Children’s writing, in this context, is an extension of their talk; it is linked to drawing, and both are rooted in experiences that matter. I brought in mackerels, and we dissected them. “Ugh!” and “Yuck!” the children said, as blood and guts squished out. Many of the children were eager to touch the dead fish, others wouldn’t do it: Interesting, today, to watch how differently each child approached the fish. Hayley didn’t even want to look too closely—her eyes kept zipping away, though she smiled. Mark and Rosie plunged fingers in and poked at the eyes.
Touching the eye, in particular, fascinated and disgusted them. They learned anatomy viscerally: they saw the semicircle at the back of the eye and apprehended firsthand the way eyes are set into sockets and, as a consequence, the way the eye socket protects the eye. They felt for themselves how principles of motion explain the overlapping of the fish’s scales, so the water would flow smoothly over the fish’s body as it swims forward. Teaching this way, I don’t doubt for a second that learning takes place in an integrated way and that it is immediate and vital.
I had the children draw the dissected fish and asked them to label their drawings. Bits of fish juice ended up on the papers: the records took a very material form. Similarly, the juice of real experiences colors children’s writing about real things. Their writing is informed by deep feelings, because the connections they have forged are unique and passionate: As they write about real things—not just about themselves—their writing is taking off. They are motivated to write whether or not these are positive experiences.
When children study real things, their own interests and passions dominate their approach to the subject. I let them choose which undersea animal they wished to learn about: several girls and one boy chose to study whales and dolphins; a group of boys wanted to study squids and octopuses. The shark-and-ray group was co-ed, but different children had different interests. Some children were fascinated by the dried shark egg cases that I’d brought in, and attempted to trace them. Several children were intent on finding out which sharks are dangerous to people and which are not. The aggressive great white caught the attention of some children; others liked the odd hammerhead. A few children wanted me to read about the huge, peaceful basking shark, which swims along with its large mouth open. I brought some children outside to the hall, and we used rulers and masking tape to mark off the length of the basking shark. As each group met, the children looked through the books, finding photographs they wanted to know about and doing drawings. The finished drawings were shown to the class, and soon covered the blackboard.
Records of the fish dissection
Photo by Julie Diamond
My end goal was the production of a book that would be photocopied and sent home. I’d first made sure we had appropriate resource books, and I familiarized myself with them, to help children find relevant material. When I met with each group to look at books and read bits of text, I asked questions that focused on aspects of behavior and body structure related to survival, and encouraged children to make comparisons and draw conclusions. I asked them about their drawings: What does this show? What do you want it to say? I organized the numerous drawings and asked for some specific pages—we have to show whales’ blowholes! Each research group would write one chapter; there would be four altogether. I made sure there was at least one page per child. I typed transcriptions of the children’s writing. When the book was complete, I showed it to the class. The children suggested titles, and we voted: Undersea Life. Last, a parent volunteered to make photocopies. The book was terrific, combining detail (“Sharks and rays have 5 gill slits on each side”) with appreciation of the diversity of ocean life. I played a crucial role in creating it, but the energy was theirs. The book was a product of their discoveries; it grew out of their innate desire to find out, and share what they’d found out. In the process of communicating what they knew, the children learned the process of bookmaking and became co-authors.
A page from the class book Undersea Life
Drawing by Peter Dinella
When writing and drawing grow from children’s real involvements, their work has a distinctive point of view; they begin to develop a unique voice and vision. Some children like to know, precisely and scientifically. These children are concerned with correct representation. They draw the orca’s pattern of black and white with remarkable accuracy. For others, fantasy holds sway: their dolphins always have smiley faces. Their identification with animals has a magical, imaginative quality. They appreciate the eccentricity of sea horses and jellyfish, the drama of animal life, its beauty and danger. Whatever the source of their interest, the power of children’s feelings keeps them focused; writing, they search for words to describe their thoughts; they stretch their knowledge to match their understandings, and come up with comparisons and metaphors. At the end of the year, the children observed caterpillars: I staple extra pages to their caterpillar journals—What do you see? What do you notice? Use the magnifying glass! Nia wrote, last week, “He is like a line.” And this week, “He is fat as a pumpkin!” She hadn’t before been capable of that level of writing. Authentic work: Rex, in a previous kindergarten class, was observing his caterpillar as it crawled in its vial. “What’s the caterpillar doing?” I asked. “It is,” he said, and later wrote, “thinking about its life as a butterfly.” It is lived experience that gives writing energy and muscle, style and personality.
This level of work, I believe, is a result of a class environment that presents numerous opportunities for children to find out what they think. It is, I believe, children’s talk that consistently knits the class together as it highlights their developing ideas. With a different class, some years ago, after the children had been observing the metamorphosis of caterpillars for some time, one girl asked me, “Why do caterpillars change into butterflies?” I brought the question to the class. I transcribed the discussion for our weekly letter to families (just about everyone in the class had something to say):
Because everybody grows up.
