freedom and limits

some art materials sit out on the table,
attractively displayed.
glue, brushes, various objects for collage, some round fabric samples donated by a neighbor.
the table is inviting, asking children to come and do, come and make, come and explore.
the teacher has an idea of what the children might do,
what the materials are for.

what is freedom, at this art table?
the children are free to select their materials, glue them together as they see fit.
are they free to dump out the beads, dump out the feathers, take them away to another table,
pour the jewels into a purse and carry them away as treasure?
should the teacher dictate that "these are only for this project" and "they stay at this table?"
should everyone at the table be involved in a dialogue about the limits?
what will happen if someone takes all the jewels away?
what will happen if someone dumps out all the beads?

are they free to glue all the fabric samples together in a tall stack, leaving none for anyone else?
are they free to use as much glue as they like, even if a teacher thinks they are using too much?
a teacher can give information, or wonder:
"if you stack them all up, there won't be any for other children to use."
"i wonder if your piece will dry with all that glue on it."

here are paper, crayons, scissors, a 3-year-old.
what is freedom here?
is he free to cut his paper any way he chooses?
is he free to experiment with how to hold the scissors
even though it's clear to a teacher that he doesn't know how yet?
should a teacher take his hands and show him how, or let him struggle to find his own way?
perhaps a 4-year-old will come along, if not today, then another day.
he will see how the 4-year-old holds the scissors, and he will try it too.

is he free to cut his hair? his clothes? another child's picture?
is he free to color on the table? on the floor?
who makes these decisions, and why?

 

here are some paints, out in the backyard.

there's an easel next to the paints, but somehow the paint can't seem to stay there.

are the children free to paint the fence? the wall? the tree?

what about the places where other children step to climb up?

does freedom end where safety is concerned, and who gets to decide?

does a teacher say, "you can't paint there?"

or, "people step there when they're climbing. 

if you paint there, it could be slippery and people could fall."

what if children still want to paint there?

what if children want to paint on their own bodies?
"i'm making wonder woman bracelets, so i can be wonder woman," she said.
who's the boss of a child's own skin?
the teacher? the evening bath-giver? the skin-wearer herself?
what if she wants to paint her face, legs, and tummy too?
what if other children see her and also want to paint themselves?
is there any harm in it?

we ask ourselves these questions:
out loud in staff meetings,
and subconsciously as we make split-second decisions about how to respond in the moment.
teachers have wisdom, from their years of experience.
children need to live the experience, in order to gain the wisdom.
somewhere in the grey area between freedom and limits
lies the substance of the work we are doing:
empowering children to make educated choices,
treat others with respect and empathy,
speak up for themselves and others if they see an injustice,
and to question the authorities who sometimes say,
"no dumping out all the feathers,"
"this is the right way to hold the scissors,"
and "paint stays at the easel."

transformers and math in a commercial-free preschool

Commercially licensed characters. Are. Everywhere. Kids these days are inundated with them from birth. Even adults these days grew up inundated by them, so much that it's hard not to think of some of our favorites as "classics" and make them an exception to the rule. 

What's the rule? Around here, it's "No commercially licensed characters at school." We like our school to be a haven where the bombardment of images from TV and movies stops for a few hours and children are free (or forced) to use their imaginations (and memory) to guide their dramatic play. That means T-shirts, lunch boxes, books, classroom materials, backpacks, costumes, shoes, hats, blankets - everything - must be free of commercially licensed characters.

The kids don't forget about their favorites when they walk through the door, of course. There is still plenty of talk and pretend play from Star Wars to Disney princesses and everything in between. The difference is that the "stuff" isn't there to define the game for the children. They have to rely on their mental recall and language skills to reenact favorite stories. If they want light sabers or crowns, they figure out how to make them from the materials available in the art room, using their creativity and problem solving in the process.

This week I got a glimpse of another great outcome of having the commercial character ban in place. Some of the kids have become interested in Transformers, and spent much of their time outdoors playing Autobots and Decepticons, explaining the characters and game to their friends along the way.  Indoors, they invented a new use for the ever-popular Magna-Tiles: they built a variety of 3-D shapes, named them after their favorite Transformer characters, and then had them transform into flat shapes.

"Watch how it transforms," they told me. "You put the arms up, then the head..." and demonstrated until the flat shape had returned to its original 3-D glory. This reminded me of 4th-6th grade math lessons in which children learn to visualize 3-D shapes from a flat drawing that can be folded up into a shape. These kids will be champs at that, and they don't even know they're learning it. And they might not have had the chance to learn it if store-bought Transformers had been allowed at school. 

For more on the commercial-free movement, go here:
Campaign for a Commercial Free Childhood

useful

when you are 4
anything is possible
everything is beautiful
disappointments are the worst thing ever
a knocked-over block castle is a disaster
a little blood on your finger makes you wonder
if you are going to die.

when you are 4
everything is original
naptime is unthinkable
under the table is your hiding place
and time is a snail

when you are 4
your stories get longer
your fingers get stronger
you laugh with abandon
when someone says "underwear"

when you are 4
a stick is a sword
     a violin
     a magic wand
     a mixing spoon
     a hairbrush
     a conductor's baton

when you are 4
everything is for climbing on
everything is for painting on
everything is for gluing on
everything is for banging on
everything is useful
if you use your imagination

when you are 4

----------------

One of the teachers got a new mixer for her birthday and brought the box and styrofoam packaging to school for the kids to use.

N. was leaving school with her mom just as I was returning from a parent-teacher conference.  She walked toward the front door with a big smile on her face and a large... something... in her hands, and announced, "Useful."

I looked at it more closely.  She had transformed the mixer's styrofoam packaging into a caddy of sorts, inserting things into its various nooks, crannies, and holes; mostly her artwork made of paper, but also wilted flowers (a.k.a. bells), a hair band, and an extra chunk of styrofoam that she'd colored on with pastels.

Then she noticed that her useful thing still had some vacant space.  There was a round hole on one side, about two inches in diameter.  She looked around and thought about it for mere seconds before she had the solution: on the table next to the fish tank was a small paper cup containing water and some half-wilted flowers that we'd been using in the art room.  She had relocated the flowers to this paper vase herself a day or two earlier, rescuing them from a certain glue-related fate, and decided at this moment that they were going home with her.  She gently and easily fitted the cup into the circular hole in the styrofoam, and giggled with glee.

"Useful," I said, to acknowledge her delight in her creation.

"Useful," she agreed, and off she went with her mom, easily carrying all of her useful things.