Structuring their dramatic play

Baby Blues brings memories of my first career failure, or at least a random moment that created a family phrase.

I had dropped out of school my senior year to go back to Boulder and write, and saw an ad for an assistant at a preschool. I called and the woman suggested I come spend a day there and we could see how it went.

The place was a ranch-style house with a very large playground area, including a sandbox, jungle gym and wooden slide/house/whathaveyou structure, typical then and typical now.

What made it stand out was that she had a non-structured approach to children that made Summerhill look like a military academy.

And so I failed the employment interview, because I was walking around the playground talking to the kids and some of them wanted me to play with them and so I did.

Later, she explained why I wasn't being invited to join the staff: "You were structuring their dramatic play."

This was just after the parents came to pick up their kids, and the point at which I began to realize that, unlike a coop nursery school in which everyone had bought into the philosophy, this was a daycare center run by an eccentric.

I remember in particular one fellow who, judging from his work clothes, had just spent the day building or possible doing road construction. His little three-year-old cherub presented him with a piece of red construction paper upon which she had glued two cotton balls and some glitter.

It was very clear that he was a good dad, that, while his instinct was to ask, "What's this?" he could easily, readily have understood that "Tell me about this" is a better approach.

But even that would have been too directive, and so the guy was squirming because the Non-Directive Director was watching, and he was well-aware that, if he wanted to have this place to put his kid during the work day, he'd better not say anything more specific than, "That's nice."

I can't help but think that her theories of childhood self-development were all that separated her from someone who removed all the pointed objects from the area and then let the kids do whatever the hell they wanted while she sat and drank coffee.

So anyway, I didn't get the job or even gas money for having spent the day there, but I did get the gift of a lifetime expression, such that if one of us stopped the kids from running out into the street or pushing fork tines into electrical outlets, the other would say, "You're structuring their dramatic play."

And Hammie will be disappointed when he learns that math is not judged on a subjective basis, but there ya go, pal.

Summerhill works for a particular subset of kids, just as Hampshire College's "Choose Your Own Adventure" approach works for a particular subset of kids. 

But I wonder about the kids for whom it doesn't work, because, while I greatly admire the music of Doc Watson and the Rev Gary Davis, I'm pretty sure you can't make that happen by poking out your kid's eyes and handing him a guitar.

Or, I guess, just hoping he stumbles across one in the dark.

 

However, kids do find their own ways, and today's Frazz not only salutes the creative kindness and natural compassion most kids possess, but the final line of dialogue is a reminder that even over-structuring, irrascible, unimaginative Mrs. Olsen loves kids and is not oblivious to everything that goes on in her classroom.

It is an admirable layer of complexity that Jef Mallet brings to a figure who, in other hands, would simply be a cardboard antagonist for the characters he actually cares about. 

And I love Allie's smile.

 

And offering a framework doesn't have to be "directive."

Wiley Miller give us another of an occasional Sunday piece in which he provides a launching point for someone else's narrative and then steps aside.

I'd say that I hope parents are showing their kids this, but at the moment I'm feeling pretty confident about that.

I just spent three days sitting a booth at the Colorado Chapter of the International Reading Association's annual convention, and it was rewarding to talk to teachers who use my main client's materials and to find that they do indeed pick up on, and appreciate, the things I drop in there to help prompt conversations and curiosity, and that they recognize the quality of the work we do with our young writers.

That kind of feedback is a rare tonic. It's lonely when you can't see the people at the receiving end of your efforts.

But they're out there.

Keep pitching, gang.

 

Now here's your moment of zen

 

 

Comments

[Lost in A**2]

My response to your third selection was, "Damn you, Wiley," said, as Owen Wister noted, with a smile.

Mallet earned his name today.

[Mark Jackson]

In our family Hampshire College is known as "the place with cows" after two college-tour visits. Both boys were admitted but chose to go to Bard. (Hampshire isn't "that farm place" since *that* label stuck on Marlboro College, which was also on one visited/admitted list. Do you perceive a pattern here?)