"Ich bin all done mit meins"

One of the fascinating things about working at a language-immersion preschool is getting to observe my students negotiate two languages in their speaking. Whereas most students began the year speaking mostly English, we're now at the point of the year where they're starting to mix more, especially the children who have extra-curricular German connections (family, friends, etc). Here are some of my favorite quotes as of late:

"We decorated our Tannenbaum"

"I can das alleine machen"

[I can do it by myself]

"I need Hilfe"

"Schau mal! Ich bin Beauty!"

"Kann ich dir einen Hug geben?"

[Can I give you a hug?]

and, my personal favorite,

"Ich bin all done mit meins"

[I'm all done with mine]

For those kids with little background in the German language, the first words being incorporated are nouns (Tannenbaum=Christmas tree; Hilfe=help) and adjectives (alleine=alone, by myself). For those who come from bilingual homes, you can see here some more complicated grammatical structures that default to German grammar, but include English vocabulary.

I did study second language acquisition a bit in college, especially as I prepared to teach English abroad, but more informally, not in a formal course. I feel, though, that the richest knowledge I gained on the topic was from the very experience of being a second language learner, negotiating two languages in my brain, for myself. And I remember gradually moving from fitting German words into English grammar to using German grammar primarily, and substituting English words for the vocabulary I had not yet learned. Grammar is, obviously, more complicated than individual vocabulary, so it's an interesting shift to observe, both in oneself and in others.

I would venture to say that it is precisely the grammar the prevents us from picking up languages as quickly when we're older than when we're younger. By the time we are adults, so much of our thinking is rooted in the structure of our language that it is so uncomfortable to try to switch to a different structure of grammar. So, we start by putting individual elements into the structure we know, and work gradually ... oh so painfully, really ... to switch scaffolds. Some of us never do.

Kids are like sponges when they learn anything. When we think about language, they are still developing their own native language skills, so, as far as they're concerned, there's plenty of room for whatever there is to be learned. Some of our students are even learning three languages at 3 and 4 years old. What a gift! And what a fascinating process to take part in, to support, and to observe.

I will have to double-check some of my intuitions stated here with some of the literature, but my intuitions don't usually come from the far ends of some distant imaginative space in my head ...

Education as a moral endeavor part 2

Remember my cast of characters?

The fall is turning to winter, and so I turn from my generous reading of these moving authors to inhabiting their perspective, so that they may generously read my own story. This is not the story I wrote at the beginning of the quarter. It was while reading our last book of the course, Bingham's Authority is relational that I heard his voice in my mind reminding me of a different story, a story still very much in progress, unfolding with every day I continue to live, learn, and grow as a teacher, student, and scholar.

He argues that educational authority is not a unidirectional force, but a dialogical process. The authority of a Speaker exists only through the authorization granted by the Listener, and both contribute to the shared process of interpreting something - he calls it "text", but it could be any kind of learning material, I think. This shared interpretation provides the foundation for relations of educational authority between Teacher and Student, so that, ultimately, what students learn from interpreted material is so embedded in the relation of interpretation that "When a person takes part in the relation of educational authority, it is the relation itself that educates. It is the relation, rather than some predetermined content." (p.63)

When I read this passage, like I said, I heard his voice in mind. Literally, it was a voice that whispered: See? This is why you are a storyteller.

What?! What does storytelling have to do with educational authority relations?

And so, with this whisper in my mind, telling me things I wanted to believe, but could not yet figure the logic of, I put the course texts aside - we had read them all at this point - and returned to thinking about what not only brought me to this course, but has brought me through all of my studies in Education. It became clear there was another story there, begging to be told and to be listened to, generously, by these authors:

When I was eight years old, I decided I wanted to become a teacher. As most children are wont to do on such a momentous occasion as deciding what they want to be when they grow up, I announced it to my mother. Her response was not exactly what I expected or hoped for: “Oh, Avery, no matter what profession you pursue, you will always be a teacher.” What was that supposed to mean?

