I want to give the children time to think, time to make decisions; to give them the same luxury that I took for myself in setting up the room. Just as I want to give them the floor space to stretch out in front of the rabbit’s cage, I want to give them time to develop an idea or project, time to develop friendships. I want time for myself to observe them, time to figure out what questions to ask.
The luxury of time is not, in fact, a luxury. It’s not only a practical need but a necessity required by the ultimate purposes of education. The relationship between classroom time and educational values is described by the Italian educator Carlina Rinaldi, writing about the educational philosophy of the municipal preschools of Reggio Emilia. An innovative approach to learning and teaching has been developed in these schools, one that has become well known to educators around the world: children and teachers essentially collaborate on extended explorations of subjects being studied. Looking at the principles behind the approach, Rinaldi states that “for a school to be a place of life, then it needs the time of life, and that time of life is different, for example, to the time of production.... In a school what is important is the process, the path we develop. The educational relation needs to be able to make time.... It needs empty time. It is . . . about having the courage to rediscover the time of human beings. [It is] not only . . . a right, but . . . a social and cultural value.”3
American educator Patricia Carini discusses time in a similar way, stressing the relationship between the time that teachers give children and the values that underlie education. She writes about the time for children’s “telling and re-telling” 4—time that allows children to develop ideas, and to see their connections: “To let meaning occur requires time and the possibility for the rich and varied relationships among things to become evident.” 5 For Carini, time is also important because it allows children to develop intentions, to work with purpose, on their own and with others: “To let choice occur requires time and the possibility for discernment, taste, and perspective to develop; to sustain purpose and commitment requires time and the possibility for discipline to occur.” 6
For teachers to protect children’s right to time—to empty time—requires courage, especially at this moment in history. Our lives, adults’ as well as children’s, are overprogrammed, without occasions for something unplanned. There’s a benefit when teachers don’t pack each moment. Time allows children to develop as people with broad interests and capacities; it allows them to gain a sense of conviction about their choices.
Walking into my classroom after two months away, I notice two things that I’d left tacked up on the corkboard of the teacher’s coat closet when I’d packed things away the previous June. One is a print reproduction of a quilt, a bold, symmetrical red and black design; the other, a small red felt heart that a student made years ago. These two spots of color welcome me back; I’d forgotten about them. Who made the heart? I’m not certain—it’s from over a decade ago.
They’re stuck up casually, side by side, part of the environment. But like pieces of work in a museum’s permanent exhibit, they also comment on the environment, telling a visitor something about this place and what goes on here. To me they say this is what school is about. They’re samples of work, produced by individuals (one a real object, the other a reproduction). They make the point that children’s efforts—their art, their thinking, their building and construction, their investigations—are human activities. They are versions of what adults do. Yet children’s efforts are also—because, again, they are human efforts—valuable in themselves. The aesthetic pleasure I feel in looking at them is partially related to the circumstances of their production: both of these were made with concentration and industry. Whoever made them worked with purpose, made judgments. In what they are, they communicate something of the value they must have had for the people who made them. The purpose with which they were made is visible and adds to their value for me, and this says something to me about this classroom and my job as teacher.
I want children to take from this year an attitude of respect toward their own capacities: for having purposes, for making things, for thinking. I want children to take themselves seriously while having fun. Some children enter kindergarten with an extraordinary ability to concentrate, to work with commitment; others are distractible, and only by the end of the year do they become fully engaged. This is my goal, to whatever degree I can achieve it in this one year: to guide children in concrete, practical ways toward conviction, toward the knowledge that who they are and what they do count.
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Routines and Rituals: Making the Room Theirs
The Need for Routines
What was the discussion today? The topic was some animal—and so many of them had something to say. The continual problem for me, for any teacher, is organization: how the mechanics of a classroom allow these discussions to occur.
The routines and rituals that are a part of classroom life echo the routines and rituals that we adults use to ease our way through our own daily tasks and responsibilities. We associate the word routine with dull repetition, yet without routines, we’d be in a bog of continual decision making. When educational purposes dictate classroom routines (not the other way around, as is sometimes the case), routines serve many functions. In addition, teachers can encourage the development of rituals that customize routines, that stamp routines with the personality and individuality of a particular group of children.
By and large, routines are imposed by the teacher and by the environment that the teacher creates; rituals are generated by children as they respond to this new physical and social environment. Through the introduction of routines and the generation of rituals, teachers ensure that these twenty-four or so new students become oriented as members of this unique group. Through routines, the environment shapes the children’s behavior; through the rituals they in turn enact, children shape their environment.
