We could all presume that when I started this, it would be slightly inconsistent. In my head, summer time would mean catch-up time. As June draws to a close, we can see how well that is going. Feeble (and way too long, essay-like) attempts continued:
There are a lot of talents that I wanted my 16 miniature students to leave our classroom with having had improved upon. Our list of Big Goals hung by my desk as a daily reminder to give it the extra push. One thing I did not include on this list that will be included next year is to practice using our imaginations.
The first few months of school, I guess I expected children who were similar to the old videos I watch of me, my brother and our friends/cousins. Any item could be a princess (shampoo bottles). Lying to strangers about your identity is acceptable. One can switch roles in a heart beat from the bad guy to a mommy to the baby to a puppy, all before lunch. I went around and put random objects in centers, patting myself on the back for encouraging abstract, existential art and imagination. I saw them in my mind, picking up a strategically-placed cup and using it as a hat and telephone and liquid container. A long block could be a telephone and a hammer and a crib. Surely my students were trying to convey something about their emotions through the scribbles that thinned my crayons down to potential candle wax. I would witness the blooming of miniature anti-art artists, those who David Sedaris writes about in Me Talk Pretty One Day--particularly a man who decided to not have furniture, just a "nest" made of human hair and who suggested the art museum have an exhibit where they, simply, set the stairs on fire.
So I got carried away by ideas of students having magnificent ideas. ["What's the most resilient parasite? An idea. A single idea from the human mind can build cities."] Needless to say, the first few days and weeks of school went by. My styro-foam cups were untouched or just left with teeth marks. Blankets remained stacked. Blocks built towers that crumbled after 5-6 on top. Many children went and simply held toys or ran at them, enjoying the crash an entire four shelves of buckets of Discovery Center items makes. They seemed unsure of how to handle the wide variety of things meant for them. My ideas for them seemed to be wasted. I thought, but they are the kids. Surely they are the ones with less of a filter around the logical headquarters in our brains.
My assistant pointed something out: think of the home visits we conducted; these children didn't have cabinets or rooms full of play items; this is probably overwhelming and a chance to indulge without knowing the rules. She was right. Back to square one.
I started hiking up my skirts to kneel down to "think" out loud in the Blocks center: I think I am going to use these blocks to make a bridge. Oh, there is a map with words in here? I am going to use this and maybe build a grocery store for my car to stop by. I would get up from crafty art projects I wanted to administer to stop by the Dramatic Play center: I am going to spread out this blanket for a picnic blanket and use this block as a phone to call my friends and ask them what they would like to eat so I can order it for us to eat. I'll write it down on this paper. A pretend conversation would ensue between me and no one, and, soon enough, one student was taking orders on his paper cell phone. After multiple days exploring our materials, I saw kids delivering mail, pretending they were on a computer and assigning roles in a set-up house situation. I tried to give them as many ideas as possible. Often, before we would go to centers, I would use our weekly theme to encourage imaginations. I wrapped myself in blankets to be in a cocoon. I would plan what I wanted to build/prepare but purposely not plan materials so that my kids could witness me scanning the room and grabbing random objects to use.We took turns wearing Josh's old swim trunks to be at the beach. We used blocks to build a zoo. We built a fire hydrant and pretended to put a fire out. We talked about how it was OK to be your favorite princess or superhero. Soon playground confusion turned into "she is Snow White, and the witch has that apple, and so I know I have to go save her." Thumbs up.
Soon, it became scary what I was encouraging, simply for feeling thankful my students were starting to see beyond ordinary objects, and limits had to be set. I had one student, a little younger than the rest, who would come in everyday, eyebrows so sharply pointed they could cut, throw his backpack on the floor, make muscles and growl. He would pant and heave as he pounded towards other students, refusing to put his backpack away or sit criss-cross applesauce on the carpet. He was just being the Incredible Hulk, but this often created a grouch out of this boy who would rather make a toy tiger attack the turtle or race cars on other children than sit nicely. So instead of simply saying, "wow, [name] feels angry this morning, but let's sing our good-morning song," this student and I have set appropriate times to be the Hulk. Centers and the playground are always OK--run around and use all those muscles.
