practice before going back to their yellow house to complete his work.  I asked Audrey if she was painting like Van Gogh or Gauguin, and she said she was more like Van Gogh because she was doing her pictures right then and trying to show how the things made her feel.  “Aha,” I thought.  I can take her to the museum, show her paintings from Van Gogh, and see the light bulbs, hear the bells and whistles, and know that my daughter has experienced an aesthetic epiphany! 

 

Yeah, right.  As I picked her up from school Tuesday and excitedly talked about the ensuing trip to the museum, she gave me one of those premature adolescent looks and said, “It’s just a bunch of art.”  I tempted her with the adventure of the train – changing at Five Points and taking at least two escalators.  That appeased her to some degree.  Of course, the negotiations then began. “I’m hungry,” she protested.  Translated: If I have to go look at a bunch of boring art, there better be a cool snack in the bargain.

 

When we arrived at the museum, Audrey was immediately drawn to the large sculpture of the horse that precedes the upcoming da Vinci exhibit.  As she exclaimed,  “Wow, look at that horse!”  I replied, “Oh, it’s JUST art.  .  . “  While I know I would be marked down if I was assessed on Georgia’s Teacher Performance Assessment Instrument, I couldn’t resist the sarcasm.  After all, the Breault genetic code includes a very strong line of sarcasm as a way of being.  Therefore, I felt it would be not only appreciated but perhaps even necessary as we continued on our adventure. 

 

The sarcasm evolved into the running joke of the day. Audrey would point to various things around the museum – the water feature outside the entrance, the large fruit displayed outside the snack area – and challenge whether what she was seeing was, in fact, art.  After the obligatory snack, we went up to the top level.  She was somewhat interested in the Howard Finster Folk art as well as the other modern and folk art displayed.   Of course, the most frustrating aspect of the experience was the fact that she could not touch it.  I found myself saying over and over again, “Yes, but don’t touch, don’t touch,” in hopes of pre-empting the scowling security guards strategically placed throughout the floor. 

 

Ultimately, skipping down the ramps to the main floor seemed to bring far more animation and enjoyment than observing the art.  Large spaces with sculptures, paintings, and large arrangements of geometric figures, etc. are not exactly the ideal setting for skipping or loud giggles – all evidence to which was reinforced by the tense posture of the various guards throughout the hall.  One guard politely suggested that we go to the children’s section on the first floor.  

 

In the child-proof section of the museum we found various stations with blocks, easels, and large foam and vinyl shapes that could form interesting three-dimensional structures.  Audrey enjoyed building with the blocks and particularly enjoyed creating large structures – her houses – with the larger foam pieces.  Thus, the overall trip was salvaged by virtue of the things she could touch and then use to create. 

 

As we returned home on Marta, I pictured Dewey looking down and laughing.  I thought about his many lessons – how the child and curriculum are two limits that define a single process (a process we more often than not interrupt with our own agendas).  I thought about Dewey’s argument that as educators we often impose our images of learning from above and from outside children's experiences.  Instead, we should see learning as an extension of the child’s world:

 

If the subject-matter of the lessons be such as to have an appropriate place within the expanding consciousness of the child, if it grows out of his (sic) own past doings, thinkings, and sufferings, and grows into application in further achievements and receptivities, then no device or trick of method has to be resorted to in order to enlist ‘interest.’ (Child and Curriculum, 288)

 

So, perhaps Audrey and I won’t have those shared aesthetic epiphanies while walking quietly through the art exhibits at the High, at least not while she is in kindergarten.  Instead, I hope that I remember to listen more, impose less, and create those shared spaces where her experiences can become educative experiences for us both. 

The Importance of Being Earnest

A few weeks ago I found copy of the Barbie CD for The Princess and the Pauper.  One might ask why anyone would put himself or herself through the pain of hearing the songs from a Barbie movie that is already played over and over again at home.  Truth be told, the music in the movies is not bad, and the productions for the CDs are even better – they are actually Broadway quality in many respects.  The girls love it.  They want to hear the songs over and over again.  In particular, Audrey wants to hear them for the same reasons she likes to see some movies over and over again.  She wants to figure them out. 