The initial function of routines is to provide children with a sense of comfort and familiarity in a strange new place. In the first weeks of school, the predictability of class routines translates into a sense of safety. As children learn the routines, they come to know the room, and what will be expected of them. To the extent that the room becomes theirs and to the extent that events are predictable and familiar-seeming, children become more able to separate and are more at ease when parents or caregivers say good-bye.
During this transition period, which lasts about two months, the teacher must plan so that every activity incorporates a way of doing things. Ruth Charney, who taught for many years at the Greenfield Center School in Greenfield, Massachusetts, analyzes the role of routines in her thoughtful book Teaching Children to Care.1 Charney argues that the first months of school are crucial in terms of the transmission of routines. The teacher’s commitment to the teaching of routines is essential; this is not something that should be left to chance.
In this period, I ask myself numerous questions. Which materials will I set out in the first days and the first weeks? How will I introduce them? Are all materials ones that are relatively easy to put away (and to pick up, since containers will certainly be knocked over)? How clearly are expectations stated? New teachers, wanting to be creative, may have a hard time being slow and deliberate with the introduction of materials. But when details are left to chance in a classroom with young children, things slide quickly into chaos. If enterprising children spot sponges next to the sink, they may decide to clean the tables. Wetting the sponges, they happily squeeze water on the tables, and before the teacher notices, water is flowing over many surfaces, and children at the sink are fighting for sponges. The teacher’s ability to teach and reinforce expectations—to “see everything,” as Charney puts it—provides the basis for whatever fancy stuff happens later in the year. The simplicity and explicitness of expectations during this transitional period can affect children’s functioning throughout the entire year. In well-organized rooms, routines may not be apparent to the casual o
bserver. But although routines may be hidden, they exert a decisive influence on behavior, the sense that “this is how we do it.”
The mechanics of a room and its educational content are joined; curriculum requires a smoothly running classroom. Discussions can’t take place if no one’s paying attention; children won’t develop the ability to work in a consistent and committed way if their work is misplaced or damaged; and efforts to work on more complicated projects are problematic when class materials and tools are hard to find. The year I began teaching in the New York City public schools, I took over the classroom of a teacher who had retired. Clearing out the junk took months. I found math and construction materials mixed together—wooden pattern blocks and plastic Unifix cubes, Legos, pegs, odd puzzle pieces, broken objects—all jumbled together in miscellaneous bins. What do children make of this kind of disorganization? What do they learn in this kind of environment? They don’t learn to put things away; they don’t learn that things have places where they belong and can be found. Not only do they learn to treat tools and materials carelessly, but their desire to pursue specific objectives may be stymied. Those children who haven’t yet developed focus and commitment are more likely to engage in repetitive play, e.g., crashing toy cars together. There is an additional benefit for teachers once routines are learned: the functioning of the room demands less attention, and teachers are freer to focus on students and the work they are doing. Routines are the room’s infrastructure, the railroad tracks—how we get from here to there.
Signs and Labels
End of the first week, only three days, because the schools were closed for the Jewish holidays, but we got a huge amount done. Self-portraits for the door: Michael’s stick figure person, only head and legs, one color; Lila’s clouds and tree with branches; Denay’s colorful mother and child.
When children are involved from the very beginning in establishing routines, they see for themselves how their intentions and purposes help form the environment; through routines, they claim the classroom for their own use. This process begins as soon as children walk into the room. The first day, I have an hour with half of the group and another hour with the other half. (Beginning the year with shortened days is extremely important in helping children start school; ideally, children would not have a full day of school until the second week.) When the children arrive, I give them time to walk around the room with their parents; some of them are tentative, sticking close to parents, others exploring more adventurously. I find a minute for each child: we go together to the coat closet and I show them where coats will go later in the year; we peel off a label with the child’s name and the child sticks it on a piece of colored construction paper next to one of the hooks. They try the puzzles, use play dough, or draw; after a while, I warn them and their parents that in a few minutes I’ll be asking parents to go. The advance notice and the chance to play a little longer are usually enough for the children to say good-bye without strong protests. Some children like extra assurances that the parents will return soon and are not far away. Occasionally, if a child seems deeply upset, a parent may stay, but for the most part, the children are interested in seeing what comes next.
A few minutes after the parents have left, we put things away and have a short meeting—singing a song, hearing each other’s names for the first time, learning the name of the classroom and the names of the adults. I give them squares of paper and ask them to draw whatever they want, and (if they can) to write their names. As they finish, they choose cubbies, and I use a bit of tape to stick the squares down in individual cubbies; later, I’ll cover the squares with clear contact paper. Before children go home that day, two places in the room—coat hooks and cubbies—have been marked with their names. My big goal that first day: to make sure they want to come back.
