I’ve lived at the intersection of children, family, and education all my adult life as a proud mama of two children and proud teacher of a memorable parade of elementary and middle school students in non-profit, public and independent schools.
Recently, however, parenting has shaken my understanding of my job as a teacher and the purpose of education to its core.
As a teacher, I’ve spent twenty years translating school- or state-mandated curriculum to PreK through fifth grade students through my relationship with them. I get to know my students as people, figure out how I can connect them to whatever someone else has determined they need to know or do, then spend the year adapting curriculum to fit the needs of the children in my care.
Many children quickly figure out how to work and learn within this system. Their brains can sift through information to find the nugget the teacher offers during lessons and show they understand it through typical assessments. Their bodies can sit still and their eyes can follow the speaker in ritual compliance even when they’re not particularly interested in a topic. They learn some important ways of thinking while they learn to “work the system”.
This system is a convergent one, attempting to take very disparate experiences, personalities and learners and teach them the same things. Even before having children of my own, I was a bit uncomfortable with this approach, in that it didn’t seem fair or acceptable that school was easy for some students and so very difficult for others. I spent a great deal of time as a teacher trying to find ways to make school more accessible to students who found it challenging. But I am a convergent thinker myself, so the radical concept that schools - rather than students - should adapt seemed too far removed from reality to possibly entertain.
Then, I birthed a divergent thinker.
At his current age of eight, my son loves to generate creative ideas by exploring many possible solutions in a spontaneous, free-flowing, non-linear manner. When he’s interested in something, all the parts of his brain seem to kick into high gear to make fascinating connections and new understandings. If his interest is less piqued, his engagement plummets.
As you can imagine, this kind of thinking and “brain-fire” makes it challenging...no, I’ll be frank: soul-sucking...to navigate a system in which the teacher makes the decisions about what to teach, how you sit while s/he teaches, and how you show what you know.
On top of the internal struggle, children who do not fit the mold of school are often labeled as “disabled” in some way. The message is crystal clear: “If you do not learn what I teach you, in the way that I choose to teach, then there is something wrong with you.”
To be fair, many incredibly talented teachers get this in their bones and work very hard to “differentiate” the curriculum to make it accessible to as many learners as possible, including my son. But from my perspective as a parent of this particular child, I now understand in the depths of my bones that this is missing the point entirely.
We need to mold schools to children, not the other way around, because we’ve discovered (though often discouraged from talking about the fact) that molding children to schools isn’t actually possible. Not just impossible, this model damages ALL children because they’re denied the experience of a world in which they and their peers are known for contributing strengths rather than a limiting set of invented, context-specific liabilities the school hands them.
We need to build schools that ask students: Who are you? What strengths do you bring to the world? What do you need and want to learn to use those gifts to their fullest potential and in service to others? How can we as adults help you learn that? What’s hard for you? How can you use your challenges to help navigate the world?
Imagine if my son went to a school that had been designed around those questions. Imagine what his day would look like if he was in charge of helping the school answer those questions for his specific needs. Imagine what his soul would experience if that happened day after day after day and if he was allowed to shift his answers as he changed and grew.
Some schools are experimenting with these questions, but such schools are not at all accessible to the mainstream population and all kids deserve this experience. I struggle to find the most supportive intersection of education and my son while holding the implications of this struggle for my life as a teacher and as a parent.
Recently I picked up the book Come All You Little Persons, by John Agard and Jessica Courtney-Tickle. Their poem defines exactly what I’d like a newly-imagined school to say to my son - and every child - each day when he walks through the door. The first and last stanzas are direct quotes. I wrote the ones in-between specifically for my son.
“From above earth, from above sky,
from below earth, from under water,
come all you little persons, come exactly as you are.”
Come little artist-person, with pencil shavings of all colors.
Come little animal-person, with arms covered in inch worms.
Come little ocean-person, with salt in your hair and eyes.
Come little runner-person, with speed in your legs.
Come little heart-person, with hugs for all.
Come little shark-person, with empathy for all beings.
Come little builder-person, with inspiration to sculpt.
Come little destructo-person, with energy to burn.
Come little climbing-person, with leaves in your hair.
Come little story-person, with laughter in your eyes.
“Come all you little persons - come join the dance of Earth’s guests.
Just follow your heart-song when next it calls.
Planet Earth has room for the footsteps of all.”