1
āMy mother doesnāt have no more birthdays,ā Fredrick tells me in school one day.
āDo you mean she doesnāt have a birthday party?ā
āNo. She really doesnāt have a birthday. How I know is no one comes to her birthday and also she doesnāt make the cake.ā
Fredrick is four and his ideas often take me by surprise. This is his second year in a classroom and my twenty-eighth.
āDo you think she still gets older every year?ā
āYou know how much she is old? Twenty-two.ā
His mother is older than that but Fredrick likes the sound of twenty-two. And Mollieās favorite is twelve-teen. āThatās the olderest,ā she says. āMy daddy is already a twelve-teener on his birthday.ā
I accept twelve-teeners and mothers who donāt have birthdays as gifts. Each time a child invents one of these unique arrangements of image and phrase, I sense anew the natural order that gives young children this awesome talent for explaining lifeās mysteries. The thrill no longer comes from hearing my own answers repeated; I hunger for those I cannot imagine to problems unmentioned in the curriculum guides. Nearly every lesson I want to pursue arises out of the childrenās consciousness. Birthday is high on the list.
āMaybe you and daddy can make mother a birthday party,ā I suggest.
āBut they never remember her birthday and when itās her birthday they forget when her birthday comes and when her birthday comes they forget how old she is because they never put any candles. So how can we say how she is old?ā
āThe candles tell how old someone is?ā
āYou canāt be old if you donāt have candles.ā
āFredrick, ask your mother to have a cake and candles. Sheāll tell you when her birthday is.ā
āShe canāt because she doesnāt have a mother. See, my grandma borned her once upon a time. Then she told her about her birthday. Then every time she had a birthday my grandma told her. But my grandma died.ā
I could tell Fredrick that of course his mother has a birthday, everyone has a birthday, but I know that to do so will merely put a halt to the conversation. He will not be convinced if he does not already believe it is true. Besides, he may have other reasons for depriving his mother of a birthday. She is about to have a baby and Fredrick has not yet acknowledged the fact. When Mollie asked him if his mother was growing a baby, he told her she was buying him a puppy.
Mollie eases in between us at the table. She knows when good conversations are in progress.
āMollie, Fredrick says his mother doesnāt have any more birthdays.ā
āWhy not?ā
āBecause my grandma died and my mother doesnāt know how many candles to be.ā
Mollie examines Fredrickās face. āDid your grandpa died too?ā
āYeah, but he came back alive again.ā
āThen your grandma told him. If he whispers it to your mother, maybe itās already her birthday.ā
āWhy should he whisper, Mollie?ā I ask.
āIf itās a secret.ā
They understand each other. The necessary and universal aspect of birthday is not as appealing right now as their own theories, some of which Fredrick puts into stories for me to write down.
Once came He-Man. Baby He-Man. The real He-Man told him it was his birthday. He didnāt see Skeletor because it was a birthday.
āBecause it was a birthday?ā I ask.
āYou donāt see bad guys on your birthday.ā
āHm-m. I wonder if bad guys see other bad guys on their birthdays.ā
āBad guys donāt have birthdays.ā
āArenāt they born on a certain day?ā
āBad guys donāt have names so they canāt have birthdays.ā
āYou said his name is Skeletor.ā
āThatās his pretend name.ā
Last year such information came from the older children in the class, but now Fredrick is in the āolderestā group and can invent some of the rules himself. My notebooks have begun to fill with the words of a new group of visionaries who have only recently discovered that they can surround their uncertainties and confusions with enough persuasive commentary to make the worry of the moment appear under control.
Christopher sits next to us, cutting āgoldā out of yellow paper. We are at the story table, a large, round structure that is our central talking and listening and manufacturing place. You cannot pass from the blocks to the easels or from the doll corner to the sand table without noticing what is going on among the storytellers, picture makers, and paper shredders.
āIs that your pretend name?ā Christopher asks.
āWhat name?ā
āFredrick. Is that pretend?ā
āYeah, it is.ā
āFor hideouts?ā
āYeah.ā
Once again I am on the outside. āWhat do you and Christopher mean? Which name is pretend in a hideout? Isnāt Skeletor the pretend name?ā
āNot in a hideout.ā
I am learning to read their logic. When he is in character, Fredrick is the pretend name. Moments later, entering the doll corner, he assumes another disguise and continues some of his earlier inquiries.
āMy baby just now jumped out, Fredrick,ā Mollie says. āAre you the daddy? Itās already her tomorrow dayās birthday.ā
āIām the brother. Our daddy died because he sleeped too long in the day. Who is Barney going to be?ā
āBarney could be the daddy. We need a dad,ā Mollie says.