Lunch, obviously, can be questionable--in line has proven to not work, and his way of "eating" like the Hulk isn't helpful. It is, however, the only way I found that worked to get my very dependent little boy to attempt to open his milk. I would squeeze the carton to 98% open, he would look up at me and say, "can I be the Hulk now?" One scrunched-up face, use of tiny muscles and a white puddle later, he would smile and say, "I did it!" I try to smile and nod. The Hulk can do anything. And that, boys and girls, is the idea behind it all.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Fear of Swimming. Or is it Sinking?
After sending my mom the link for this blog, she immediately replied, supportive as ever. I had mentioned wishing I could more clearly remember being three, and this wasn't hard for her--a memory that has physical proof that time has gone by and probably of bratty little girl:
"When you were three, you were living in a fantasy land of Dorothy [from the Wizard of Oz]. You had Julie as your friend, and you loved to wear pink. You were telling [little brother] Dane how it was, as well as telling me a few things. You loved books and little figurines and your blond hair. Your life was pretty great, probably more so than some/most of your students, but you loved learning, and we cheered each little accomplishment. Is this helping at all?"
Mom, as usual, you are so helpful. As the scenery has changed in my life, whether it be going to college, abroad or a new job, I seem to have moments where I am dunked into a bucket of cold water where I come out seeing clear: I have been blessed. I have grown up with love, hope and faith instilled in every action, every decision, any dream. If I jump into pool, chances are I'll want to learn to swim, even if I feel complete fear; the option of sinking never outshone the success in simply trying. I thank my parents, community, teachers and friends.
Now I have a class of students who, for one reason or another, might not be cheered for every little accomplishment. Life is rough; when one is hungry or jobless or homeless or in jail or working two jobs, singing the ABCs or practicing shapes or counting or singing or pretending might seem annoying or might slip between the cracks of tough cards that are dealt. I point no fingers except to poverty and traditions of a system and, most apparent, a hurricane. The children here are parts of families that had to move a few times, stay in trailers, move here for the cheap rent or construction/re-opening fast-food jobs or that, in the midst of the storm, just got started too early or with a sudden loss of resources. There isn't always time or money or undoubted faith or worth-it optimism to encourage, teach or practice what many other parents would consider vital to a toddler's upbringing.
I therefore see fear in faces that are too young to show that type of fear--the type that considers failure or disappointment. Older students I tutor throw standardized tests on the floor because they "can't." I have one pre-school student who already makes up excuses if he is called to the board. "Oh, there is something in my eye," he'll say as he avoids eye contact and any other response. My goal became, no matter if we got up to 20 when counting or recognizing the letters of the week, to talk about which things I was proud of for every student. To find multiple ways of encouraging every student and making each child feel learning is always possible, safe and loved. That is the most important. Even if that means saying, "I love the way you tried to clean up your friend's milk, but next time let's use a napkin instead of your own, long hair. But aren't you a great friend?" And, when the teacher does it enough, the students started to believe in their friends, and that is the best. We all cried, "yoooouuuuu did it!" for students completing a pattern or ordering smallest to largest. Encouragement instills in us something I maybe I have taken for granted.
I just finished Randy Pausch's The Last Lecture. (Read it.) He was a man fighting pancreatic cancer, knowing he was about to leave a wife and three children. As he collected advice from friends who grew up with parents who died, he was told the most important thing he could do was to somehow make sure his kids know every day, through thick and thin, they are loved.
I wish unfaltering belief in someone was a physical thing, something we could give someone to keep in his/her pocket so that, years down the road, when there is doubt and fear and failure looming, we could unfold the belief someone has in us, and it would fight like Alice's Vorpal sword.
