"Out of the mouths of babes" is a well-known phrase that applies to wisdom stated by children that surprises adults with its clarity. I'm not sure why smart children surprise us. Is it because we don't listen to them carefully? (Sometimes they don't have the language they need to express the thoughts that are exciting them.) That we don't challenge them enough intellectually? That we don't involve them enough in solving real problems? All of the above?
As a children's book author, I remember myself as a child quite well. I write for that child. When I was ten, listening to an adult describe how things were when he was a boy, I clearly recall thinking, "He doesn't remember his childhood correctly. That's not how it is." I vowed to myself I would NEVER forget what it is like to be a child.
I was always an independent thinker but as a child I felt as if my thoughts would never be taken seriously by adults, even when I became one. As a pre-feminism girl in a man's world my gender was also disempowering. I became a scientist because speaking about science gave me authority -- after all I wasn't speaking about my ideas but proven, verifiable truth of others. Looking back, I see now that I was as smart then, as a child, as I would ever be. Fortunately, the world never successfully conspired to shut me up and as a woman of a certain age, I have a LOT of opinions that I now freely express. But I wonder if we're failing our children because we don't give them the respect and the opportunity they deserve. We don't challenge them to strive and we all too often punish them for doing less than they can do. We are failing our children. But, as a reminder, I have some anecdotal evidence about the intelligence of children that never fails to take my breath away.
I do a demonstration in my school visits that engages the audience in thinking like a scientist. I hold an empty 2-liter soda bottle (label removed) horizontally (after shaking it upside down to establish that it's empty) and place a small rolled-up ball of paper in the mouth of the bottle. I ask a volunteer to blow the paper into the bottle after everyone agrees that this is an easy thing to do. Surprise! Instead of going into the bottle the paper flies out. Everyone laughs. Such a discrepant event is a teachable moment. I ask, "Why can't we blow the paper into the bottle?" The kids quickly figure out that the bottle is NOT empty (I had set them up) but full of air. My next question to them is "What can we do to the bottle so that maybe we CAN blow the paper into it?" From first grade all the way up the most common response is, "Cut a hole in the bottle." But preschool and kindergarten cut to the chase right away. Their insight leaves all the adults in the room with their jaws on the floor. "Take out the air," is the response. Their logic is impeccable. If air in the bottle is preventing you from blowing in the paper, take out the air. When I ask, "How could we do that?" the little ones invariably respond, "Squeeze the bottle." We do that. I then rest the piece of paper at the mouth of the squeezed bottle, announce that I will now pop the bottle back into shape and ask them to vote if the paper will go in or go out. When I pop the bottle and the paper flies in, ALWAYS, without exception, no matter how old the group, the room erupts into cheers.
Recently, as the featured author at a school literacy evening, my program was the last on the agenda. It was, in the parlance of show business, a tough room -- hot, crowded, late, with lots tired kids. So I briefly told (not read) the story of how rhinoviruses attack the nasal epithelial cells (bad guys vs. good guys) and how the body reacts to fight off the enemy from my book "Your Body Battles a Cold." I finished in about seven minutes and asked the kiss-of-death question: "Are there any questions?" After a couple of "sharings" from the youngest students, a little girl asked, "Why do the rhinoviruses want to attack my nose?" Of course, I answer this question in the book. But in my haste to be quick at that late hour I had omitted this crucial detail. What her question told me was that this child had been following my story and thinking about it.
My favorite story is about my grandson, Jonathan, and his opinion of education. He is every teacher's dream student: smart, responsible, kind -- a class leader. Just after he completed seventh grade I asked him how many of his teachers did he think were having fun teaching him. By fun, I meant that they were engaged, focused and involved in the classroom activity. He thought for a long time before he finally answered, "My sixth grade language arts teacher." My follow-up question was, "How do you know that a teacher isn't having any fun?" His immediate response: "Because I'm not learning very much."
Education should be about empowering children. Perhaps we make too many decisions about what they can't do instead of challenging them to spread their wings. Do we stigmatize failure as something bad rather than see it as an inevitable step on the learning curve? If a child shows an interest in something outside the curriculum, do we honor this interest, denigrate it or ignore it? Are we being fair to teachers by requiring them to teach to tests, rather than have them exercise their own creativity and critical thinking in their classrooms? Indeed, how can we expect to teach creativity and critical thinking if we don't let teachers model it?
There are plenty of exemplary schools and teachers, working against all odds to create successful students, but even they are being ham-strung by high-stakes testing. The curious, thoughtful child I once was survived to adulthood because I went to a progressive elementary school with the mission to create life-long learners. I learned the difference between what school could be and what it was for most children because I went to traditional schools from seventh grade up.
I write books for children to recreate my wonderful elementary school experience both for my readers and for myself.
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