Homework Lamentations

I hate homework. This is not a simple exasperation from a mom tired of sitting at the kitchen table. No, this is an enduring hate that began years ago. I do not remember much about the daily homework I had as a student (in and of itself an indictment for the hours wasted on it). I’m sure I hated it. Don’t all kids? I do recall some meaningful projects completed at home. I remember writing fifty poems out and putting them in a folder in fifth grade – all poems written with different magic markers and illustrated. While I now question the merit of such an assignment, I have to admit that I learned to love poetry spending all that time writing the poems. I also remember the card table I had in the corner of the living room while I spent an entire spring break working diligently on the seventh grade science report sbout nuclear incidents. I remember the essays I had to write for AP English – and how I seemed to park myself at the dining room table for days, pouring over the text to try to make it sound “smart.” I also remember the one writing project that made me really think – trying to explore whether Daniel Defoe developed his characters as a way to justify his own life choices. I also remember projects that were more a test of endurance for my parents than any measure of learning – the ocean diorama in fifth grade, the “art” project where my mom sewed felt on a Pringle can so I could make it into a dog.

My true disdain for homework began when I became a teacher. As a new teacher I was informed that I had to give homework. I didn’t see the point in asking my second graders to do work at home if I’d done my job in the classroom. And selfishly, I really didn’t want that much more to grade. I was taking home a folder for each of 20-24 students every night and grading page after page of spelling, math, writing, etc. Why would I want to add even more to grade? Nevertheless, I complied. And what is the best subject for elementary homework? Why, spelling of course. It’s not the best because students need that much reinforcement in spelling. It’s the best because it’s the easiest to assign. “Write your words three times each. Use them in a sentence. Write definitions for each.” Who didn’t have this as homework in elementary school? I’d be willing to bet most if not all of us had this kind of experience at one point or another. Sadly, I must admit that I administered the same tasks to my poor students in those early years. In part to save myself from a paperwork nightmare and in part because I began to realize the crazy lives of families, I soon told families that they had the week to do the assignments. They could turn it all in on Friday. If they chose to do it all in one day it would be fine.

After a year or two of the angst-inducing spelling homework, I finally decided that homework should be individualized. To do this, I developed contracts with each family. I reasoned that parents knew their children’s needs and their needs as families, so they could determine what would be reasonable and supportive for their children. I would be a resource. When my assistant principal saw a copy of the contact a student left in the hallway, I thought she was going to have a heart attack. It scared her. What would others think if they learned that MY parents could negotiate homework for their children?!

When I started teaching seventh grade language arts, I shifted my focus in homework. I tried to think of things that students would actually want to do – to see a genuine need to do. If they had homework in vocabulary, it was to support what we were doing in class and had natural benefits (as well as extra credit). At other times I’d offer extra credit for crazy assignments: “Turn your t.v. off for a minimum of fifteen minutes and talk as a family – eye contact while talking is a plus.” At other times I would give extra credit to students if they listened to “My Word” on NPR or if they taught their parents the kooky grammar songs I’d taught them in class. The administration never complained. The kids were learning.

Now, I’m on the true dark side of homework: the parent. I wince at the one-size-fits-all obligatory and mindless work my daughter is bringing home. My only consolation at this point is that she is in second grade, so the time we spend on it is minimal. As she gets older and the stakes get higher, I can only imagine my frustration. I resent the time the school will steal from our family – time that should be spent in meaningful ways and in warm conversations, fun time together, quiet moments, and actually learning.

I’m plotting for those days. I’m thinking that there has to be a way to demand that work my children are asked to do is reasonable and leads to growth. Perhaps there’s a way to develop a 504 plan for my girls that excludes all homework that is more concerned with the perception of rigor than actual support of learning. Perhaps I could argue in these plans that my children cannot be exposed to irrelevant and mind-numbing wastes of time. I could argue that in order to support their health and well-being, the school must ensure that their time at home be spent engaged in meaningful experiences with family. Now THAT would be a form of accountability – being held accountable that the well-being of children and their families are protected at night – that I could support.

Dear Grandview, Oh how I miss you!

Yet another year has passed without much attention to the blog. While not an excuse, we’ve moved yet again, and much of last year was spent either getting used to a new community or preparing to move on to yet another.

The hardest part of our move this year was leaving Bellevue and Grandview Elementary. We were so fortunate to be part of the Grandview community last year, and our girls could not have had better teachers. Both Mrs. Skirvin and Mrs. Grever were absolutely fantastic. Our girls grew so much in their classes. Yes, they learned a great deal and experienced “success” on all measures that the schools and state of Kentucky thought were important. More importantly, they grew in their love and excitement about learning. They became more comfortable with who they are, and they learned how to be part of something bigger than themselves.