But furniture doesn’t grow up.
Food doesn’t grow up.
Yes, it does.
Food grows ’cause it’s a living thing, and plants grow because they are living things just like humans except they can’t walk.
Or touch stuff or talk.
Caterpillars change because they have to do it.
When they’re like babies, the caterpillars are like babies, and the butterflies are like grown-ups.
Caterpillars change because that’s what they look like when they are grown up.
Because the caterpillar could get more beautiful to fly.
Other kinds of animals grow too.
People change when they grow up.
Only animals have to grow up.
Books don’t grow. Fish grow up.
Snacks or your clothing can’t grow.
Paper, buildings, or instruments don’t grow.
Caterpillars change into butterflies because they need a change.
It’s like in their bodies, they have the wings, and when they grow up, the wings come out.
Caterpillars need to change ’cause like a creature that’s hungry could get it and eat it, so they need to fly so they could find a place to hide, so the creature won’t eat it.
If a caterpillar didn’t turn into a butterfly, the caterpillar would be too slow and a bird would eat it.
Caterpillars, if they don’t turn into butterflies, if a bee is trying to sting them, a caterpillar could stick its feet because its feet have points, so it could stick its feet in the bee, so the bee can’t sting.
Butterflies need to fly because when a creature or a bird is trying to eat it, it could fly away.
The transcription illuminates what children do in discussions. The second statement, “But furniture doesn’t grow up,” was one child’s facetious rejoinder, but its meaning was taken up as children went on to distinguish different categories and explore what features distinguish the categories. The class is considerin
g, in effect, the characteristics of living things, the notion of growth and change, and later in the discussion, how animals’ body structures help them survive. While the children work together to piece out their thoughts, individual contributions constitute leaps of thought. “Because the caterpillar could get more beautiful to fly,” while grammatically confusing, introduces the notion that butterflies’ ability to fly is what the change is all about. The children return to the general topic of growth and change but then explore the significance of flight. The child who made the comment about the caterpillar getting “more beautiful to fly” was a child who spoke English poorly and was often impulsive and inattentive during discussions. Here, he was absorbed, contributing a valuable insight that moved the discussion forward. Without the transcription, I don’t think I would have noticed his comment.
The children used journals to write about themselves. I introduced journal writing in October, explaining that journal entries are about themselves and their lives. They wrote in journals in an organized ongoing way, making two entries a week, one on Thursday morning and one at home, over the weekend. I told them that an entry was to be about something that really happened or was going to happen, about something real. “Real” was not always so apparent:
There’s Sam, doing a drawing of a monster zapping him. I say, No, something real, do another journal entry—and he draws a monster. I say, Draw something that really happened! He draws a rain forest and writes a string of random letters. I accept that, and say, Rrrrrain, like in Ricky—and he writes an R.
Children’s journal writing reveals things that surprise me:
Alyssa is grabby and critical. The other children don’t like her. But she writes in her journal about going to Mark’s birthday party, and that’s the page she chooses to share. It’s clear she likes him and likes having been invited. I wouldn’t have predicted it—her admiration for Mark, who is one of the nicest, kindest children in the class. I think about it in the afternoon, when she snubs Sam and is once again unable to find a partner.
We keep the journals in a bin and have “journal share” in the morning or last thing in the day. I try to have every child share at least once a month. To keep track of who’s shared, I keep a class list on a clipboard; the children stamp the date next to their names when they’ve had their turn. A child talks about an entry, shows the drawing, and calls on two children for “questions or comments.” The children draw themselves walking to school with parents, celebrating special events, eating in restaurants. Reading the entries or talking to the children, I learn what they notice and what they care about. Graham says, “I was in an airplane and I saw a forest or a rain forest or a jungle when I was in the air looking out the window.” Someone asks, “Where were you going?” He answers, “Nebraska or Cape May.” I listen carefully to the questions; in the course of the year, the children grow in their ability to ask pertinent questions. Rosie describes building an igloo, and one child asks, “What happened to the igloo?” When we write in journals on Thursday mornings, some children do all the writing themselves. Others write one or two words, ME and MOM, and turn to the adults to take dictation for the rest. Some dictate, going on and on, until I say, “OK, that’s all I have time for.” Toward the end of the year, we’re very lucky—another teacher, Phil Firsenbaum, who’s been supporting teachers’ use of technology, has volunteered to work with the class. He documents journal entries and children’s comments, and produces a book with one page of photographs and text from each child. A parent photocopies the book, and every child takes a copy home. They not only have their own journals, but a record of the journal keeping of everyone in the class.