In the next few weeks of school, we set up the room together. The children make signs, set up the class library, make a wall alphabet. As they do this, they help put in place routines that will be part of classroom life, while at the same time beginning to see that responsibility for the room is theirs. This process not only assumes their competence, but also places children’s ability to represent and write at the service of a group goal. Through this process, they make the room theirs.
One of the most important projects at the start of the year is making signs. We need schedule signs, door signs (to indicate the whereabouts of the class), and signs for areas of the room. The schedule signs are used immediately; the schedule is posted every day, and the class reads the signs aloud at our morning meeting. (Toward the end of the year, the children change the signs themselves if I’ve neglected to.) I start with signs for meeting, work time, story, snack, and home, making more signs as we need them. To make signs, a small group works at a table with the student teacher or assistant teacher; the children decide how to illustrate each schedule card. For meeting, a child draws a blue square to represent the blue rug, and then adds a single figure; for work time, a child draws blocks. What will illustrate snack time? A child draws a circle and a square: a juice cup seen from the top, and a cracker. To make the door signs, the children draw the pictures and write the words: WE ARE AT LUNCH. They copy one word at a time, cut each word out, and glue the words in a row, a table of sign makers copying words and cutting them out. All of this takes more time than if I used computer-generated pictures or drew the pictures myself. Yet the effort is worth it, because when children make signs, their work has practical meaning. When the signs are finished, I mount and laminate them and add Velcro to the backs. One sign goes outside the classroom, the rest go on the back of the door; two children change the door signs whenever the class leaves the room or returns.
To organize the library, I sit on the rug with a small group of children and a large pile of books. We sort the books, figuring out what categories make sense: animal books, books about children, ABC books. We make labels; the children draw the pictures and I write the words. The books go in the baskets, and the baskets go on the shelves. At the next meeting, the children who made labels show them to the class. I add more books as the weeks go by, and the children and I decide, Do these books belong in existing baskets or do we need a new basket? This continues all year as the library grows. Sometimes a child insists we need a new basket: Lila asks for a basket for Dr. Seuss books. Problems arise as children see that a book could belong in two (or more) baskets; the discussion is more interesting than the outcome. I create some of the categories through my choice of books—like Folk and Fairy Tales, one of my favorite categories.
During these first weeks, children also make a wall alphabet. I draw the outlines of upper- and lower-case letters on shiny fingerpaint paper, and the children color the letters with markers: some children make neat patterns of dots or flowers or hearts; many draw stripes; some make monochromatic scribbles and say, “I’m done.” Letter by letter, the alphabet goes up. Later in the year, the children will make pictures to go with each letter.
Children’s participation in the process of establishing routines allows them to imbue routines with personal meaning. Nowhere can this be seen more clearly than in their use of the class calendar. To make the calendar, I buy a large heavy-duty plastic board, on which I rule a calendar grid in permanent marker. The calendar is introduced in October, around three weeks into the school year. Using a sponge-off pen, I write in the days of the week and the dates. At the end of the month, the calendar is sponged off, and dates for the next month are filled in. By December, children take over the job of writing the days and numerals.
The calendar quickly becomes a central source of information. Children write “no school” on weekend days and holidays. They draw cupcakes on their own birthdays and mark the birthdays of parents and siblings. They may mark parents’ out-of-town trips by drawing planes, trains, or cars on the dates; when their parents travel frequently, marking departures and returns gives children a feeling of control in relation to circumstances they don’t actually control. As a group, we use the calendar
to count the days until a coming event, Halloween or Christmas or a class trip, counting backward and recording the numbers with increasing excitement as the event gets closer. In a sense, the calendar is a book: it is “read” and conveys information that matters. As children refer to it—which happens constantly—they develop common understandings and associations. Thus, an ordinary class routine of keeping track of dates on a calendar is opened up by children’s participation; and as they make it their calendar, they also integrate a symbol system into their own world.
Writing on the calendar
Photo by Julie Diamond
There are numerous educational implications when routines are opened up in this way. For example, as five-year-old children make signs, copying and cutting words, they see concretely how each written word equals one spoken word. Children may also begin to draw conclusions about the correspondences between letters and letter sounds. In upper grades, sign making allows older children to impose their own notions of useful classroom organization. For both younger and older students, the process of making signs incorporates skills of reading, writing, and math as tools for the children’s own purposes. Most significantly, in making signs and in producing other classroom materials, children see that meanings are not arbitrary, imposed by an unknown higher authority: meanings are created through people’s actions. The reasons for routines, the ways in which they function, become accessible to children and connected to their intentions.
Where Does This Go?
Cleanup, that most mundane of tasks. I move around the room, I badger and harass, calling them back, reminding them: throw your scraps of paper away! We learn these things through action. Responsibility, accountability—these are demanded by group life.
Kindergarten: A Teacher, Her Students, and a Year of Learning Page 3