Thursday, November 7, 2013

The Real Boogeyman in the Schools


 
Every day I am deluged with discussions about education and how to make it effective.  I know many people who are absolutely enraged at the public schools and how they treat kids.  Almost all of these people have some kind of solution, running the gambit from advocating for extremely rigid institutional models with set curriculums and standardized goals to homeschooling and unschooling.  I think there are merits to all of these systems, so I don’t see any one as the ultimate threat or the magic pill.  Rather than seeing any one ideology as the solution or the ruination of education, I tend to think that the real problem is absolutism.  So many educators, politicians, and parents want to believe that their ideas about education are the only worthwhile ones.  For the most part, I see this as the real problem with education in the United States.

In the 1990s, I spent a few years as a teacher in a daycare that was working to get NAEYC accreditation. At the time, NAEYC (National Association for the Education of Young Children) was the Grand Poobah in charge of regulating wisdom regarding in the education of preschoolers.  I suppose you could say they were the champions of Special Snowflake ideology.  In the infant room, we were no longer allowed to give the kids coloring book pictures to color in, because kids should not have their creativity stunted by result-oriented artwork.  All artwork was to focus on the process.  We completely purged hundreds of carefully collected templates and coloring sheets from our cabinets.  All projects that even suggested some kind of “teacher input” were stripped from the room.  Did it matter that some of the kids preferred to do result-oriented artwork? No.  The assumption was that kids who wanted coloring pages needed to be freed from inappropriate conditioning. 

Honestly, I liked many of the elements of NAEYC’s program.  I had no problem with allowing for a focus on freeform art and giving the kids more options instead of constantly trying to get a room full of children ages 4 months to 15 months to produce snowman ornaments to decorate the room.  I loved the emphasis on cultural diversity and the standards for classroom equipment that focused on the developmental needs of the age groups.  What I disliked was the absolutism of the program: the idea that anything that didn’t fit within in their philosophical goals was automatically deemed inappropriate. 

There is a value in coloring in images and doing result-oriented work.  While no infant should be forced to engage in any project, the attitude that these kinds of projects have no benefit for any infant ignores the fact that many infants like these kinds of projects and do benefit from them.  As an education professional and a parent, I’ve encountered this kind of absolutism over and over again: an insistence that a particular method is the best way to intellectually empower children while ignoring the reality that no way is the best way for every child.

While I was a daycare teacher, I repeatedly saw a scenario that I vowed not to repeat as a parent.  Bluntly put, there are many small children who do not do well in daycare settings. Unfortunately, there’s a horrible stigma attached to having a child who doesn’t belong in daycare.  That and the fact that most schools try to keep their classrooms at maximum capacity means that few parents are told that daycare is not a productive environment for their child. 

Two children in particular still stand out in my mind even though it’s been almost twenty years since I’ve been their teacher.  One was a child who was absolutely terrified to be “abandoned” at the daycare.  The child literally shrieked and cried non-stop for two months straight the entire time she was in the classroom.  Most children stop a few minutes after their parents leave.  This child never did.  Nothing could distract her.  Nothing could comfort her.  She wasn’t just angry or upset.  She was paralyzed with fear.  The only time she was quiet was when she had screamed herself to sleep.  Typically a child adjusts to being in daycare within a few days.  She never did.  The day her mother gave up and decided to keep her home, I cried with relief mostly because I felt I was participating in the torture of the child merely by being the person who had to hold her flailing body while her mother walked out every day.

The second child was aggressive.  There are lots of children under the age of five who are not good at playing nice.  When they mostly engage with adult caregivers who can stop them from doing too much harm, they can gradually be guided to develop self-control and find more acceptable ways of expressing and/or entertaining themselves.  When they are in a group setting with two adults and seven to eleven other small children, they become a real physical threat.  This is not their fault.  They’re not consciously deciding to inflict pain and suffering on all around them.  They simply have not developed enough emotionally or intellectually to be able to stop themselves.

 One little boy in particular was so constant and so intense in his attacks that we sat down to document his behavior in an effort to get the administration and the parents to recognize that we were not exaggerating his behavior.  In a half an hour, we counted 60 acts of aggression.  He would grab a toy from one child, hit another child over the head with the toy, throw the toy into a third child’s face and then run and belly flop onto a fourth child all in one minute’s time.  Our choices were to assign one teacher the full time task of keeping him from attacking the other children (not a completely feasible option when there were nine other potty training children in the classroom who needed care as well) or accept that he was going to occasionally hurt another child.  The third option, asking his parents to withdraw him from the program, was not something the administration was willing to support.  Eventually he ended up dislocating another child’s arm when he moved up to the Twos.  In the meantime, it was abundantly clear that not only did he terrorize the other children, but he wasn’t happy or thriving in the daycare environment himself.  The program didn’t have the resources to guide his aggression: instead, it inadvertently helped accentuate his aggressive tendencies and provided him with endless opportunity to exhibit this behavior.  No behavior modification strategies we used had any effect on him.  The truth was that he needed to be in an environment where he had plenty of focused attention and less access to people who were smaller than him and unable to defend themselves or ward off his attacks.