 

Initially her interest centered around the language itself.  She would hear a word and like the way it sounds.  Then she would want to learn what the word or a phrase meant.  There is one song in particular on the CD that both girls like the most.  Preminger, the “mean guy”, sings a song about his evil plans to marry Princess Anneliese.   One of the word groups they both particularly like is “temporary setback.”  Initially Audrey wanted to know what the actual words were.  She wanted to sing it, and she wanted to sing the right words.  Once she knew them, she proceeded to sing it in the car, all over the house, etc.  Eventually she began to hear the words around it and became curious about what the words and phrases meant. 

 

This had led to all sorts of conversations.  As we talked about the role of Anneliese and her mother and how they are responsible for their people, we talked about feudalism, the social structure of England at the time, and the plight of indentured servants.  Granted, all of these conversations were done at a five-year-olds level and were considered interesting but not necessarily worthy of more in-depth pursuit outside of those particular moments and those particular conversations in the car.

 

In our conversations, we often shift from talking about the story to playing with the language again.  Audrey gets very excited when she hears rhyming words and starts to listen for them after we talk about the way some poems place rhyming words at the end of lines and often create a rhythm to the words.  She also starts to notice some of the alliterations and metaphors and questions why Preminger is saying those things.  She knows she likes the way they sound, but she also wants to know what they mean.

 

What strikes me most in all of this is her genuine earnestness to figure this song and story out.  She wants to hear the song every morning.  When I ask her if she wants me to replay it, she always says yes.  Each time we hear it, she asks more and more questions.  Sometimes she asks the same questions she has asked before – hoping perhaps more explanation will help her understand it a bit more.  I begin to think about whether I have that same level of earnestness to learn.  After all, I’m in the “learning business” in my day job.  While I am thrilled when I get those scholarly “ahas,” I can’t really recall moments in my life when I was that earnest to learn something.  I also think back to my second, third, fourth, and seventh graders as well as the elementary and middle school students I served as an administrator.  I search my memories for times when they appeared that earnest to learn something.  Then the inevitable questions stare me in the face: At what point do we lose this?  To what degree do parents’ relationships with their children and schools (trying to be fair here and not just completely bash schools) strip this earnestness from children?  Does our media-drenched society help to strip away the curiosity and earnestness by virtue of the passive way of being it perpetuates?  And more importantly, how do I preserve this earnestness in my children? 

 

In my original reflections on this on-going experience, the word “earnest” first came to mind as the most apt description of Audrey’s disposition.  Thinking ahead, then, about a possible blog entry, I remembered the play my friends and I did as seniors in high school.  We performed it in my basement with the rest of the AP English class looking on.  Admittedly, I had to go back and review the plot from Google (Sorry, Mrs. Johnson), and I realized how appropriate it is.  The play itself pokes fun at the necessity of being earnest during the Victorian period when the meaning of being “earnest” is quite superficial.  The fact that Jack Worthing and Algernon Moncrieff deceive the objects of their suiting is acceptable.  As long as their names are ultimately “Earnest,” there is no need for their intentions to be so.  The parallels are striking.  How earnest are we in schools and society to sustain this genuine love of learning – a love that drives how children see their worlds and guides the way they see and hear things in their daily lives?  Does the language of our current policies designate our actions as “earnest” even though much of what we do contradicts a genuine search for knowing more?

 

 

A Precious Fifteen Minutes (A.K.A. Why I don’t do the carpool)

As I mentioned in a previous blog entry, Rick and I have opted out of using the kindergarten’s car pool in the morning.  Barring the hurried parent who doesn’t follow the rules and stops too soon, the system seems very efficient.  Teachers from the school wait outside as parents stop.  They get the children out (some as young as 2 ½ ), and then the kids go into the building themselves.  I’m sure this is essential in a building that small that houses so many classes.  It also allows teachers to focus on the students and not spend time trying to answer parent questions. 

 

For the most part Rick and I don’t have problems with the car pool – other than the whole image of idling cars and their contribution to the ecological footprint in Decatur.  I just can’t imagine Audrey starting the day with me looking over my shoulder from the front seat of the car.  Granted, I can be just as loving from that position, and walking with her doesn’t guarantee a more nurturing departure.  Nevertheless, I do not want the point of departure as we both start our days to be mediated by a car seat and accompanied by a car radio or exhaust sound. 