Now we are in the early weeks of Public School #2. I have to confess that it is very hard to not compare this school with Grandview as much as I realize it is not fair to do so. Grandview is truly unique, and I cannot imagine many schools achieving what they have.

Nevertheless, we cannot help but compare the two schools to some degree – not as a matter of blame, but as a way to try to better understand the context in which we find ourselves. The first issue we’ve had to overcome is the loss of the community school. Everyone walked to Grandview and chatted along the way; they also walked into the school where Mrs. Simpkins, the principal, greeted them, and they were able to say good morning to the teachers. We underestimated the importance of this sense of community. We knew the kids and their parents (or grandparents). We were able to have simple “running jokes” with the teachers that may or may not directly relate to the kids. We were able to handle challenges because we celebrated the mundane together.

Now we are in a school that has combined communities. It is located on a hill (after all, we live in a mountainous area), so there is no feasible way to park and walk into the school. Everyone arrives at the school either by car or bus. I do not know the parents. I hardly know the teachers or the rest of the school staff. The school is a big (albeit new) box in which my children enter each day and upon which they exit at the end of the day. As newcomers to the area, we area struggling with trying to help the girls make friends. After all, we cannot strike up conversations with their parents as we come to school in the morning or while we stand outside at the end of the day like we did before. We send notes home with the other children in hopes that their parents will respond. In addition, we try to interpret policies for homework, school rules, and district policies. Where we may have just asked the teacher or principal in passing last year to clarify something, now we have to rely on assumptions or draft emails in hopes to get clarification from teachers or others

I realize this is common in schools. Most schools are not community schools. Even those that are (and while in Atlanta I was a substitute at a number of them in Decatur), most parents are kept at safe distance on the front lawn most days. I also realize that such connection inside the school could become distracting and keep the teachers from preparing for the day. After all, I was an elementary school teacher and administrator in the past. I realize how precious that early morning time is. Nevertheless, Grandview managed to create a welcoming space for families in the morning. Further, families rarely – if ever – abused the privilege of entering the building. In exchange for their creating this space, Mrs. Simpkins and the teachers created a vibrant community that clearly demonstrated that educating the children of Grandview was a community effort.

My challenge to our girls’ current school – and for all schools stuck on hills (literal or metaphorical) is to create spaces where you can be community schools. I truly believe much of what affects truancy, discipline, etc. (all factors in AYP) could be drastically improved in schools if parents felt more connected. Creating and sustaining shared and welcoming spaces for all the stakeholders in the children’s lives is not so radical. It would take so little in terms of time or other resources. The one dwindling resource most critical, however, would be imagining what is possible.

The Seduction of Measurement

For as long as I can remember I’ve been part of a growing crusade of scholars gnashing their intellectual teeth on the accountability movement. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve quoted Eisner saying, “What gets measured is what matters”. . . . well, let’s just say my house would not need a new paint job and I’d not be the one scraping old wallpaper off the downstairs half-bath. I am a huge fan of Alfie Kohn, Deborah Meier, and Susan Ohanian. I’ve played the Harry Chapin “Not on the Test” song over and over again. In other words, I despise the testing culture of schools and all it represents.

Well, hardly two weeks into the school year have passed, and we got Niamh’s first DIBELS standardized test score. There it was, all nicely plotted on a spreadsheet: our daughter’s scores in both initial sound fluency and letter naming fluency. We saw the difference between the actual score and the “August goal,” and smiled. Yikes! We weren’t supposed to do that. Tests can’t measure the degree to which our daughter loves to read, where her mind travels as she reads, and the ideas that burst forth afterwards. This is just some simple instrument administered to every child in kindergarten. Surely the thought that she was “better” than some didn’t make us happy. That would be horrible to celebrate the lack of literary skills among her classmates if such existed. So why did we smile?

The power of certainty in a number is quite seductive. Right there in black and white we can SEE clear evidence of our daughter’s brilliance. It is instant affirmation of all our glowing adoration. Who wouldn’t be happy to see that? Of course, we make the numbers “say” whatever we want or need them to say. Is one score necessarily indicative of high achievement? Brilliance? Being better than others? Soon after we smiled, of course, we returned to our critically transitive postures (or at least some approximation thereof). No, it doesn’t really mean much. So many things mean far more. However, that moment of weakness – that smile – made me far less accusatory to all the parents out there. For years I’ve lamented that parents just don’t “get it.” They don’t see the need to fight back against all the accountability culture that is ruining our schools. Now, I have to see that we are all susceptible to the seduction of those test scores. I just hope I can fight the good fight along with as many parents as possible in spite of whatever seductive reports may come our way.

