Undo the Folded Lie

Wing Left Behind

"Creativity is the residue of time wasted," wrote Albert Einstein. I think about this observation as I recall the last few months spent visiting city schools where 'wasting time' is an anathema. The efficient education reform machine is juiced on the single test performance of children.  I think of this as I recall my own son's teachers who in the past have who told me in hushed tones that he spends a lot of time looking out the window, daydreaming, as if such behavior was aberrant. Some seemed a bit surprised when I acknowledged what had been said and added, "Yes I know. He's learned that at home."

Nurturing the child's imagination ought to be our concern, our wonder, our delight, our obligation.  It needs to be our national interest and we need to stop pouring tax dollars into testing regimes and the awful prepping that accompanies such national attention. In the classrooms I have been visiting, the imagination is largely undetected.  Truth be told? These visits break my heart.  Recently, I met two young teens who were characterized by their teacher. One was characterized as 'mentally retarded' and the other,  'autistic'.  The teacher agreed that I would have the opportunity to meet the boys and to work with each of them. She expressed concern about the boys' reading given the directive that she had received that limited her choice of texts to 'grade level texts' and ones that exceeded the students' reading ease.  Her school is 'readying' fro the Common Core. We have to use hard books, she says. Her mission is to 'move students from level 1 to to level 2' in state testing.

"I don't know how I am going to move them to level 2," she confided. I know of no other way to characterize many of the teachers I meet other than to say they seem beleaguered, frightened, and terribly uncertain of themselves as teachers--as thinkers.  Student performance on a single state test matters more than anything else. It is no longer hyperbole to say that their very livelihood depends on how their students perform on this single measure.

***************

I had an iPad with me and asked the first boy if he had ever used an iPad.  He said he had not and as we sat next to each other I showed him how it turned on and opened a folder of books.  He indicated that he wanted to see The Three Little Pigs.  I opened it and eased the iPad in front of him.  As we moved through the first screen, he quickly took over figuring how to interact with the text. After a lot of huffing and puffing, I asked if we might stop the book even though we had not reached the end. I asked if he could return to the beginning of the book and perhaps he might show the story to the other boy (who had been sitting near by watching his class give an efferent retelling of a  story).  He agreed and he was quickly joined by the other boy.  What was pretty remarkable was the amount of language the boys generated talking to one and to the book. There were no questions to answer, main ideas to determine, or details to name.  Story existed, at least for the moment, as pleasure.

Their laughter and chatter must have been contagious as it seemed to attract another boy who quickly took my seat and half way through the story the three were joined by another four boys. Within a minute or so, another teacher appeared and herded the boys back to their desks explaining that they needed to write a test-prep essay. One boy squawked and I asked if he might remain until the story was concluded as he had been following along from the beginning. The teacher agreed.

Because these children had not passed the state test during previous administrations, they are subject to two periods of ELA and two periods of mathematics. As a result, they do not have art, music, dance, woodworking, culinary arts, gaming, language, or any type of elective.  They know nothing of hanging out, messing around or geeking out as Mimi Ito describes.  Such worlds are not only banned from school, but are also not valued.  There is the mistaken belief that adding more test prepping time will lead to better test results. In addition to these double periods--social studies and science classes are also offered. At some schools, social studies is simply an excuse to do more "literacy" AKA: test prepping. Once a week the children participate in physical education. In most schools I visit there are no computers, handhelds, or any other type of potential assistive technologies in use or in some cases even present. 

At some schools the teens remain in a single classroom all day. They do not have an occasion to move. One teacher confided how hard this is for some of the learners as they have ADHD. She says how she couldn't do what is required of her students.  Her comment about ADHD had me recalling a comment Jonah Lehrer made recently on a radio show. He was discussing his new book, Imagine: How Creativity Works, on the Brian Lehrer Show (3.22.12) and it got me wondering:

What if school was based on the continuous reinvention of self, rather than accumulation of information?

Jonah discussed how it was once thought that creativity declined as one aged.  Lehrer says this has been found to be false. It appeared to be so as when one ages some become "weighted down with too much conventional wisdom" (Lehrer, Kindle Locations 1789-1790).  In contrast, creative people consistently reinvent themselves.