So began my pondering on the characteristics and qualities that teachers of all kinds embody. It was then that I began to learn that being a teacher implies both a kind of practice and a certain essence. In my imaginary play, I imitated the practice of my elementary school teachers by standing at a chalkboard and explaining what I had written to my imaginary students. But what if that practice does not reflect the teacher I am? What if the essence of my being as a teacher implies another kind of practice? I realize now that my mother’s words were entirely prophetic, setting the stage for a lifelong journey: the path of discovering what it will mean, in my life, to be a teacher.

Somehow I found my way from one experience to the next, and some have questioned the logic of my choices. That is an entirely different story. The story I want to tell here is this: Despite the vast differences between these experiences, they have one aspect of my personal teaching style in common – that is, there is one way in which I have always been and still remain a teacher in every educative context. I am a storyteller.

In every “classroom” – from first period English to the Kindergarten rug to the outdoor Learning Tree – I have employed stories both traditional and modern to illustrate concepts, to teach vocabulary, and to engage my students in conversation with new ideas and with each other. Storytelling has become integral to my teaching style, and I would not consider myself a teacher if I were ever to eliminate the use of stories from my teaching.

At first glance, my journey of becoming a storyteller would most likely not qualify as a moral dilemma. When we think of moral dilemmas, we might think of a decision one is faced with, a decision of right and wrong: “What is the right thing to do?” we imagine asking ourselves, “Why would doing it a different way be wrong?” What’s more, something is humanly at stake in a moral dilemma – perhaps there is something to “win” or to “lose”.

Yet, storytelling is so embedded in my sense of self as a teacher, it feels immoral to me to deny this tradition a rightful place in our education system and in our academic conversations about teaching and learning. I find myself asking moral questions: Why does it feel wrong to me that the ideas and concepts of the storytelling tradition are often avoided in today’s classrooms and teacher education programs? Why do I find it such a loss that public education continues to condone this exclusion of storytelling, favoring, instead, purely information-based curricula and assessments? What is at stake in today’s classrooms if the exclusion of storytelling continues?

Let me clarify: I know why I like using stories in my teaching. I know that stories are excellent teaching tools for a variety of reasons that cognitive scientists, philosophers and theorists of education, not to mention various storytellers, themselves, have expressed. I know that the only thing I love more than sharing the experience of stories with students is sharing the experience of my students with the stories that I have come to consider fellow teachers, for they invite and inspire growth in students in a way that I would not have anticipated.

What I do not know is why this practice and tradition of storytelling has such a hold on me as an educator, and, for that matter, as a learner. I cannot clarify - in a way that satisfies me - the significance I feel storytelling has in meaningful, life-long learning. I know only that I cannot say I am a teacher if I do not simultaneously express that I am a storyteller. Though my discoveries of what being a teacher will mean in my life are far from over, I have clearly reached one significant benchmark: being a teacher, in my life, means being a storyteller.

The story sort of just flowed out of me like a river downstream. I doubted, at first, that it was really a story of morals. I ran it by Donna, though, and she gave the me thumbs up. Now, it's just a matter of figuring out more of what these whispers in my mind are saying when I inhabit the perspectives of the course authors. This will surely be quite the mental exercise. Stay tuned ...

A teachable moment

Oh, this is going to be a great story!:

At our Sensory table today, we filled a tub with water to clean cranberries to make cranberry sauce. The children had great fun putting their hands in the water and feeling the cranberries between their fingers ... but the real magic came when all the cranberries were taken out and it was time to empty the tub.

Because the tub is so large, it sits on a stand and there is a plug at the bottom to empty the water from. As I did so, some children had stayed to watch the water go down. One noticed the shape of the water's movement as it went down the plug - it was exactly like water going down a drain, spiraling around.

Now, I see this phenomenon every day. I don't ask questions about it. Alas, I am no longer four years old. Luckily, I hang out with young children enough that they remind me how great it is to be so young and wide-eyed and wondering at the world. Because as everyone else went about cleaning up from the morning's activity, one boy - Bennett - tapped my leg and asked me: "What is the water doing there?"

"Oh," I responded, "It's spiraling and spinning down the plug."

"That's like my potty!"

"Yes, that's what water does anytime it goes from being in a really big container down into a really tiny hole."

"Why does it do that?"

[Ach! Killer! I *love* four-year-olds!]

"You know, Bennett, I don't think I could tell you why. I don't know."

