This is the second post in a series of children’s poetic reflections on their architecture projects. You can read more about their projects in earlier posts on this blog tagged with “architecture” as well as here.
The Fire Fighter Station/Gymnastics Place
We put the roof on top and it can move a little.
A door that opens and closes
If there’s ever a fire, you just run inside for help.
When you’re all done with the slide, you can just lift it up.
I wanted to do that to the ladder too.
We had to take one thing at a time.
When we make it we had to think up ideas
And when it falls apart we have to do it again.
It’s a place to go and do gymnastics, like I do gymnastics.
The Shoe Factory
The roof is pretty crazy.
It looks like something that I don’t know what it is.
There are 3 rooms.
I made a model first.
I thought of the idea because my auntie told me about it.
This one won’t break because it has glue and not tape and it’s made out of wood.
I worry about our dance parties. Do we have too many of them? Is there such a thing as too much dancing?
I worry about our artwork too. Clay, paint, wire, beads, pastels, collage, photography, murals… how much art is enough?
And the dramatic play – goodness, that never stops.
Then there are the marching bands and the singing – what a racket!
Is it all too much? When do we get down to the real school work? How will we know when we do?
I worry that other people think it’s too much, that parents may think it’s too much, that some nebulous person in the upper echelons may disapprove. My husband says I worry too much; he’s probably right.
Elementary school teachers have to be all things to all students. We have to teach everything; unlike our secondary colleagues we don’t have the luxury of teaching only to our strengths.
Don’t feel confident with History, Math, or Music? Too bad, you’re teaching it.
Fake it ’till you make it – that’s my usual advice. Kids pick up on your enthusiasm (or lack thereof) and if you present the material with a sigh, they’ll feel your wariness and trepidation and adopt it as their own. How much of our own math anxiety was actually inherited from teachers who themselves were anxious about teaching math? Young children love to play with numbers and quantity. How much of that excitement is drained away when teachers approach teaching math in the same way they approach a rendezvous with a root canal?
So, that’s my usual advice – find an entry point that you’re comfortable with, slap on a smile, and give er’. Say YES, as Tina Fey would advise.
But then I heard comedian Jessica Holmes speak at a conference. While much of her presentation was light and hilarious, toward the end she became more reflective. One of the the things she said that stuck with me was this:
“It’s harder to get good at something you’re bad at than it is to get better at something you’re great at.”
Hmm… that’s interesting advice for teachers. In education, we’re always looking for places to improve, doing gap analyses to find out where we can grow – usually that’s because there are things we’re not doing very well. You’ll get no argument from me that there are things we should improve in schools. I’m not suggesting that we stop trying, not at all. But, how often are we looking at things that we already do really well and asking ourselves how we can do them better? How often do we get to direct our energies towards our passions? How great would that be?!?
That’s where I’m at as we slide towards the summer holidays. We have 5 weeks left together and I’m going to keep the arts humming in my class. Not because we’re not working on the rest of the curriculum – we are – but because it’s what I’m great at and the kids deserve to be with adults who are pursuing their passions with a smile.
I have a confession to make (I think I may need a support group).
My name is Emily and I was a gifted child.
Joking aside, it’s something that I always feel awkward admitting – a bit shameful. It smacks of elitism, this gifted label. “What, you think you’re better than me?” I don’t. I really don’t. I know all about the pitfalls of intelligence testing, of narrow definitions of intelligence, of sub-tests that were later thrown out. The day I took the intelligence tests is one of my few clear memories of early elementary school. I can remember tearing through the verbal/analytical part, flying through the general knowledge, and grinding to a halt at the spatial reasoning – darn those puzzles. Was there a puzzle of a duck? I’m pretty sure there was.
I can remember being called to a little room by one of my classmates as she returned from her test and being told to fetch the next child when I came back. Neither of them joined the program. The reasons why we were chosen for testing and why we did or didn’t get invited to join the program were mysterious to us. No one ever explained and the whole thing was spoken of in hushed tones.
My parents were very uncomfortable with the whole thing – embarrassed even. My scores weren’t something I should ever talk about – I didn’t even know what they were until I found them as an adult – I knew not to ask. I can remember telling a friend about what we did ‘in gifted’ and being admonished not to talk about it – I might make her feel badly. As a child it was very confusing but as I got older I started to understand more about the complications of privilege. What we did at school on Wednesdays during our pull-out program wasn’t a subject of conversation at school or at home but, and here’s the kicker, it was, by far, the best day of my week. From grade 5 to grade 8 I lived for Wednesdays and from grade 9 to grade 13 I survived because of the space that the school allotted for gifted students to work and hang out and the events that they organized for us.