 

To honor the need for full disclosure, the long walk from “horsey school” to kindergarten I wrote about earlier was the first and last.  For one, the rain has certainly put a damper on such activities.  In addition, Audrey’s protests have led us to “Plan B.”  We still have a fifteen to twenty minute window of time between Niamh’s pre-K class and Audrey’s.  Now I often park over at the recreation center, and if weather permits, we play on the playground for ten or fifteen minutes before school.  Otherwise we sit in the car and talk or act silly. 

 

Today we had a job to do.  Her class is supposed to make pictures of their school.  Some of the parents are coming in tomorrow to help them.  They were going to take the children outside – two at a time – to draw pictures of the school.  Given the weather forecasts, I asked Mrs. Curtice if she would prefer to have pictures of the school so the children could do the pictures inside.  As a result, Audrey and I spent the morning taking pictures of the school from various angles. 

 

Granted, I refrained from using the experience as an opportunity to review concepts of lines, etc.  We just enjoyed the time, and Audrey was relatively free to choose how she wanted to capture the images of the school.  I figured those conversations about lines, geometry, architecture, etc. could always come later when she is looking at the pictures and trying to draw her own. 

 

Nevertheless, the nature of the teachable moment seemed so real this morning.  We just shared fifteen minutes and a camera, but what a difference it made for my disposition (and hopefully hers).  Walking back to the car I thought about how fortunate I am to have those fifteen minutes every morning.  I wish I had them with Niamh as well – and perhaps if we ever get more organized we can make that happen too.  I thought about how rushed I am in the mornings, how many times I’ve told them to hurry up so we won’t be late.  Given their general resiliency, I assume they continue their day without too many emotional repercussions.  Yet, what a difference a mere fifteen minutes could make (or five or ten) to alter their perspectives, dispositions, and openness to the day’s possibilities.

 

We still have no idea what we’ll do for the girls next year – whether they’ll be in a public school, charter school, or learn at home.  I only hope that whatever we do, we’ll be able to share those precious moments together in the morning.

The Art Lesson: In Search of Lines

Today was our first attempt at any sort of structured and deliberate art lesson.  I even had an objective (Tyler would be proud).  I wanted Audrey to recognize lines in both nature and in “culture.”  Perhaps Frierean-inspired constructs are a bit much for a five-year-old, but if I didn’t make any deliberate attempts to problematize the lines created by culture as oppressive architectural symbols that mimic the constraints imposed by those in power, then it might be an educative experience  .  .  . but I digress.

 

From the beginning I knew there would be issues to reconcile.  The fact that our little mushroom experience seemed to go well could be, at least upon reflection, due to the fact that it wasn’t a deliberately planned lesson.  It was serendipity and a whole lot of luck that Audrey just happened to find something interesting at the same time she was able to maintain her attention span for the experience.  It’s what educators often refer to as a “teachable moment.” 

 

This, on the other hand, was quite different.  The nice thing about serendipity (or teachable moments) is the fact that the stakes are quite low.  You didn’t plan it; it wasn’t listed in a lesson plan anywhere.  It is typically not on a test, so if they learn – great!  If they don’t, it’s no big deal.  However, once you declare an objective you put yourself into the position of being judged.  To what degree did you achieve your objective?  And it’s not like I could blame failure on anyone else – it’s just my daughter and me.  If the lesson does not go well, it is completely my fault.  In the words of all the NCLB-rallying politicians out there, “No excuses!”