Thinking about Language Acquisition
I am struck by the talk of children whose English is poor. How do they explain to themselves what’s going on? We were talking about a book yesterday, and I asked, Sam, can you tell us. . . . His answer showed his lack of comprehension—of what we call comprehension—because he had obviously made up some story of what the book said. For several days, he has been drawing people, cutting them out, gluing them on construction paper. Yesterday I sat with him, and we used heavy paper to make the men stand, to guard the bridge Sam had made. For the bridge, Sam had cut paper into strips, and he’d placed the little men alongside; the bridge went from one table to the next. So I folded and glued pieces of heavy paper to make triangular stands for his men.
There are children whose language use puzzles us. Is something wrong? How wrong? What are our options, and what are our responsibilities? If I describe children’s talk as one way of making sense of the world, what do I do when I can’t find a child’s sense?
Sam was a small, slight child whose expression was often blank. By late October, he knew the names of only a few of his classmates. He played alone for the most part. When he attempted to make friends, asking others to be his partner on line, he was often rebuffed. During discussions, Sam played with the Velcro on his shoes. I wondered, could he not decipher, not process, public talk? Yet if I focused only on his deficits, was aware only of what he couldn’t do, I couldn’t teach him. To be fair, and to be helpful, I had to observe his talk and his listening, describe it without judging it. What did he actually say? What did he do? I had to see his language behavior as a mystery, something I didn’t yet comprehend, to which I can’t immediately assign a name:
I call kids to go to snack, saying, “People with four letters in their names may go.” Sam looks at the sole of his shoe and says, Me!—because he has a number on the sole of his shoe. That’s part of the puzzle of Sam: he heard that one piece “four” and took that in, fïlling in the rest; as he heard it, I was calling people who had numbers somewhere on their clothing. His ability to express himself, however inadequately, masks his inability to process spoken language when the environment gives him no clues about what to do.
I met Sam’s mother and big brothers (he is a much younger sibling, with a brother in high school and a brother in college), all of whom spoke English fluently. His mother worked, and he was cared for by his Spanish-speaking grandmother. A language picture emerged: conversation in Spanish with his grandmother; Spanish-language television; some English conversation with others in his family, and his presence during English-language conversations he probably didn’t understand; attendance at a daycare center the previous spring, where English was spoken—but where, I found out when I spoke to the center’s director, he was frequently absent. He had relatively little experience playing with peers. How did that affect his language development?
Children with Hispanic surnames are mandated for testing as “English language learners.” Sam tested out; his score was above the cutoff for services. But in the classroom, when we talked at meeting or I read a story, Sam concentrated on other things, like the Velcro on his sneakers. Words passed him by; he would catch occasional words, but the meanings would escape him. By mid-December, he knew the other kids’ names, but I noticed something else: Yesterday he had a complaint about Lila. He came up to me, “She . . .” I said, “Who?” He pointed to her. I asked him, “What’s her name?” Sam: “Lila.” So, that pointing, is it partly that recalling words requires effort? Is it partly that he’s not used to making an effort?
I talked more to his mother, who complained that his grandmother “spoiled” him. I speculated: did he learn to be passive in connecting to his social surroundings, and therefore passive in drawing inferences from the environment? Had he taught himself to tune out? I asked his mother if she would agree to have him tested for a learning disability. Did he have an impairment that affected his ability to recall words? Was his solitary play a result of a problem with language acquisition, not the other way around? Or could both things be true?
I’d waited until December to set in motion the process of getting Sam evaluated. For another child in the class, I’d recommended evaluation immediately, in September. This child spoke English without hesitation or accent, but had been exposed to two other languages and spoke in a confu
sed and repetitive syntax, as if he’d memorized phrases. His discussion comments were widely off topic and he didn’t follow directions. I spoke to his mother, who agreed to refer him. The decision is always hard: which children will benefit from a supportive, language-rich environment, and which need special help? If English is a child’s second language, does difficulty with English cloak a language processing disability, or does the child simply need time? In general, I’m slow to refer children. I see language growth as part of overall growth during the kindergarten year. Perhaps, too, I’m reluctant to cede part of what I see as my role, unless I’m convinced that intervention is required; children who receive services normally spend some time out of the classroom. Some teachers are critical of the special-education system. They feel that children, particularly boys from low-income or non-English-speaking homes, end up as “special ed” students not because they are unable to learn but because classrooms don’t accommodate a range of learning needs. Once in a special-education track, these children are likely to remain in special education for their school careers. Many educators believe it’s wrong to describe children by their failures rather than their strengths. The problem for me is figuring out whether a particular child might benefit from services.
Kindergarten: A Teacher, Her Students, and a Year of Learning Page 12