So here’s the rub; I’m torn in two directions about giftedness. On the one hand, I question whether it even exists. Aren’t all children gifted in some way? Children have so many gifts, so many talents, and so many ways of communicating them. Doesn’t a narrow intelligence test reduce all of that complexity to a falsely simplistic score that can’t possibly capture all of the miraculous diversity of children’s potential? Yes, yes, and yes. But then, there’s this first hand-experience of being outside of the norm, feeling different, weird even, and of being saved and supported by the very elitist programming that supports children who, popular wisdom tells us, will succeed regardless of what we do, even in spite of us.
So where does all of that angsty internal conflict leave me when it comes to my own classroom and to the children in my classes whose abilities lie outside of the bounds of that famous bell curve? It leaves me flumoxed sometimes, to be honest.
When I was in grade 5, we learned (in gifted class, of course) about Bloom’s taxonomy. We learned that acquiring knowledge about a subject – which was what we did most of the time in our regular classrooms – was only the beginning of learning. We were aiming higher, towards the upper echelons of the pyramid. Analysis… synthesis… evaluation… onward!
This type of learning typified my experiences in those special classes – we were always pushed to go deeper, to think bigger, to look at problems from another perspective, frankly, to do what I now call “inquiry learning.” Subjects were never assigned to us; we got to choose what interested us. I can remember creating personal utopias and doing research in Dance History. I even worked for the local Provincial Member of Parliament – I was 13. Follow your interests, that was the mantra. Imagine if school had been like that every day. Would the program have even been necessary?
Today Bloom’s Taxonomy looks different. A new level has been added to the top of the pyramid: creating.
So where does that leave us in Kindergarten, when creating is at the foundation of everything we do? For our students, knowledge doesn’t come first – it’s not a prerequisite – it often grows out of their creativity, not the other way around. Children are creating from the very first day they come into the classroom; they’re creating from the day they’re born. How do we frame this notion of giftedness when we’re tackling learning from a completely flipped point of view?
Another story: When I was in grade 6, our teacher decided that we needed an extra challenge so she chose a few students who would use a different spelling book for weekly dictations. They were small pink books – hard words lived inside. Each week, we would wait for our turn to have our own, super-hard words and sentences read out for our special dictation. While I am grateful that I can spell chrysanthemum (that may have more to do with Anne of Green Gables than with grade 6 spelling), this experience represents for me the worst of what enriched programming can be. Too often, our attempts to challenge kids just mean giving them more of the same; more surface learning, more rote learning, more but not better.
What I am most thankful for in Ontario’s Kindergarten program is that it gives all children the opportunities that I only got on Wednesdays. In our class we spend most of our time creating and that provides children whose interests and gifts lie all over the bell curve with regular opportunities to problem solve and to ask big questions. Children’s questions are spectacularly different. Their play is as diverse as they are and sometimes what they do doesn’t fall into a neat, academic, curricular box. But I have, without question, observed children who I’m going to call gifted (for lack of a better term) find challenges for themselves in play. I have had students who have led read-alouds in their second year of Kindergarten. I’ve had students learn how to crochet, knit, and play complicated string games. I’ve had students create their own fashion designs. I’ve also had students create marble runs and block structures of incredible complexity. Today I had a student describe a long narrative about her block structure; she has a spectacular imagination. Last week, FI problem-solved how he could create trusses for his roof using tongue depressors.
It is often challenging to stay ahead of them, to remain nimble enough to meet their needs in a large classroom. But I am heartened that, if education can remain focused on creativity, great learning will follow. Like water trickling down the side of the Bloom’s pyramid, we will get to the knowledge if we start at the top.
We are lucky enough to have an education researcher who visits our classroom once a week to give us feedback on our work and to help us collect documentation. This week, as we were debriefing, he looked quizzically at me and remarked… “hey, I’ve noticed you don’t have a dramatic play centre any more.” It’s true – we don’t. We haven’t for a few weeks and I’m pretty sure that last year we stopped having one at around the same time of year. Here’s why: we don’t need one.
I’ve started each of the past three years with some kind of dramatic play area – often a play kitchen – set up in the classroom. We’ve allowed this to morph into other things: a pet store, a forest, a doctor’s office, a fire hall, a camp site, etc… using input from the students and donations from their families.