My Plea for Niamh

It has been a very long time since I've written a post. Since the early postings we’ve moved to Kentucky. The girls are now in public school in Bellevue, and the long afternoons together seem like ages ago. I wouldn’t trade the year for anything. It did teach me that “home schooling” – even part time – is incredibly taxing. I also learned that good intentions aren’t enough. So many times other agendas controlled the order of the day.

So now we are facing the long road ahead known as “public education” and how our girls will fare within it. It’s that thing we’ve written about for years. We’ve studied it and theorized about it. Now it is upon us in the form of Grandview Elementary.

When Rick and I started looking in the area, trying to decide where to live, we visited a lot of schools. There were a few that seemed fairly impressive. Some of them, however, were in communities that came with a great deal of baggage. “Oh, they don’t respond well to outsiders there,” or “It really matters there whether you live on the north or south side of town.” These were phrases that pushed us away from some communities and their schools – however progressive the schools may have seemed. Then we walked into Grandview. It was vibrant. The principal was incredibly energetic. They seemed to work really hard to support all students and to ensure that “haves” and “have nots” were not easy to discern. Lots of parents were there when we visited. Everyone seemed incredibly happy to be there. We were hooked. We told the realtor to only show us homes in Bellevue.

Now we are in the second week of school. We are both still very happy with the school. I think for public school you really cannot get much better than Grandview. Nevertheless, we are still confronted with all that is “public school,” and what that may ultimately mean for our girls. Granted, part of my angst may come from reading Ken Robinson at the same time school is beginning. In his book, Out of Our Minds, he challenges the ways schools have killed creativity in many ways. He doesn’t lay the complete burden of this problem on the schools. Society has certainly demonstrated a very narrow view of intelligence and achievement. He does note, and I agree, that schools are the primary instrument we use to kill creativity in youth.

As I read and as I think about the very real changes in our family as we enter the public education phase of our children’s lives, I can’t help but wonder about how my girls will change over the next 12 years and how much of that will be shaped by their schools. The reality really hits when I stop and watch Niamh. She is a bundle of creative energy. For years now she has tried to stay awake at night by creating her own dramas. Sometimes I walk by her room at night and see her using her dolls (or her hands on the nights when we take the dolls away) to enact dramatic skits with different characters all exhibiting different voices, moods, etc. Other nights I hear what appear to be full-blown operas with protagonists, antagonists, vibrant lyrics, and a variety of plot twists. When she and her sister play make-believe, Niamh is typically the one who sets up the storyline. When she is coloring, the characters on the page take on life-like qualities. It’s not just a two-dimensional form on a page to fill-in. It’s a princess calling out to her “honey” about some exciting event.

In addition to her drama, Niamh SEES things. She notices all sorts of nuances in the world and she makes connections between things that would seem so idiosyncratic to the average person. She connects things in nature to movies, songs, things she may have experienced a long time ago. Not only that, but seeing things gets her so excited. When one thing reminds her of another she gets her wonderfully big grin and looks like she is about to burst unless she shares what she has seen.

Rick and I have often wondered what Niamh’s bundle of imaginative energy looks like in the classroom. We’ve always gotten wonderful reports about her behavior, so we have to assume that the temperamental outbursts that sometimes come with this imaginative spirit are reigned in while in formal institutions of learning. While we appreciate this, we can’t help but wonder whether the creative energy itself isn’t likewise reigned in, and if so, what does that mean if she feels she has to turn off her creative spirit – that spirit that defines her – in order to do well in school.

We’ve seen an unsettling example of this during homework this week. For the past two nights Niamh has had a worksheet where she has to practice her letters. For the record, I don’t object to handwriting practice, and I know that she needs to review her letters for the sake of what is expected in kindergarten and first grade. Niamh was particularly frustrated the first night because she felt she was being forced to write big letters. The paper had the very wide lines with the dotted lines in the center – designed to be more developmentally appropriate for kindergarten students. But Niamh loves to write her letters with a very small font. She was initially rebellious and protested, “My teacher wants me to write big!” However, by the second day her protests subsided and she had accepted the required font size. Much of this, I am sure, is a direct result of her adoration of her teacher, Mrs. Skirvin. She wanted to please her. If that meant writing her letters bigger than she otherwise preferred, then so be it. While she was practicing her B’s, Niamh danced, laughed, and imagined the bumps of the B’s as bellies. At one point, however, she made a B almost identical to the B on the worksheet. She stopped, grew excited, and declared, “I made a REAL one. I made a real B.” She then ran into the next room with the paper to show Rick.

