It’s so much more than a game…
We need to listen to what Molly has to say. She packs a lot of truth into seven minutes–ironically, she was seven years old when she recorded this last year. She might be the youngest TED speaker ever. She’s definitely one of the best!
Don’t miss her quick demonstration on brain size. I was more correct than I knew when I titled “Small People — Big Brains.”
I count myself fortunate when I get to spend some time at school with the kids as Christmas approaches. Admittedly, it can be a bit crazy as energy levels are high and the kids are “wound up.” But I try to enjoy their energy and stay focused on the tasks at hand.
One of the questions I had during my most recent assignment was a bit different. “Mr. Boomsma, how do you make the letter “o” in cursive?” It’s not as easy to answer as one might think but I share it for those who complain the schools aren’t teaching cursive any more. (It turned out the question was actually about the little “hooky thing” that connects it to the next letter.)
The second question was a bit more difficult. A fifth grade boy was not kidding–the question was sincere. “Mr. Boomsma, is Santa Claus real?”
Fortunately, his neighbor interceded, assuring him that Santa Claus was very real. She’d seen him and told the story of her sighting in great detail. However, I should have known I wasn’t off the hook. He looked at me and asked, “Have YOU seen him?” The look on the girl seemed to say they’d both like some assurance.
I’d recently read the news story of a substitute teacher who was ultimately terminated after telling a first-grade class that Santa Claus isn’t real. So like the cursive question, this is not quite as simple as it might first seem.
If it wasn’t Christmas Eve, we might explore several techniques one can use when asked a difficult question. I answered his question by telling him and his seatmate a story, emphasizing it was absolutely true. I will share it with you.
When I was about six, I began to question Santa’s existence. Some of the kids I went to school with were quite convinced “your parents are Santa.” As luck would have it, we were having a “green Christmas” without a hint of snow. So our spirits were dampened and it was easy to believe in something less magical and fun.
To fully appreciate what happened, I need to explain that we lived in a very small town, miles away from any airports or flight paths. We rarely saw or heard planes.
That Christmas Eve announced to my Dad that I was pretty sure there was no such thing as Santa Claus. I reached this conclusion primarily based on the fact there was no snow. His sleigh wouldn’t work.
Since there was no question to answer, my Dad stated, in a rather matter-of-fact tone, “Oh, he comes in a helicopter when there’s no snow.” I was then sent outside to do one of my nightly chores.
It was not the first time I found myself truly torn. I could usually figure out when Dad was teasing but I believed with all my heart that he would never lie to me. Still, his explanation somehow didn’t feel right and I couldn’t detect that little smile that gave him away when he was teasing or joking. It was quiet and cold outside. I wondered if I should continue the conversation when I returned to the warmth inside.
While I was contemplating this, I heard a noise off in the distance… “whomp, whomp,..” Omigod! A helicopter! It flew right over my head, very low, lights flashing! I hurriedly finished my chore, ran back into the house, climbed the stairs two at a time and jumped into bed with my clothes on, pulling the covers up to my neck and pretending to be asleep.
The kids at school seemed to enjoy my story and accepted it at face value. So do I. I don’t really know where that helicopter came from and why it flew over our house at precisely that moment. But I do know that I learned some things about the magic of Christmas and the importance of believing.
Telling the story reminded of another person who was asked almost the same question. In 1897, Francis Pharcellus Church, a former Civil War correspondent and editor at the New York Sun, received a letter from the then 8-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon questioning Santa’s existence. His answer is not just for kids. It speaks to the innocent joy of childhood and the power of belief. There’s a link at the bottom of this post. It’s important to read it.
My wish for you this Christmas is that you too might hear a helicopter… or hear or experience whatever it takes to help you believe in all of the things Christmas is supposed to be about.
One of the kids at school was having, by her own admission, a challenging and frustrating day last week. She shared with me a somewhat amusing but also very effective coping mechanism that involved “centering” herself with a mantra announcing she was a happy flower and not an angry tree. This was accompanied by appropriate hand signals that mocked a blossoming flower. I love that she recognizes she has the power of choice.
I’ve also come to truly love her analogy and metaphor. I’d like to use it to share some thoughts regarding the recent tragedy resulting in the loss of Corporal Cole’s life.
Let me first assure you, that incident turned me into a bit of angry tree as it did so many. You do not have to spend much time on Facebook to realize that anger and frustration were common emotions. One of the things we “like” about social media is the feeling of “shared emotions.”
You also do not have to spend much time on Facebook to be somewhat frightened by the depth of those emotions–some bordering on pure rage. I am both surprised and not surprised at some of the suggestions being posted, many seeking revenge. There are many angry trees with roots that run deep and, in some cases, border on violent in and of themselves.
As someone who works with kids a lot, I am troubled by the example we often set on social media. When I read some of the comments regarding what should happen to John Williams, the alleged killer of Corporal Cole, I find myself wondering if these people and their comments truly represent the society we live in and, more importantly, the society we hope our kids will create.