Imagine school based on reinvention?  Imagine how differently students and teachers would be understood and situated if the retrieval and remembrance of information ceased to be the main emphasis and instead occasioning the definition and reinvention of one's self were privileged.  Would we need to refer to children as 1s, 2s, partially proficient, ELLs, Speds? Would terms such as 'mentally retarded' still find voice? Would we need to classify children?  Might we redefine malady as sources of creativity?  Lehrer makes this observation:

Or look at a recent study led by Holly White, a psychologist at the University of Memphis. White began by giving a large sample of undergraduates a variety of difficult creative tests. Surprisingly, those students diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) got significantly higher scores. White then measured levels of creative achievement in the real world, asking the students if they’d ever won prizes at juried art shows or been honored at science fairs. In every single domain, from drama to engineering, the students with ADHD had achieved more. Their attention deficit turned out to be a creative blessing (Kindle Locations 602-606).

This capacity to be distracted--a stimulus for creativity--is ruthlessly removed from the day-to-day lives of children and teachers at school. The efficient machine does not recognize distraction as an asset.  This efficiency is a human spirit killer. From the President to the town realtor--from the parent bragging about his/her child's state test score to the CEOs of companies raking in billions on selling tests, scoring services, curricula, test prepping materials, resources, and professional development--we each bear the blame of limiting children and we have the voice to undo it.

Auden, in "September 1, 1939"  said it best, when he wrote:

All I have is a voice 
To undo the folded lie
Of the sensual man-in-the-street 
And the lie of Authority 
Whose buildings grope the sky: 
There is no such thing as the State 
And no one exists alone; 
Hunger allows no choice 
To the citizen or the police; 
We must love one another or die.

How do you unfold the lie?
Where have you started?



Work Cited
Lehrer, Jonah (2012-03-19). Imagine: How Creativity Works. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Kindle Edition. 

Thirteen: Simon's Story

I was so moved when I read this chapter about Simon a four-year-old child who had been labeled autistic. The text was written by Vivian Paley and recorded in her book, A Child's Work: The Importance of Fantasy Play. It is a most remarkable story about human connections, the possibility of story, and the the need to see beyond labels.  It always irks me when a child is referred to as x ( you can fill in the x) as if the sum of the person could be located as a single descriptor. I think of this often when I hear educators refer to children as bilingual or special education. I wonder if labels don't work to limit what we observe and our capacity to come to know, and in doing so allow us to substitute a false belief that what we think we know represents the whole of it. 

I was reading Tom Altepeter's (@tomaltepeter)recent blog post, Intercultural Responsiveness before and the two pieces of writing seemed to reinforce the belief in how important it is to be in the now--to not bring with me a set of already established assumptions or rules.

Both writers inspire me to be a bit better than I normally am. I have recorded the whole chapter as I thought it an important story inside an important book.  The link to the book is included.  On Kindle, the full book costs a little less than $6.00.  Well worth the cost.

From Paley, Vivian Gussin (2005-05-27). A Child's Work: The Importance of Fantasy Play. University of Chicago Press - A. Kindle Edition.

thirteen 

simon’s story 

Jaime’s use of fantasy play and formal dramatics to bridge our language differences was straightforward and clear. But Simon, another four-year-old whom I met the year before in an Indiana Head Start center, has a more difficult task. He has been labeled autistic and it seems doubtful that he will join the storytelling activities I have come to demonstrate.

The children know Simon well, however, though he paces the room as if he doesn’t see them. “What is Simon doing?” I ask Carly, who is about to dictate a story to me. “He’s a zoo man,” she says. Her tone implies that nothing is strange about the way Simon performs his role.

We watch Simon circle the room, punctuating his orbit with tiny cries and murmurs. His destination is a corner table under which a Lego zoo set awaits him, its plastic animals standing in a row. Once there, Simon crawls quickly to the animals and begins moving them across the tray, whispering to each one until they are all in place on the other side. Then he repeats his turn around the room and the process begins again.

“I think Simon is talking to the animals,” I comment, and Carly nods. “Walk walk,” she says. “He’s tellin’ them to walk.”