 

I picked Audrey up at 1:00.  After getting her debriefing of the day: how they used the bears in math, what they did in circle time, and who go on “yellow,” we spent some time at the playground.  I figured it would be best if I didn’t immediately jump into my “lesson.”  After some playtime we headed over to Starbucks (Her choice – and an image that deserves its own entry both as a commodified space and as the exact same place ten years ago where I sought refuge late at night while finishing my dissertation).  While there we had a snack and THE LESSON.  Initially she had no interest in art.  She was far more interested in the little pattern bears we have.  She’d been using them in class and had asked me that morning if we could use them that afternoon, so I had them ready.  While sipping her organic chocolate milk and nibbling her old fashion doughnut, Audrey proceeded to show me how to do math word problems using the bears.  She encouraged me to make my own and didn’t seem too impressed with the ones I improvised (If there is a teaching gene, I’m afraid Audrey has it – the consummate teacher who at age two was asking me to pronounce things by dividing them into syllables: “Mommy, say “Lan-tan-a.”). 

 

And then finally - THE LESSON.  I eased her into putting away the bears (after they’d traveled across the table on a boat race with the protein snack container, of course), and I whipped out worksheets.  Yes, the very thing I have attacked time and time again in my own university teaching.  This one was innocent enough, and I know Audrey well enough to know that she never met a worksheet she didn’t love – anything she can do to get a sticker or a smiley face. 

 

The sheet had three boxes: one with the header “diagonal,” one with “vertical,” and one with “horizontal.”  We talked about the different kinds of lines (notice that I didn’t list my actual objective as “The student will distinguish between diagonal, vertical, and horizontal lines.”  That wasn’t the point, but it did give us a frame of reference as we “searched” for lines).  With the sheet in hand, we talked about different kinds of lines.  She’d heard “diagonal” before and was quite excited to learn the two other names of lines.  I then asked her to make designs for each using those kinds of lines.  Since she’d been learning about patterns in school, I also encouraged her to think about patterns she could make with the designs. 

 

I had a worksheet too.  While Audrey colored, so did I.  Of course, there’s always the pedagogical debate about modeling or letting children explore independently.  Should I let Audrey “construct” (my students know how much I hate how that term has been overused) her own notions of diagonal, etc. or let her mimic things I did.  I tried to balance both modeling and giving space for her imagination.  She started her own diagonal design fairly oblivious to what I was doing.  About mid-way through that part of the experience, she started to notice what I was doing, so I talked about my work.  And, as one would predict, she then tried to mimic what I was doing. 

 

When we started on the vertical lines I waited a bit while she started her work.  When I did start, I made a pattern of vertical lines: one from nature (e.g. a vine) and then one from culture (e.g. a picket of a fence).  As we continued to work, I talked about my pattern and, as with the first part of the worksheet, she tried to replicate some of my images – the column, a sign, etc.  For the horizontal lines, we both did our own thing – each a bit more abstract that the previous pictures with some curved, some dotted, and some straight and thin. 

 

After we completed the worksheet I got out the camera and told her we were going to look for lines.  She asked if she could take the pictures, so I put her “in charge” of the camera.  Before we even cleaned up and got out of the coffee shop, she was on top of it.  She noticed how the pencils we’d been using were lines, so she held one up and asked me to take a picture.  Then she saw the straws standing up in a container and noted that they were vertical lines.  I also pointed to the cups behind them and how the lines on the rims of the cups were horizontal lines.  From there we stepped out into the Decatur Square, and she went wild snapping photos. 

 

Interestingly, in spite of how quickly as she was snapping pictures, she was getting great images of lines.  Her first was a bike rack with its broad curved lines.  Then she saw a bike by a tree and noticed the spokes.  As we walked to the square, I tried to point out the differences between the “natural” lines and the “cultural” lines.  We talked about how God made the ones in nature and people made the ones in “culture.”  I also mentioned words like “architecture” and “landscape,” but most of those seemed to be inconsequential for her experience.  She ran over to the fountain in the square to snap a shot at the vent.  I encouraged her to step back and see the steam and how it made a line as it rose from the marble base.  She then ran to one of the columns in the square.  She took a shot with the column and a tree next to it.  I tried to show her how people made the column using lines to mimic the lines in nature (the vines/limbs on the column matching the limbs on the tree).  We then found wonderful landscaping with spiky grasses and grand ferns.  When we started to cross the street to see Decatur Presbyterian Church, she noticed the lines on the street to show where people cross. 