Ever since the storm, there has been an enforcement within my community of knowing how to swim. It is part of the students' day to be bussed to another school with a pool for lessons. But the children at my school are scared of the water. Like, really scared of it. They know how it envelopes houses, cars, pets, toys, family members. And there sometimes isn't enough encouragement that says, "you can do it." Doubt and past experiences weigh heavily. It is not that they are scared of swimming, though. They are just more familiar with the fear of sinking. And they deserve for that perspective to change.
"When you were three, you were living in a fantasy land of Dorothy [from the Wizard of Oz]. You had Julie as your friend, and you loved to wear pink. You were telling [little brother] Dane how it was, as well as telling me a few things. You loved books and little figurines and your blond hair. Your life was pretty great, probably more so than some/most of your students, but you loved learning, and we cheered each little accomplishment. Is this helping at all?"
Mom, as usual, you are so helpful. As the scenery has changed in my life, whether it be going to college, abroad or a new job, I seem to have moments where I am dunked into a bucket of cold water where I come out seeing clear: I have been blessed. I have grown up with love, hope and faith instilled in every action, every decision, any dream. If I jump into pool, chances are I'll want to learn to swim, even if I feel complete fear; the option of sinking never outshone the success in simply trying. I thank my parents, community, teachers and friends.
Now I have a class of students who, for one reason or another, might not be cheered for every little accomplishment. Life is rough; when one is hungry or jobless or homeless or in jail or working two jobs, singing the ABCs or practicing shapes or counting or singing or pretending might seem annoying or might slip between the cracks of tough cards that are dealt. I point no fingers except to poverty and traditions of a system and, most apparent, a hurricane. The children here are parts of families that had to move a few times, stay in trailers, move here for the cheap rent or construction/re-opening fast-food jobs or that, in the midst of the storm, just got started too early or with a sudden loss of resources. There isn't always time or money or undoubted faith or worth-it optimism to encourage, teach or practice what many other parents would consider vital to a toddler's upbringing.
I therefore see fear in faces that are too young to show that type of fear--the type that considers failure or disappointment. Older students I tutor throw standardized tests on the floor because they "can't." I have one pre-school student who already makes up excuses if he is called to the board. "Oh, there is something in my eye," he'll say as he avoids eye contact and any other response. My goal became, no matter if we got up to 20 when counting or recognizing the letters of the week, to talk about which things I was proud of for every student. To find multiple ways of encouraging every student and making each child feel learning is always possible, safe and loved. That is the most important. Even if that means saying, "I love the way you tried to clean up your friend's milk, but next time let's use a napkin instead of your own, long hair. But aren't you a great friend?" And, when the teacher does it enough, the students started to believe in their friends, and that is the best. We all cried, "yoooouuuuu did it!" for students completing a pattern or ordering smallest to largest. Encouragement instills in us something I maybe I have taken for granted.
I just finished Randy Pausch's The Last Lecture. (Read it.) He was a man fighting pancreatic cancer, knowing he was about to leave a wife and three children. As he collected advice from friends who grew up with parents who died, he was told the most important thing he could do was to somehow make sure his kids know every day, through thick and thin, they are loved.
I wish unfaltering belief in someone was a physical thing, something we could give someone to keep in his/her pocket so that, years down the road, when there is doubt and fear and failure looming, we could unfold the belief someone has in us, and it would fight like Alice's Vorpal sword.
Ever since the storm, there has been an enforcement within my community of knowing how to swim. It is part of the students' day to be bussed to another school with a pool for lessons. But the children at my school are scared of the water. Like, really scared of it. They know how it envelopes houses, cars, pets, toys, family members. And there sometimes isn't enough encouragement that says, "you can do it." Doubt and past experiences weigh heavily. It is not that they are scared of swimming, though. They are just more familiar with the fear of sinking. And they deserve for that perspective to change.
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