āOkay, then the dad could come alive again. You want to, Barney?ā
āI didnāt come alive,ā Barney states firmly. āI was always alive. I just pretended I died because you didnāt see me because I was at work.ā
Stuart runs in waving a cone-shaped plastic block. āBang! Bang! Bad guys in the woods. Everyone get out of the woods!ā
āNo bad guys, Stuart,ā Mollie says. āThere canāt be bad guys when the baby is sleeping.ā
Whatever else is going on in this network of melodramas, the themes are vast and wondrous. Images of good and evil, birth and death, parent and child, move in and out of the real and the pretend. There is no small talk. The listener is submerged in philosophical position papers, a virtual recapitulation of lifeās enigmas.
Can any task be more important than monitoring these unexpected disclosures? Yet it took me half of my teaching career to take them seriously.
2
When I was twenty, I led a Great Books discussion group in the New Orleans Public Library. The participants were older and wiser, but my lists of questions made me brave. Get the people talking, I was told, and connect their ideas to the books; there are no right or wrong answers.
The procedure seemed simple enough. I moved from question to question, and quite often it sounded as if it were a real discussion. Yet most of the time I was pretending. The people and the books were shadowy presences whose connections to one another seemed more real than their connections to me. What I wanted, desperately, was to avoid awkward silences.
Soon after, I became a kindergarten teacher and had curriculum guides instead of printed questions. I still believed it was my job to fill the time quickly with a minimum of distractions, and the appearance of a correct answer gave me the surest feeling that I was teaching. It did not occur to me that the distractions might be the sounds of the children thinking.
Then one year a high school science teacher asked to spend time with my kindergartners. His first grandchild was about to enter nursery school, and he wondered how he would teach such young students. He came once a week with his paper bags full of show and tell, and he and the children talked about a wide range of ordinary phenomena.
As I listened, distant memories stirred. āYou have a remarkable way with children, Bill,ā I told him. āTheir ideas keep coming and you use them all, no matter how far off the mark.ā
He laughed. āI guess itās not far off their mark. You know, the old Socratic idea? I used to be a Great Books leader up in Maine.ā
Watching him with the five-year-olds, I saw, finally, how the method worked. Heād ask a question or make a casual observation, then repeat each comment and hang on to it until a link could be established to a previous statement. He and the children were constructing paper chains of ideas, factual and magical, and Bill supplied the glue.
But something was going on more important than method: Bill was truly curious. He had few prior expectations of what kindergartners might think or say, and he listened with the anticipation we bring to the theater. He was not interested in what he knew to be an answer; he wanted to know how the children approached the problem.
āIncredible!ā heād whisper to me. āTheir notions of cause and effect are incredible.ā And I, their teacher, who thought I knew the children so well, was often equally astonished.
I tried to copy Billās open-ended questions, which followed the flow of ideas without demanding closure. But it was not easy. I felt myself always waiting for the right answerāmy answer. The children knew I was waiting, and they watched my face for clues.
It was not enough to mimic another personās style. Real change, I was to discover, comes through the painful recognition of oneās own vulnerability. A move to a new school in another city and an orientation speech by its director opened my eyes to an aspect of teaching I had not considered.
The director described a study done by two psychologists, Robert Rosenthal and Lenore Jacobson (Pygmalion in the Classroom, 1968), in which misleading information was given to several teachers about their students. In random fashion the children were labeled bright or not bright by means of fictitious IQ scores. The teachers, I was shocked to find out, asked more questions, waited longer for answers, and followed up more often with additional comments when they thought they were speaking to a smart child.
My shock was that of recognition: I could easily have been one of those unsuspecting teachers, though certainly I listened more to myself than to any of the children.
My problem went beyond the scope of the study, for even when I listened to the children I did not use their ideas. I paid attention only long enough to adapt their words to my plans. Suddenly, I wanted my role in the classroom exposed, but there were no Rosenthals or Jacobsons around eager to set up a privately incriminating study.
Then, miraculously, I discovered the tape recorder and knew I could become my own best witness. To begin with, it revealed why my discussions seldom had the ring of truth: I had not yet figured out which truths the children wanted to pursue.
3
Fredrick is at the playdough table when I refer again to his motherās birthday. In nursery school, no subject is ever finished.
āMaybe your mother doesnāt have a birthday cake because she thinks cakes and candles are for children.ā
Fredrick shakes his head. āUh-uh. She makes daddy a cake with candles.ā
āCan your father bake her a cake?ā
āFathers donāt make cakes. They make popcorn.ā
āAnd blueberry pancakes on Sunday,ā Mollie adds.
Fredrick accepts Mollieās information with a nod and pauses to draw a large unsmiling face. Then he resumes the original topic.
āShe thinked grandma will do it before she died.ā He stares at a spot on the table as he struggles with the shape of the coming sentences. āSee, my grandma is her grandmaās mother. My mother is the mother of the grandmother is the mother when she was little.ā
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