 

At the church we had wonderful lines to explore.  We looked at the lines in the stained glass window and how, by virtue of their intersections, they created diamond patterns.  We saw a beautiful door to the sanctuary where the wood itself had lines from nature but the beautiful ironwork was lines from culture.  We leaned against great big trees and looked up to see the patterns of lines in the branches and leaves.  In their memorial garden we saw how they’d lined up the ornamental grass to make lines with the landscaping. 

 

This was the point where it started to rain - a drizzle at first, but soon it became a substantial downpour.  Audrey and I chose to laugh as we got soaked, and she tried to take a picture of the rain to show how it, too, made lines.  Fortunately we were near our final destination: the library.  There we found more lines: the vents, the security monitor at the front door, and all the books neatly stacked on the shelves.  She took a picture of the curved stairs leading up to the second floor, the rows of lights in the children’s section, and the decorative ribbons that adorned the ceiling.  Before we left we pulled a few books off the shelves to read.  Audrey noticed the lines in the artwork, and she decided to add pictures of pictures to our collection.

 

After picking up Niamh from “Horsey School,” and heading home, I tried to engage Audrey a bit more.  Of course, I’d sequestered the camera to avoid fights between them.  As I pointed out the lines on the bridge at Commerce and College, Audrey smirked and said, “Well, I would notice them IF you hadn’t taken the camera from me.  .  . “  At that I figured the lesson had reached it’s natural (albeit sarcastic) end.

 

I have no idea where we’ll go from here.  Lines so make a nice metaphor, though – no real beginning or ending point and so many experiences intersecting to make learning more complex and more interesting.   

 

The Morning Walk

With the relatively sure prospects of a rain-free morning, Audrey and I started what I hope becomes our morning ritual.  We dropped Niamh off at pre-K and walked up to her school.  This will never qualify her for the “When I was little I had to walk four miles to get to school” category.  It’s merely a couple of blocks through the Decatur Square.  Nevertheless, it’s a ritual that will take planning and will require us to allow at least an extra 20-30 minutes in the morning (perhaps less if it was anyone less paranoid about being late). 

 

The first thing I did not anticipate – although I’m not quite sure why – was Niamh’s reaction.  She wanted to walk there too.  It dawned on me again how these special times with Audrey that are happening because of her new schedule are special things her sister doesn’t get.  With that in mind, I plan on offering her the option of coming too in the morning since I’ll have to come back to get the car on Thursdays.  It just reminded me that I need to be more deliberate about planning special things for Niamh even if it means taking yet more time from the official work schedule. 

 

My second surprise – that it wasn’t this completely sweet, precious time together for 100% of the journey - o.k., not a complete surprise.  After dropping Niamh off, Audrey and I returned to the car where we gathered out things for the day.  Audrey had her huge backpack, and since it was her day to be snack helper, she had the plastic basket filled with the fruit ropes and string cheese.  I, on the other hand, had my laptop, my very large handbag, my book bag loaded down with the wonderful 600+ page Oxford Handbook of Organizational Theory among the many other readings I overzealously assigned this semester.  Oh yes, and for anyone who knows me, you know that I also had my coffee.  Thus, it looked like we were about to go on a week-long mountain excursion rather than just walk to school. 

 

We got ourselves adjusted for the experience.  Audrey started with the backpack on her back and attempted to also hold the basket.  It soon became obvious that this was not going to work for the entire walk.  She got frustrated trying to hold both, and then got equally frustrated trying just the backpack and then the snacks.  Ultimately I held the snacks part of the way and she managed as best she could with her backpack.

 

While this actually warrants its own blog entry, I feel commentary about backpacks is in order here.  When got our email from Audrey’s teacher, Mrs. Curtice, it listed the items she would need for school.  There were not many things on the list – Kleenex, a sock to wipe off white boards, etc.  The one thing that stood out to me was “a large backpack.”  Both Rick and I wondered, “Why would a kindergarten child NEED a LARGE backpack?”  I even emailed Mrs. Curtice to inquire.  Audrey has one of those cute little backpacks they monogram and sell in a little gift shop downtown.  It had served her quite well in pre-K.  I asked whether something that size would serve her in kindergarten.  Mrs. Curtice replied that she needed the larger backpack.  There would be times when she would bring home art, etc. that would probably not fit in a smaller one, and when she brings her lunch she will be able to put it in her backpack.  Rick certainly had commentary on the situation: the metaphor for the burden we place upon children from the beginning of school – a burden they will carry with them for the duration of their education.  At first I half-dismissed his commentary as, well, another installment of his commentary about schooling (as you might guess, we tend to have a lot of that at our house – from both of us).  But this morning it was so vividly true.  Our journey to the second day of school was significantly compromised by this large and mostly empty backpack.  The fact of the matter is that it does not fit the frame of a five-year-old girl – much like most public school kindergarten curriculum does not “fit” five year-olds today.  And like the backpack, much of that new hurried kindergarten curriculum is empty as well. 