There would be much for Simon to observe as he passes around and through his classmates’ activities during “free-play,” if he slowed down and looked. In the blocks, a spaceship is going up, and, next to it, train tracks tunnel under a math table and swing around the doll corner, where a noisy baby bangs on a crib yelling “Mama!” Family members come running, draped in layers of dress-ups and talking into Lego pieces held up to their faces.

Near the sink, children at easels paint large round faces while their neighbors coil long snakes on the clay boards. “This snake is poison,” a boy warns one of the painters. “I’m makin’ him a nest, okay?” the girl responds, painting over the smiling face on her paper with broad purple strokes.

Everywhere are the recognizable scenes and sounds of children making and doing and pretending together. A “Chutes and Ladders” game is crowded with players and onlookers; two tables of children negotiate the use of several rolls of masking tape for their drawings, paper cuttings, and armaments; a child at the computer receives advice from those waiting their turns. Simon weaves through them all and stops for none. His own activity demands his entire attention.

Anthony is next on the story list. “Mine is Dracula,” he tells me and I print Dracula at the top of the page. “I wonder if Simon likes Dracula stories?” I ask. “Probably he does,” is his reply and launches into his story. “This is Dracula and there is a dinosaur and they don’t bite each other because they’re friends.” I can’t help smiling. It’s all about friendship: the play and the stories and the talk. But where does Simon fit in?

After several more stories, the children join me as I outline a stage with one of the rolls of masking tape. It may be the ripping of the tape that startles Simon, or the number of children crossing his path at once, but suddenly he is in our midst, stumbling through those seated along the edge of the tape. Back and forth he wanders, waving his arms until, with a series of shrieks, he returns to his appointed rounds.

“This is Holly’s story,” I say, holding up her paper. “She’s a bird at the top of a tree and she’ll need someone to be the tree, the mother bird, and a fish in the pond.” The actors are chosen in the order in which they are seated, and the story-play begins. I get no further than “The baby bird flies to the tree . . .” when Simon again bursts on to the stage, grabbing Holly’s legs while she continues to flap her wings, barely keeping upright.

“Simon, would you like to be a tree?” I ask anxiously, knowing there will be no response. Holly says calmly, “Simon is different.” She places her hand on his head to steady herself and steps back into her story. She is not annoyed by Simon’s behavior, nor are the other storytellers who follow. The actors carefully step over and around Simon, who now lies on his back moving his fingers across his eyes.

During recess, I remain in the room copying the children’s stories into my journal. Silently Simon reenters the room and carries his zoo tray to the empty stage. I watch as he lines up the animals and I sit beside him on the rug. “Walk walk walk,” he instructs the bear and I add, “The bear walks over the hill.”

Simon stiffens for a moment and glances in my direction. Then he moves the elephant through the blue patch of water and up the hill. His hand stays on the elephant as he waits for me to speak. “Walk walk,” I say. “The elephant walks over the hill.” By the time the children run in, Simon and I have together walked and talked to the lion, the giraffe, and the chimpanzee.

“Why is Simon doing his story now?” several children ask. “He brought his animals to the stage,” I say. “They are walking over the hill.”

The next morning, “doing stories” is one of many choices during free-play time. The story list fills up and I have no time to watch for Simon. Zoey, the second storyteller, requires my concentration. Her speech is hard for me to decipher and the only character in her story I am certain of is a “ki-ee-ca” (kittycat), because it meows. Fortunately the children at the table are familiar with her pronunciations and translate for me. “Can I be the frog?” Toby asks when the story is done, but Simon squeezes in beside Zoey before she can respond.

“Walk walk walk,” he begins, placing the zoo tray on top of Zoey’s story. He leans against us as he walks the bear to the top of the hill. “The bear walks over the hill,” I say. Next come the elephant, lion, giraffe, and chimpanzee, and Simon and I act out his zoo story just as we did the day before. But this time he adds the wolf and he smiles.

In chorus the children at the table recite, “Walk walk walk. The wolf walks over the hill.” Zoey’s voice is the loudest.

Paley, Vivian Gussin (2005-05-27). A Child's Work: The Importance of Fantasy Play (pp. 66-69). University of Chicago Press - A. Kindle Edition.