Although the daycare stated that they treated each child like a special snowflake, the ideology manifested itself as something just as rigid as “every child must follow these rules”.  Ideologies strip away the ability of teachers to look at the individual needs of their students and sometimes admit things like “I am not the right teacher for this child”, “This school does not have the resources to deal with this child” OR “This method is a completely inappropriate tool for this child”.  Whether the idea is that every child is a special snowflake or that every child is a mental soldier in training, the ideology is allowed to override the teacher and convert education from a means of enlightenment to a brutal trap that almost everyone complains about.

Friday, November 1, 2013

The Imaginary Perils of Princess Costumes





When my son was four, he drew a picture of the nativity with Mary hovering protectively over the baby Jesus.  Baffled by the series of red lines extending from Mary’s face, I asked my son, “Is that supposed to be a halo?”  My son looked at me like I was nuts.  Greatly offended by my stupidity, he yelled, “No! Those are lasers shooting out of her eyes, BECAUSE NOBODY BETTER TOUCH THE BABY JESUS!”  I used to wonder where my son got that interpretation of Mary.  Today, the day after Halloween, I see many parents saying sadly, “We promised no Disney princesses, but this is what she really wanted to wear.”  That’s when I remembered what being a princess meant to me when I was a little girl.

Like many girls, I loved princesses.  I incessantly drew princesses.  I wrote stories about princesses.  I read every book about princesses that I could find.  I tore all the pictures of Disney princesses out of my coloring book and hung them up on the wall.  And most of my weekends revolved around dressing up as a princess and roaming our farm looking for adventure.  None of those adventures were about finding a prince and getting married.

My favorite princess was Rapunzel*.  I had incredibly long hair as a kid that I could weave into two very thick, potentially lethal braids.  Much to my little brother’s dismay, my Rapunzel did not spend much time in towers crying for someone to save her.  My Rapunzel had BRAIDS OF DOOM.  (In my defense, I didn’t realize how much being hit with a five pound braid actually hurts.)  Twirling my head like the blade of a table saw, I would charge at my brother and smack him with my braids because he was the evil wizard or dragon or vampire or whatever he had the misfortune to be cast as upon that particular day.*

It’s a given that my princesses certainly could have used some lessons in civility.  My princesses were filthy from climbing trees to look for enemy armies or wading through the marsh to journey to the Island.  My princesses ate mud, swam creeks, and knew how to survive in the wilderness without weeping for their warm beds and soft bread that wasn’t hard to chew.  My princesses found the treasure, charmed the fairies, and fought the orcs.  My princesses sang stupid songs and wore pretty dresses, but they did not giggle or cry or wait to be saved.  My princesses were two parts bravery and one part sheer cussedness.

Most adults thought I was a sweet little girl.  My favorite color was pink.  I adored dolls.  I read constantly. I drew lots of hearts and flowers. I insisted on long hair and I refused to wear pants.  I didn’t do this to fool anyone or to mask my identity as the hellion my poor little brother knew me to be.  I did this because adult signifiers were irrelevant to me.  In my head, being a princess did not in any way connect to accepting the traditional girl code.  It meant that I was going to be what I wanted to be and how I wanted to be, damn the consequences.

My son didn’t think there was anything incongruent about Mary shooting lasers out of her eyes.  He also didn’t see anything irregular about putting on his Batman costume and taking his baby doll for a walk in the stroller.  He played tea party with his superhero “action figures”.*  He liked to walk around in my shoes and play beautician (I learned the hard way that those little plastic Play-doh scissors can’t cut hair, but they can sure as heck pull plenty of hair out).

Gender codes aren’t taught by giving kids gendered toys or gendered clothes.  Gender codes are taught by making kids believe that in order to play with certain toys or clothes, they must accept the gender rules.  My guess is your little girl isn’t going to see her gender as having a bunch of rules just because she likes playing princess.  That comes with constantly reminding her that in order to wear a princess costume, she has to follow the rules of being a princess.  Let her wear the costume.  Just don’t tell her that she shouldn’t climb a tree in it because “that’s not what princesses do.”

 

 

*Technically Rapunzel isn’t a princess.  Disney makes her into one, but my Grimm version just had her as the daughter of some peasants who stole rampion from the witch’s garden. I still played her as a princess when I was a kid.

*My brother rarely agreed to play princess with me and usually ran for the house as soon as the battle started.  It frustrated me that I had to play against imaginary monsters when I had a perfectly good brother to play this part, but my mother had a rule against me “forcing” my brother to play my games.

*They’re still dolls even if the toy industry did invent a special name for them to make it okay for boys to play with dolls.