It serves a purpose at the beginning of the year; it’s a good bridge for those who have been in child care and it helps them all to feel secure, having a centre where they know for certain what they’re supposed to do. Role play in familiar roles like mother, father, doctor, and nurse is a type of play that most children have encountered before coming to school either at home or in child care. But… it really loses its purpose after a while and it seems to create behaviour problems as students move the materials from that centre all over the room, requiring reminders to return it all at the end of the play block.
What I’ve noticed is that over time, the whole room becomes a dramatic play centre. To quote my amazing ECE “wherever they are, they have dramatic play – they make every centre a dramatic centre.” Here is a snapshot of what was happening during one five-minute period this morning.
Some are kids are playing cats, others are playing butterfly tag on the carpet – waving their arms the way we practiced at the dance studio, tagging each other and giggling uproariously.
Three children are playing banana car (a car that brings bananas) in the block area. “LG: Madame, we made a banana car and TN and BQ are on the banana car!” Next to them, two girls are building a house and playing inside it. The kids from the banana car approach. “LG: Pretend it’s a babies dance show – it’s time for baby’s dance show… get on the train.” They get back on their banana car.
One of the girls in the block house says “this is the baby’s house so everyone step back” and the kids from the banana car join in the house play.
FN and SN are playing doctor in the library and several boys are playing doctor’s office inside the cube.
The marble run also has dramatic play components as the children seem to imagine themselves as the marble, moving with it as it goes down the run and celebrating its descent as though they are the ones who have run a race.
This is in five minutes! Five minutes!
We just don’t need a dramatic play centre any more; it can’t be contained in one space. The drama is nowhere because it is everywhere!
It’s been really cold here in Northern Town: freeze your eyelashes together cold.
We’re a pretty hardy bunch but even we have our limits and we were stuck inside for a few days while the wind blew itself out and the temperature came up a few degrees.
What to do, what to do? What do you do inside with 35 children when it’s -35˚C outside?
We decided to play with ice!
Our amazing ECE led the children in filling balloons with coloured water and braved the weather to place them outside.
Today during our outdoor inquiry time we ripped open the ballons and found that the water had frozen beautifully and that it had produced an interesting effect. All of the colour had migrated to the bottom of the balloon and rows of air bubbles were visible within the orb of ice.
When I showed the children this photo on the Smartboard, I told them that I wondered (je me demande…) why all of the colour had gone to the bottom of the balloon. What did they think?
MN: Because the water’s lighter than the food colouring so the food colouring is at the bottom and the water’s at the top
PB: The water froze so it was turned into ice so you cut the balloon so you can see the ice and the bubbles are inside
UN: If you drop it it will crack open and you can’t get a new one.
CF: The gravity was pushing it down – the blue – because of the the bubbles.
MP: The water is pushing it down (the food colouring)
At this point in the conversation there was some back and forth about the bubbles so I asked: What are the bubbles trying to do?
LT: They’re trying to get out
Another child disagreed.
TN: The bubbles are trying to stay in place in the water
LT replied: No, the bubbles are trying to get out to make a puddle
UF: I think the bubbles are trying to escape the ice because there’s a little hole at the top
BU: Maybe they’re trying to swim up and get on someone’s head and have a ride
BW: I think the ice is growing and the bubbles don’t want to pop.
AQ: The food colouring wants to get out of the balloon from the bottom – it wants to dig through the ice.
UN: I think the ice is growing and the bubbles are going to break the ice and when the ice is broken they want to run away and go back to their home.
I find their thinking fascinating. It opens up a window into their minds and gives us precious information about how they’re making sense of the world and how we might help them to develop their thinking.
Some of them are drawn to creating a narrative using the bubbles, water, and food colouring as characters. Others are interested in the science of the process and are trying to figure out how it works. Others still are using what they already know about the world (gravity, weight) to create a hypothesis. Another group of children is more interested in how they are personally affected.
XC, for instance, said: “If you drop it, it might break” – she has a point!
There will most definitely be more cold weather ahead – let’s see where else the ice can take us!
On Friday we went for our first community walk of the year. It was a beautiful fall day, amazingly warm for September. We hiked up through one of our neighbourhood green spaces. I think it’s been saved from development because of its geography. The path runs between two rock cliffs. As we walked, I asked the children how the rocks got split in half. Theories ranged from “It was an avalanche Madame.” “I think there was an earthquake.” “It was the wind.” “Water did it.”
So… how did the rocks get like this? I’ll give you a hint. It also made the scratches on these rocks which you can find in our other nearby greenspace.