 

Of course, while I am on the subject, I had to judge myself as well.  I carried my books because I had them at home most of the time – sneaking in twenty or thirty minutes wherever possible to get some of the 300+ pages of weekly reading done for classes.  I have to carry my laptop because I had them take the PC out of my office last year.  Without it I have to spend the day “unconnected.”  I clutched to the coffee cup out of habit.  I didn’t really drink in any the way (How could I while juggling my things as well as Audrey’s?).  So, I have to rethink my own priorities to figure out ways to keep myself from being burdened during our shared experiences.  Obviously I can forgo the coffee.  As for the books, I can attempt to be more disciplined and organized and find ways to keep them in the office or at least limit when I transport them to reduce the “burden.”  And perhaps I can make a deliberate attempt on some days to just go unconnected for a few hours.

 

In spite of our burdens, the overall walk was good.  If I were to rate it on some sort of “educative experience” rubric, it wouldn’t rank terribly high.  We noted mushrooms along the way but didn’t use it as a time to “re-teach” anything.  We also  had a teachable moment that involved problem solving.  Audrey stepped in a muddy area on the way and became quite distressed over mud on her sparkly shoes.  After she had some time to sulk, we stopped at the bench by the courthouse to assess the situation only to determine that what first appeared as mud was actually the brown in the shoes where the sparkles and pink had rubbed off.  Interestingly, that knowledge diffused her angst.  For whatever reason, having mud on her shoes was completely unacceptable.  Having worn shoes, on the other hand, was fine.  We joked, and I told her, “I guess understanding one problem that can’t be solved is just as good as solving a problem.”  Maybe that’s the lesson for me today too.  I can’t solve the problem of an empty kindergarten curriculum that burdens so many five-year-olds.  I can understand why it’s so problematic and try to help others envision alternatives, and hopefully when a critical mass of “stakeholders” start to envision those alternatives we can engage the larger public in moving toward more meaningful experiences for all children.

Serendipity, Mushrooms and a Host of Presumptions

First, before I jump into my first “experience” listing, I have to admit that I’m not really sure what real purpose this will serve.  Much like the whole premise of Facebook and Twitter, we write because??????  Do we think someone cares?  Are we trying to entertain?  Are there parents out there who are struggling to find images of what this sort of thing might look like on a daily basis?  Do I write this like I write some of my academic stuff – like I’m some sort of expert out there to “teach” or inform according to research, etc., or do I just tell a story?  I don’t have any sort of confident answer.  I hope that if, in fact, anyone chooses to read it, he/she/they will respond and question, challenge, etc. in ways that will shape the nature of the blog “discourse.”

 

That said, it’s on with the rambling.  .  .

 

Today was the first day of real school.  From 9 until 12, Audrey was in kindergarten.  I picked her up (after all, Tuesday is one of “my” days) and in response to her cries of hunger, I brought her home for lunch.  Habit set in.  The t.v. went on.  “Just a little while I fix your lunch.  . . “  Immediately the thought crossed my mind, “Boy, wouldn’t it be nice to let her watch a while and I could take a quick nap.  .  . “  My images of what I was supposed to be doing prevailed, and after lunch we turned off the t.v.  Initially I gave her choices on what to do: French on the computer, math games, reading, etc.  It became very apparent that she had no interest in academics for the moment – at least not in deliberately choosing from among the things I suggested.  Out of desperation, (I needed to wake up and she needed to get out of a silly spell) I suggested we first take the dogs for a walk.  As we walked, Audrey noticed a few mushrooms along the way.  “Aha.” I thought.  We started talking about mushrooms, stopping to “observe” them as we passed.  Noting the different colors, textures, etc.  Granted, this was all done while attempting to walk two less-than-well- behaved dogs around the neighborhood.  Finally I suggested that we drop the dogs off and do the walk again.  As we returned to the house, Audrey’s “teacher side” came out.  She suggested that we bring a camera and take pictures.  She also suggested we record what we saw.  It’s great having your “student” and your “teaching assistant “ one and the same person!

