My dad tells Chief about EarthWalk. Chief broadcasts a big old smile and holds up a hand for a high-five when Dad is through.
I’m surprised, but I reach up and slap his hand without hesitation. There’s something about him that makes me feel comfortable doing it.
“Really awesome, Sean,” he says.
“Yes, Sean’s initiative was very impressive,” Dad says. “I am concerned, however, that Stone Creek may present too much of an opportunity for Sean to go back to coasting through life.”
“I’m interested to hear more about the values at the foundation of Stone Creek,” Mom says. “Where did all this come from? I understand you used to be a math teacher. Maybe you could describe how you motivate students to want to learn math—not Sean’s forte, I assure you.”
Chief sits in silence, apparently as comfortable with listening as he is with talking at length. “Great questions and concerns,” Chief says, while obviously sorting through it all. “If it’s okay with everyone, I’ll start with the math challenge. Our approach to all classes is learning with assistance, as opposed to teaching. Part of the assistance is challenging people to solve a problem in which they have an interest.”
Chief turns to me and I panic, my brain repeating a mantra of, Please don’t ask me anything!
“If I recall correctly, Sean, you have great interest in surfing and the sea. If I were meeting you for the first time in a math class, I might ask you questions about your surfboard design and how it worked on the waves. If you responded with interest, I could suggest some fundamental design questions for you to explore, offer some ideas for resources, and ask you to get back to me when you get stuck. The point is, students need to be in charge, making decisions constantly about what to explore. Their success along the way creates confidence and desire to keep learning. You with me?”
I look at Mom and Dad for clues to where they’re at. Mom is concentrating on following everything Chief is saying and she looks like she is ready to burst with forty million questions, all of them starting with Yes, but …
Dad, meanwhile, has the blank face he uses a lot when planning a gotcha trap question. I know the expression well.
Chief plows ahead. “Sean’s forte not being math, we would want him to take some standardized tests for assessment of where he might have gaps from his moving to different schools. This is the only way we use standardized tests: to determine areas of need. We are considered a ‘pilot’ program with the state of Virginia, giving us lots of flexibility, but we do take the state tests at the end of courses, just like everyone else. The results show our students are doing far better, learning far more, than they did in the past. Even better than tests for assessment is our team of math teachers, which would work with Sean to determine what his skills are and then design an individual plan for him to catch up in some areas if he needs it. We do this kind of thing for all students.” Chief turns to me. “Does that reassure you, Sean, that we would assist you in areas where you need help? But the key is, you have to use the initiative your dad says you have—take charge of your own learning. We can’t, and won’t even try, to make you learn something.”
“Are there kids who don’t make it here?” I ask.
“Only a few, and it’s those who refuse to try—those who, for one reason or another, can’t do school right now.”
Dad jumps in before Mom can get a question formulated. “Why all the emphasis on choice? Wouldn’t it be more efficient to just transmit the core information needed?”
Uh-oh. Dad’s going to get defensive about his own identity as a teacher.
“Perhaps that would be true in, say, a college situation, where students are able to freely choose what courses they want to take and the professor is responsive to individual students probing areas of their own interest. But when those conditions do not exist, as in a traditional high school, you tend to see a great deal of disinterest among students. We believe high school students need to explore a range of interests before their next stage in life, when they will be expected to make decisions for themselves. Otherwise, they’ve wasted a lot of time in high school.”
Looking directly at Mom, Chief says, “Your intensity bubbles forth in your eyes. How are we doing addressing your concerns?”
Mom takes a long time to collect her thoughts into what she wants to say, but she looks enormously pleased that Chief is willing to wait and she doesn’t have to compete for the floor.
“Frankly, I’m fascinated,” she finally says. “What you’re saying seems to ring true, though I’m not entirely sure why. My high school experience was very traditional.”
“I suppose people get to where I’ve landed in many different ways,” Chief says. “For me, it was an experience with hospice a few years ago, when my mother was dying.”
“My father died three years ago and hospice was wonderful to him. And also to me,” Mom says.
I remember the hospice people, too, when Grandpa was dying. They would come into Grandpa’s room at home, and the first thing they did was go over to his bed and touch him in greeting. They would ask how he was doing and listen to him in a very connected way. Then they would ask what he would like from them. Whatever he wanted, they would do. One time a guy brought his guitar and played Beatles songs Grandpa loved.
Chief nods at Mom. “My encounter with hospice was a profound eye-opener for me. I quit my teaching job, both to be with my mom and to end a frustrating job that I was not allowed to do the way I believed it should be done. Hospice gave me perspective, insight into a different approach to people’s needs. With hospice the patient is in charge, no exceptions. The compassion and assistance the staff are able to provide comes from that understanding. My translation was that students should be in charge.”
Mom looks like she’s really contemplating what Chief has just said. For the first time, I think she may support this transfer idea after all.
Dad stands up to leave. “I think we’ve taken enough of your time, Mr. Shepherd.” He walks over and shakes Chief’s hand.