I was left quite unsettled at the kitchen table as she ran into the other room. What are we doing if we teach her that there is such a thing as a “real B” versus the creative bellied B’s (some of which she’d given accessories) on her page? I know she wasn’t directly “taught” that there is such a thing as a real B in her kindergarten class, but after only five days in a public school she had somehow managed to learn that there are right ways to do things and being creative doesn’t have anything to do with being right. In fact, it could very well prevent you from being right. While a “real B” isn’t necessarily an educational tragedy in and of itself, I still worry about all the other lessons both she and Audrey will hear about what is “right” and what is “real,” and how that will shape their views of themselves and their world.

So, I guess my plea to Mrs. Skirvin , Niamh’s wonderful kindergarten teacher, and Mrs. Simpkins, the wonderful principal of Grandview, is that in spite of all the powers that are trying to destroy creativity and enforce a culture of compliance, please save spaces in your school for the amazing potential of imaginative spirits. Honor SEEING and animated BEING along with the standards. I know this is a lot to ask, but when I think about what is at risk - both in my own home and in society itself – how can I/we not ask?

The Lived Experience

When pressed for my own definition of curriculum in curriculum classes, I often resort to “the shared lived experience” and then go into animated elaborations from Dewey, Van Manen, etc.  I argue that we need to see curriculum as something much bigger and much more complex than what a teacher has officially written down in a lesson plan book or what a company has outlined within a reform model.  In many ways, this “definition” is a default response to something exciting and complex – something that should, by its very nature, defy simple defining. 

 

This week I encountered a very real lived experience with Audrey that brought this image home.  I had to go to campus to sign a letter.  Audrey and I took the train with the intention of running in, taking care of the task, and then quickly returning home.  It was one of those days when the “to do” list would win out over more deliberate learning opportunities – or at least that is what I thought at the time. 

 

On the way home on the train a gentleman stood near us.  By the nature of his smell and appearance, it was pretty clear that he was homeless.  As soon as the train left the Five Points platform, the man walked to the center of the aisle right in front of us and began his speech:  “I was just released from Grady.  Somebody hit me over the head last night.  I was at Grady and somebody stole all my money.  They took my wallet and my money.  I’m not asking for money.  I just need food.  Does anyone have anything I could eat?”  After a brief silence a woman sitting near us held out the take-out container that held the remains of her lunch.  “Here.  You can have this,”  She said.  Sincerely grateful, the man took the container, walked back to the corner, and quickly ate its contents. 

 

Audrey was wide-eyed throughout the experience.  Then the questions followed.  “What happened to that man?”  “Why is he homeless?”  “Why did someone hit him?”  For the remainder of the trip home we talked about people who are homeless, hungry, and hurting.  I reminded her that the nights her dad leaves to go to the freeze shelter at church he is going to help people like that man – people who need a place to sleep when it gets so cold.  We talked about how the food we sometimes bring to church goes to help feed others who are hungry.  We also talked about how sad we were that we weren’t prepared to help this man on the train.  As we continued our way home from the train, we talked about putting together bags of food or food coupons to help others when we travel on the train or walk downtown.

 

Throughout the experience I was kicking myself.  I have planned for some time to have those “bags” of crackers, coupons, or something to give out when I encounter homeless around campus.  Here was a chance to “show” Audrey a way to be compassionate to the marginalized, and I was unprepared.  I felt as if I’d let her down.  Since that experience I’ve shifted my focus from the “experience” to consider the other part of that default definition I often give: lived.  Together Audrey and I experienced a lived moment of disappointment in ourselves- of recognition that there was more that we could do, and a feeling of sadness that we weren’t prepared to help someone in need.  We ended the experience with a new determination to be prepared next time.  Since then she has recalled the experience a number of times – telling her dad and her sister about it, considering levels of poverty and what it means to not have a home.  She has since learned through discussion that not all homeless are men and not all homeless are old – even children can be hungry and homeless.  She has also stopped asking to go and get “treats” every time we go out.  Granted, this hasn’t’ stopped completely, but I think she stops and thinks about that man and how he needed basic food – not treats. 

 

So, perhaps that brief encounter on the train did not instantly turn into an educative experience as I had always imagined.  It wasn’t an opportunity for me to whip out some pre-determined homeless support packet to demonstrate what a socially concerned person SHOULD do.  Instead, I think it was a chance for Audrey and I to live together in our wishes and our fallibility – to encounter an opportunity where we saw ways in which we could be better for others.  After all, if curriculum is the “shared lived experience,” then we need to be as mindful of the living as we are of the experience itself. 

 

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.