When we got back to the house, we gathered our things: the camera, a pad of paper and pencil, and baggies to collect samples.  As we retraced our steps we found countless mushrooms of various sizes, shapes, and colors.  We kept count with tally marks, brainstormed words to describe them, and talked about the conditions in which they were growing (damp areas, etc.).  Now, to be fully transparent here a bit of a rewinding is in order.  Right before the second trip out I tried to Google “Mushrooms” to have more background about mushrooms.  I guess having a nuclear physicist for a father pretty much destined me to hate science when I was growing up so, this is yet another thing about which I know very little.  When I showed the “facts” to Audrey, she dismissed them – not at all interested.  O.K., that direct appeal to “seeking knowledge” isn’t going to work here.  .  .

 

So instead we started at her level – what she was experiencing on that walk and her own questions and observations.  Well, for the most part her own – I DID direct those questions and observations at some level.   In addition to tallying the number of mushrooms we found, we also wrote down observations and questions – e.g. that the brown mushrooms tended to be bigger and have more variety in their shape, that the red mushrooms seemed to be the smallest and the yellow mushrooms were more likely to have bumpy textures, etc. 

 

Meanwhile, we also discussed line, pattern, and shade and determined that water colors would be the best art material to make pictures of mushrooms because of the way the shades of color came out on the mushrooms.  We also practiced estimating when we would encounter an entire yard covered in mushrooms.  When we saw a lawn with no mushrooms, we explored why that may be the case.   With the freshly made “lines” in the lawn, we concluded at one point that the owners had recently mowed and so they may have mowed over any mushrooms that would be in the yard. 

 

About half-way through the “walk,” Audrey was done.  She was getting tired – after all, she is five and is just now getting used to not having naps.  We still made observations and took pictures of unique mushrooms, but I tired to pick up the pace and ask fewer questions to respond to her fatigue.  Audrey coped by getting silly, singing mushroom songs, and making strange noises. 

 

A sad caveat punctuated the experience.  As we were nearing our home, we had to pass the elementary school where Audrey was supposed to go – the neighborhood school five doors down from our house.  The children were boarding buses.  You could tell long before rounding the corner and seeing the scene just because of the noise level.  Above the mangled “roar” of kids ready to go home came the screams of the bus drivers telling the kids to be quiet.  “They’re loud,” was Audrey’s only commentary as we passed the row of buses.  I wondered how the kindergarteners on the bus felt as their drivers (mostly large men with booming voices) screamed at them.  As we passed I thought about the world of exciting learning outside the school and thought that much like the mushrooms Audrey and I were “studying” – those meaningful experiences were overlooked – sacrificed within the official curricula of the school.  

The Imposter Syndrome

For a paper I was writing last year I came across the work of P.R. Clance and M.A. O'Toole (1988) about the "Imposter Syndrome."  They were addressing professors who, often because they are stretched too thin, feel as if they are feigning expertise in something they know very little about.  Having experienced this myself (34 different graduate classes in 8 years), I know too well the effects of the imposter syndrome in my "day job."  As a great deal of research indicates, faculty who experience the imposter syndrome as less effective as teachers.  They have to reconcile doubts about the subject matter, they often do not challenge students enough. and they do not provide the best sorts of feedback to ensure optimal individual and collective growth in classes.  