But then I stumble on to a post by a Mom I know in a different part of the state. She announces that she and her daughter are headed to the local police station with a note written by her daughter and some accompanying “treats.” Since it was posted publicly I’ve taken the liberty of sharing the note after “erasing” Delaney’s last name–I’m a bit OCD about confidentiality where kids are concerned.
She is, I think, going to create–maybe already is creating–the sort of society I would like to be part of, one with lots of “happy” flowers.
How about you?
When I started my own consulting business many years ago, a colleague and mentor encouraged me to start what he called a “God Shelf.” It could, of course, be called a “trophy case” or “wall of fame.” As I recall, his explanation was, in part, “You’re going to need to learn to treasure the awards and certificates you receive. Since you’re working for yourself, you’ll probably won’t get ’employee of the month’ awards from your company.”
He was right–and I’ll never forget the story he told of an award he received in the mail. He made it into an event by going out to dinner with his wife and having her present it to him over coffee.
Maybe that’s a bit over the top, but I do think we should enjoy the recognition we receive.
As many know, in addition to substitute teaching, I volunteer at our elementary school with the kids. A few years ago I agreed to assume responsibility for publishing the yearbook through my little publishing company, Abbot Village Press.
A lot of folks express surprise that an elementary school has a yearbook, but we think it makes sense. In a way, it’s the kids’ brag book. It helps create a sense of community and school spirit. We involve the kids in its design and production with things like a contest for the cover design. We even have a yearbook team of sixth graders.
But truth be told, my primary motivation is that it provides another excuse for me to work, play, and learn with the kids.
At the end of the school year, the kids always surprise me with some sort of recognition. Last year I was presented with a basketful of thank-you notes–one from just about every kid at school (nearly 300), kindergarten through sixth grade. What makes them really cool is they are personal. Each kid tried to find something specific to thank me for–and I can tell you that in many cases they appreciate things I don’t remember doing! The basket sits next to my desk and if I’m ever feeling discouraged or down, I grab a few and re-read them.
This year’s surprise was an extra page in the yearbook, designed by the yearbook team with the help of Mrs. Daniels, our art teacher and my “partner” in getting the yearbook published. I’ve shared the page with a few friends–they’ve encouraged me to make it public.
Thanks, kids… for another page in my brag book and for being so much fun to work, play, and learn with.
Thank you so much for your book, received it yesterday and have read a chapter or two so far. I have many questions already, everything is just so well done. Through mass-marketed media its perceived that adults take for granted the words of a child, and their hold and place in society. Your book defies that stereotype, finding the deeper meaning in education and brains of our youth. Coming from someone who wants to study child-minds and thought processes, it was very humbling and insightful reading the first beginning pages of your experience with the young Amish girl…
What is not to like about a review like this!? It’s written by a high school senior who contacted me for some “collaboration” on a writing project… her planned vocation is to become a child psychologist and her avocation is to write and publish.
I love her suggestion that I defy the stereotype that “adults take for granted the words of a child…” She definitely has a future as a writer, because that is a previously not-so-well stated mission. Maybe even an obsession. I often quote Stacia Tauscher:
“We worry about what a child will become tomorrow, yet we forget that he is someone today.”
Children are really just little people, not so different than those we consider adults. Admittedly, they have less experience being a person than an adult, but they are no less a person. They see things with curious minds and fresh outlooks. Their observations are often insightful.
Just this week, we received new identification badges at school. They are quite formal and official looking. We wear them on a lanyard so people can be assured we belong where we are. I don’t question the need and logic. But a second grader did.
He grabbed my badge, studied it closely and looked somewhere between puzzled and horrified. “Mr. Boomsma, this isn’t right. It says you are a substitute teacher. You are a REAL teacher.”
I suppose I should have “corrected” him, but truth be told he made me feel pretty smug and really good. He also gave me a lot to think about and I ultimately decided that what he thought was probably more important than what my badge said.
One reason subs sometimes have difficulty managing a class is the students will view him or her as “not our teacher” and decide the day will be a bit of a holiday. When I teach the Substitute Teacher Course, we spend some time discussing this potential power struggle. Part of my approach is that we must establish at the beginning we are there to teach, not to babysit. Yes, things will be a little different, but it is still about teaching and learning. A substitute who establishes that at the start will have far less “classroom management” issues. In age-appropriate language, I make it clear I am not there to manage a classroom, I am there to teach and facilitate learning.
So I think it’s pretty cool that second grader thinks it’s wrong to call me a substitute. I also think it’s pretty cool that he was able to read the entire badge, including the word substitute.
Labels are certainly a necessary tool in our society, but they come at some cost. The biggest cost is the loss of true identity when we become seen only as the label.
Don’t forget. A child is a person–a smaller and less experienced one, but no less a person.