Chief turns to me. “You good to go, Sean?”
“Yes, sir.”
With that cue, Chief stands. Mom reaches out and takes both of Chief’s hands in hers, rather than giving him a handshake. “Thank you for the gift of much to think about,” she says.
Dad is reading something written on a napkin that’s framed and hanging on Chief’s wall. After shaking Chief’s hand, I walk up beside Dad to see what it says:
Learning
When inner person meets the outer social and natural world
Your dreams meet history
Your voice meets other voices
Inner longing meets mysteries of nature
Fear of the future is calmed by focusing on now
Events out there open new possibilities by stirring imagination
We all search to answer the question, “Who am I?”
Chapter 5: Change and School
Once upon a time, I was on a road to creating my ideal world, ensuring security, safety, and internal peace.
DANIEL
Chief greets kids coming in the front door of Stone Creek High School every day. On this first day of my junior year, I up my game by greeting each junior coming through the cafeteria doors for our first period class meeting.
Way early, like a newbie, here’s Sean.
“Hey, surf’s up,” I say to him.
“Good to see a friendly face, Daniel,” he says, grinning. “So you’re not surprised to see me?”
“I make it my business to know what’s up, all the street news.” I definitely hate surprises.
Sean looks surprisingly cool, calm, and collected for his first day at a new school, though it may be his style of California casual dress—a loose fitting T-shirt and jeans with his trademark flip-flops.
People tell me I act tightly strung. They could be reacting to my perfectionist dress: only the right brands, although they’re few in number, since I don’t have much money. It’s true I have a t
hing for keeping my Nikes unmarred, in line with my experience that looking right makes me feel right.
“Let me show you the morning check-in routine, Sean,” I say. “This way to the computers. You can also print your schedule if you don’t have it yet.”
While Sean waits to sign in, I do my Mr. Mayor routine, an animated facial expression for everyone, friendly one-liners, zero attachment.
It hits me how much I’ve missed school the last few months. Not just the comfort of routine and my place in the social scene, but the physical space of Stone Creek as well. It feels like home.
Each first period meeting space is anchored differently in the building. Seniors have the best view: their windows face to the east, allowing them to take in the movement of the newly rising sun from behind the Blue Ridge Mountains—predictably later each day. The Allegheny Mountains, to the west, anchor the view from our junior space, the cafeteria. Their captivating size speaks of origins and possibilities beyond the horizon.
Our cafeteria walls display student artwork, with background walls painted in soft but vibrant colors. Framing the windows are drapes created by the textile arts student club last year. While the cafeteria has no super soft seating like the senior space does, our tables and chairs can be moved around for flexibility of purpose. Ceiling tiles keep the space from being unbearably loud.
Chief says the architecture of this school, especially all the windows, is not typical of high schools, and we are lucky the previous school leaders designed such an open atmosphere. There is a large courtyard between the cafeteria and library, for instance, that allows for easily accessible fresh air and a feeling of openness.
As Sean heads back my way, I home in on what’s different now from the last time I saw him in the spring: his hair. “What’s with the shorter and totally bleached hair, man?” I ask, nudging him. “New school, new look?”
“I was a lifeguard all summer at the city pool,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “The chlorine and the sun bleached out the usual light red. I’ve rekindled my surfer image.”
“I worked at the country club pool all summer,” I say. “They pay much better. I didn’t swim in the pool because of the chlorine and what it’s in there for.” I run my hands through my hair with an effeminate flair. “My naturally blond locks were covered by my cap. Pretty boring job, huh?”
Talking to Sean, I’m missing some spoken greetings to incoming juniors, so I just give a head raise—the non-verbal what’s up?—to a couple people.
“Not to me,” Sean says. “Had some pretty exciting moments, actually. One day a few weeks ago a two-year-old lost her balance walking in the baby pool. Her mom didn’t see her go under the water, so, you know … Super Sean to the rescue.”
“The most exciting thing that happened at my job was a college age girl diving in and her bikini top comes off. Thought I might die from laughing.”
Guess you had to be there; Sean’s not laughing.
For the school year, I’ve applied to work after school and weekends at the town newspaper, but I haven’t heard back from them yet. The downside of the job would be not having time to go to the park after school. But earning money is more important than just hanging out.
My school counselor helped me with the newspaper job application. She suggested I include my role on the school newspaper this year writing feature stories. My mom suggested including something about the importance of deadlines and my habit of always being on time. I’m pretty compulsive about time, really. Being late makes me wicked uncomfortable.
Mom, as a here-and-there realtor and a budding artist, makes little money. My law professor stepfather makes plenty of money but isn’t inclined to share it with a stepson he doesn’t like.
“Daniel, I have a blank on my schedule for club time,” Sean says.
“You can change that in the computer once you decide,” I tell him. “I want to start an Investment Club this year—any interest?”
Sean chuckles.