But what if we are imposters in our work with our own children?  How do we navigate - ideally, logistically, and relationally, those things that we do not "know" if we want our children to know them (feel free to use this as a spring board for all kinds of epistemological debates on the nature of knowing)?  For example, both Rick and I really want the girls to learn foreign language.  We are starting with French and hope to add Spanish as soon as we come across several hundred extra dollars to get the Spanish Rosetta Stone.  Now, short of vague recollections of Spanish instruction from junior high ("Senorita Adair, Chicle en la boca?   En la basura!"), a few profane words I recall from some of my middle schoolers in Gainesville years back, and what Dora teaches, I don't know Spanish.  Neither does Rick.  Neither of us know French either.  So, are we wrong to attempt to "teach" a foreign language we do not know ourselves?

At least at this point we're thinking, "O.K., they are four and five.  This is mostly a matter of exposure."  With that, we found "Hooked on French" (don't laugh - it was on sale at Borders) and we started with Audrey.  By virtue of it being computerized instruction, she loves it.  Both Rick and I take turns sitting with her and learning the modules as well.  So far I've learned to count to ten in French.  Rick has moved on to the next module or two, so I'll have to go in and catch up in between.  

At this point we're desperately trying to be playful with it all.  Learning should be fun, and this is something that we don't have to know - we want to learn it.  Every once and a while (like while on the train going downtown) we challenge Audrey to count the stations left in French.  We just try to be sensitive to any signs of frustration or general annoyance.  

What was exciting, however, was a scene that unfolded earlier this week.  I took Audrey to a coffee shop and we were playing math games with two large die and some Unifix cubes - counting by twos and adding up the dots on the die. All of a sudden, she took it upon herself to start counting in French instead of English and beamed because she could do it.  Of course, we had a bit of a problem when both die turned up with sixes - and we realized we didn't know how to say 12 in French.  I don't know what was more of an "aha" - how much fun it was for Audrey to "apply" what she was learning in a new context of her own choosing or the simultaneous realization that we both shared in something we didn't know.  And I'm not quite sure which of those two factors motivated the smile on her face the most.  

So, do we do wrong if we are imposters with our children?  I think the same factors play out at home that play out in the university classroom.  Not knowing something becomes the biggest problem when you act as if you know it.  You're only an imposter if you fake it.  In contrast, being transparent about one's limitations introduces a level of humility in the teaching relationship.  Granted, a little humility goes a long way and trying to "teach" something you don't know can have serious consequences overall.  But at least at this point I'm thinking that going on that journey together - at least as far as foreign language for fun goes - is going to be o.k. 

Curriculum of the Heart Introduction

I am beginning this blog as a commitment - not only to the blog itself but to the education of my children.  For years Rick and I have theorized about schooling, editorialized about what is going on in education today, and engaged in deep and meaningful discussions about the "what ifs" of the world.  Now we are compelled to put our ideas into practice.  

Our daughters, Audrey (5) and Niamh (4) are amazing human beings.  We've been so fortunate to spend the last five years experiencing parenthood.  Now it is officially time to become explicit "educators."  It all started when Audrey came "of age."  It's time for kindergarten.  We chose not to enroll her in the public school that's five doors down from our house.  While I spent 11 years as a public educator - elementary and middle school teacher and administrator - I just couldn't subject my daughter to what I see as an accountability and achievement culture that strips away meaning, excitement, and the honoring of the human spirit like I see in schools today.  Ultimately we enrolled her in a half-day program after serious discussions about home schooling.  Frankly, we just weren't ready for the realities of home schooling and didn't feel as if we had the kind of network that would make it work.  

Now we are "blessed" (all a matter of perspective, right?) with a half-day program that allows us to explore home schooling in a very controlled way.  She'll be getting her official kindergarten instruction from 9 until 1.  That means we can explore those grand "what ifs" that we've talked about for so long from 1 until we pick up her sister from her pre-K class.  Thus the blog.  I hope to chronicle the ups and downs - the approximations toward our ideals - through this space.

Of course, I'm not quite sure when I'll do it.  I'm challenging any and all friends who see this to continually bug me if I don't stay active in this space.  Negotiating time has already become our biggest challenge, and much like Maslow's hierarchy, that's got to be reconciled first before anything else of any significance can emerge.  Hopefully that will come soon with kindergarten starting next Tuesday.  

So, Connie (who first suggested a blog) here it is.  I'm excited to see where it goes from here.  . .