[It's true. I don't know. But I don't want to just leave him with that. I want to follow this interest, keep it alive and fresh and active ...]

"...Wait, Bennett, I have an idea. Maybe we can figure it out."

I went to the kitchen area where everything was prepared for making cranberry sauce and made a bee line for the cinnamon container. I returned to the tub, the water still draining into a more manageable bucket, and let loose, sprinkling cinnamon all over the water's surface.

I didn't really know what was going to happen, but I knew it was just going to have to be amazing, if not because it was science at its purest, it was a four-year-old that inspired the idea. Sure enough, more children came over to watch the movement of the water in the entire tub, and to marvel at the phenomenon of how rapidly it began to move in circles as it approached the plug at one end. I was amazed: with the help of the cinnamon, it was remarkably easy to see the entire pattern of the water's movement.

"Why do you think the water makes that spiral down at the plug like that?" I asked.

Several children just kept watching, as if in a trance. I could tell Bennett was really trying to figure it out, make sense of it. "I don't know," he said, "I just don't know."

"That's okay," I said, "I don't know, either. But it's really cool, isn't it."

"Yeah. It's really really really REALLY COOL!" he bursted.

"Well, you'll just have to keep thinking about it, and I bet an idea will come to you."

"Yeah..."


What can I say? Another day in pre-school...

"Sharing, it's what good friends do..."

... whatever I have, you can have some, too."

Anyone remember that song? A Sesame Street classic ... or maybe it was exclusive to the repertoire of my talking Big Bird...

I've been thinking a lot about sharing lately, because it is really a very loaded concept, and not an easy one for 2-, 3-, and 4-year-olds to grasp. I find it most difficult, however, to be the one who is trying to explain and teach sharing to these little ones.

At it's very core, sharing implies loss. That's what my students remind me of every day. When someone tells them "You need to share", what they hear is "You can't have that to yourself, you need to give it up." That is loss. So, now, you're the teacher: How do you teach that loss can be a "good" and rewarding thing? How do you explain that there are times when we submit ourselves to the experience of loss willingly, because that loss actually becomes an experience of gain, in another form than the original loss? That is some very twisted logic, when you get right down to it.

I am trying to start from the beginning: "You know, I can tell you're really enjoying playing with all those Legos, Francis, and I can see why! Remember, though, we're at school, and all the toys here are for all the children to play with. That's why we get to practice sharing a lot at school, so that everyone gets a chance to play with the toys they want..."

[Finders may be keepers, but the point of play and of a playful community such as the classroom can be is the connection we find and experience with others. Yet, though I would never call young children 'selfish', they do need to understand others primarily through themselves.]

"So, let's think, Francis: There are two ways I think would make for some pretty good sharing right now. We can share the material we have - like Legos - or we can share the time we have the material. What do you think? Can you share your Legos with your friends so you can all play at the same time? Or would you rather keep all the Legos for yourself now and then give them all to someone else when I come back in five minutes?..."

[This is the new piece of my thinking: I don't think it's a horrible thing to want something entirely for oneself for an amount of time. There are things we cannot divide up like Legos, so we divide up the time we have with them. Maybe this is an easier way to share for some children?]

Francis decided to share the Legos with the other children at the table. I have to admit, I was relieved. Perhaps I had come up with an alternative way of sharing, but I had not quite thought completely through how I was then going to teach the concept of time ... that will have to come up in another post soon ...

Is destruction an act of creativity?

I want to give them the benefit of the doubt: there must be something more to holding something in one's hand and then, in sheer excitement, throw it all over the place; there must be a cognitive sense to building a tower of colored blocks for the sole purpose of kicking it down upon finishing.

Four boys have been the object of my reflection on this question - Is destruction an act of creativity? - because I just watch and wonder at them. I wonder at them partially because they are the complete opposite of what I ever was as a child. But what's more: they consistently push my perceptions and understanding of the purpose of childhood and - perhaps more importantly - the purpose of teachers.

Is this an energy to be reined in? Modified and conditioned? ... Or could it be understood? Could it even change the way I think about that child and/or that behavior?