I tense up a little. “What are you laughing at? It’s going to be great. We can get free advice from bank people in town about how investment works and how we could increase whatever money we have saved. I know it would be a risk, I could lose money, but it would be worth it to learn the ropes now, while the investments would be small. And you know, in two years we’ll be off to college, and I don’t want to have to rely on handouts for going to a good school. I could only do Investment Club twice a week, though, since I have to meet with school newspaper staff three times a week at lunch.”
“Investments sound a little over my head,” Sean says. “My thing is, this is my first year here, and I feel like I wasted all last year—and the year before that, too, honestly. I want to really throw myself into learning things I’m interested in here. But I’m pretty nervous about not knowing what I’m doing.”
“Jumping in head first is the right way to get something out of this school,” I say. “It’s just that what interests me is, well … money.”
Cora wanders over. Actually, that’s not right. Cora never “wanders.” She is extremely purposeful in everything she does.
“Hey Daniel. Good to see you here, Sean. I’m going to miss my Sunday walks with Chelsea.”
We all compare schedules. Cora and I are together in the same morning English/social studies block. Sean and I are together in Spanish 3 and the afternoon science/math block. We both also signed up for soccer last period, which is always the largest of the fall intramural classes.
“Sean, you’re not in any of my classes,” Cora says. “Do you know what lunch club you want to do?”
“Maybe I’ll shop around for a bit to see what there is besides ‘Investments,’” Sean says, grinning at me.
My response is, hands in the air, “Whatever.” People whose families have money can afford to treat it as not important. We’ll compare notes in thirty years.
“I’m going to do Math Club,” Cora says. “Come check it out, Sean. I scoped out the games they have. New ones, not just traditional ones like chess. It’s in Room 202. Try it out. You can switch clubs all you want. For sure I’m going to do forensics later, when it’s time to prepare for spring speaking competitions.”
“Cora, why don’t you do intramural soccer last period with Sean and me?” I ask.
“Nope, I’m going to play golf. Minority girls wanting to enter professional fields need social activity that fits with that goal.”
“You know what Chief would say. ‘Do what you love, love what you do.’”
“I actually do like golf. And you don’t have to get all sweaty and dirty doing it.” She waves her hand back and forth under her nose.
“Okay, okay.” I give up. “Hey, Sean, I just had a great idea. We could get the other soccer players to divide up into teams by language. Like, we could be the Chilean National Team.” I turn to Cora. “Tell him about the junior class sister school in Chile.” She doesn’t jump in, so I move on. “Plus, using our Spanish during games would be cool, and the non-Latino teams wouldn’t know what we were saying. Our team’s cheer could be ‘Chi-Chi-Chi, le-le-le,’ like people did when the Chilean miners were rescued a few years ago.”
Cora gives me a friendly shove. “Your enthusiasm abounds, Daniel. Sean, be careful hanging out with him. Daniel is very opinionated and argues a lot to prove he’s right.”
“I don’t argue, I simply inform,” I say, grinning.
Usually we decide things about class projects, talk with community people about different topics, learn about college options, and lots of other things in first period, but today it’s just about saying hello to people we haven’t seen since last spring.
End of first period we walk to our morning block room; Sean splits off with Jake, who has the same English/social studies class he does, and Cora and I walk together to our class.
Entering the room with Cora, I survey the space to see who’s in the class. People tell me I always look confident in public settings, but anyone who is really awar
e, like Cora, knows my self-assured style is only surface deep. In the business world, where I’m headed, projecting confidence is important for success. It’s also important to have someone like Cora around; she kindly points out the cracks in my armor so I can learn to patch them.
I’ve been in classes in previous years with eight of these forty students. Since we spend two hours a day, all year, together, it’s nice to have new people to get to know in-depth. Part of what we’ve learned via the openness creed is that everyone is interesting down deep, and it is worth taking the risk to really get to know people. I try, but it doesn’t come easily to me.
After a few minutes of informal circulating, the team of four teachers asks us to sit in a circle. The teachers, who are spread around the circle, introduce themselves first, and then explain that we will explore US history and literature for this block.
The social studies teacher starts a discussion by posing the question, “What, to you, is a particularly fascinating time from US history? Everyone think about it for a few minutes and then we’ll share interests. You don’t need to know anything in particular about that time, just be curious and maybe have an open-ended question in mind.”
If I’ve learned anything at this school, it’s that all learning starts with curiosity and questions, not already formed answers. The teachers always give us time to reflect and think for ourselves before sharing our thoughts. Plus, you can pass in the discussion if you want to without having to justify yourself. But the more experience we get with this approach, where there are no put-downs, the rarer passing becomes.
The first student to share talks about a family trip to New Mexico, visiting an Anasazi site.
What’s an Anasazi?? Strange word to me.
As if she’s read my mind, the social studies teacher goes to a flip chart, not interrupting, and writes the word. Another teacher asks the student to tell us what she wonders about these earliest Americans.
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