This is where the complexities of being a teacher - with all the background expertise AND intuitive, on-the-spot insightfulness - take shape in my understanding of what teaching is all about. Maybe it's not about what I have to teach them, but about what they can teach me. How can I expect myself to be able to teach them effectively and appropriately if I am not willing to take responsibility for learning from them, first, what that will entail?

So, my eyes and ears are open as I watch these boys. We shall see what I find.

Draw and tell ...

This is my ow-ee [red, center]. This is me [orange, right] I climbed the tree and hanged there and then I got the ow-ee. My mommy [purple circle, lower right] carried me down.
Timmy, age 3yrs 6mos

I put my hand here first [yellow, traced hand] and here are trees [green and blue] and this is my TV [yellow above hand] and the hand goes from tree to tree.
Thomas, age 3

This is my sister [lower left, behind scribbles]. Can you draw a dress for him? ... This is my mama [toward the left within scribbles]. Now I'm gonna draw my own head. This is me! [green circle toward right within scribbles]. I'm in the danger [starts scribbling green], and then my mom is in the danger [spreads scribbles toward left] and my sister's in the danger. My daddy's [red face] going to save all the family.
David, age 3

Kinetics part 2: Whose agenda is it anyway?

Oi! Today came an instance, in which I became very very frustrated. With children. Believe it or not, that does not happen often. Time to deconstruct.

I can't say I felt well set up for success when one of my colleagues shoved a board game into my hands and said, "Here, play this with those four over there. They can't pay attention during storytime." Don't get me wrong - we all have our moments and our days - and this was a moment when I felt very disconnected from my colleague and her greater scope of intention. This is a very uncomfortable feeling for me, so I was not off to a good start.

There I sat, board game in hand - a game I'd never even heard of, by the way - with four squeamish children who would have never known the difference had I simply gotten up and left. Because that is slightly what I felt like doing at that moment.

Come on, I thought to myself, it's just a game. Something to pass the time for these kids while the others listen to a book. That was my second problem. I didn't agree with my colleague's decision to exclude these kids from the other activity.

Stop! I reminded myself: It is too easy to resign oneself to feelings of dissatisfaction toward the actions of others. If you have a problem with what a teacher has done, you be the teacher you would rather see. No use expecting others to live up to your standards if you aren't able to consistently do so, yourself.

Way to put myself in my place - my place being in the blue child-size chair, at the table, with the same four squeamish children.

We started playing the game. The children were supposed to take turns rolling two dice - one with a number, one with a color - and identifying the illustrated object (boat, car, shoe, ice cream, etc) in the corresponding square on the grid board. That whole taking turns thing lasted maybe half a turn, before they all were either grabbing for the dice or leaving the table completely to play somewhere else. This was not going well.

What made me think that? What wasn't going well? The children were not doing what I thought they should be doing, or, what I was instructed and expected to have them do. I am finding such phrases increasingly frustrating, because they are such strong indications of the top-down mentality that pervades schooling: the teacher tells students what to do, and students listen and behave. This is efficient, perhaps, but only when the teacher's agenda is taken into consideration. What would be the most efficient way to serve an agenda set by children?

Back to the board game: I begin rolling the dice myself and ask all the children if they can find the corresponding picture. The first one is a boat on the ocean. "Was ist das?" I ask, and two chime together, "Ein Boot!" "Genau! Das ist ein Boot!" I respond, and continue in German: "Let's make a boat with our hands and ride those waves in our boat: up and down, up and down, up and down..." Miraculously, everyone has joined in the action. We continue on our momentum, creating kinetic stories about tying our shoes, being a steaming kettle of water, and dressing ourselves appropriately for snow.

After 20 minutes, I am exhausted. It's the kind of exhausted feeling you get when you've just left your house on your bike and your first 20 minutes are all uphill. Steep uphill. And I'm not entirely sure I've just done a very good job, because the kids are still squeamish and I feel like I'm talking the entire time just to keep everyone together in our kinetic stories.

The other students finish their story and it's time for free play. My four students explode from the table off into different corners of the room. I go to the bathroom for five minutes, just to be with the silence. There is something wrong with this kind of teaching. This does not feel right. This does not feel like me. It feels like I'm holding on for dear life.



Game with children not as strong in German, and very active - blending of both PLUS getting over my agenda to serve children better