In attempting to reestablish the habit of reading poetry, I imagine that Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson would be pretty good places to begin. From Fire and Ice to “Hope” is the Thing with Feathers, theirs are sentiments not easily forgotten, to be sure.  But Maya Angelou and Langston Hughes are worthy of some serious attention as well.  Through their beautiful verses come voices of strength and self-sufficiency.  And then of course let’s not forget Pablo Neruda, Judith Viorst, Roald Dahl, or our own Sylvia Plath--born in Jamaica Plain!

Do yourself a favor.  Turn off your devices for a moment and dust off the collection on the bookshelf...

As is often the case, I find that children hold the answer to many of life’s most puzzling questions. Anyone who works with 21st century children will attest that they are equally comfortable with new technologies and with old equipment. Sandboxes still hold great fascination for young people, and yet they are able almost effortlessly to adapt to and to take control over much of the myriad circuitry that surrounds them.

Check out the following article if you are interested in learning more about relation-chips:

http://gigaom.com/apple/apples-inevitable-path-to-a-post-pc-era/

Were we to rethink our assumptions about elementary school curriculum, I would urge a serious consideration of the existing terminologies.  As an alternative I would propose primary emphasis on science, religion, and art.  Such a proposal would not diminish the importance of foundational literacy in reading and writing, nor in mathematics and engineering; on the contrary, I am merely proposing that we consider a unified curriculum rather than a fragmented one.

My guiding assumption is that all human experience is simultaneously fact-based, belief-based, and feeling-based.  Differentiation among cultures notwithstanding, young people all over the world tend to be observant.  They make observations all the time, and little can prevent them from drawing inferences and sometimes making conclusions.  This is the part of our biology that benefits from systematic instruction in the scientific method.

Young people also tend to form opinions at a surprisingly early age.  Sometimes they arrive at these opinions on their own, and sometimes they adopt their ideas from peers or from adults.  I do not believe that a child’s development can be complete without exposure to as many different belief-sets as possible.  Rather than worrying too much about the teaching of dogma, I believe that systematic instruction in religious thinking can provide a bulwark against fear and mistrust.

Finally, while there can be little doubt that young people have unique and important aesthetic/expressive sensibilities, it is not clear that these are fully integrated into their overall education. I recognize that good schools provide ample opportunity for students to express themselves both in cross-disciplinary projects and in specialized programs, but I worry that such so-called artistic expression is typically divorced from other important literacies.

I celebrate the fact that human beings are curious and analytical about their data (science), passionate and loyal about their beliefs (religion), and unique and dynamic about their feelings (art).  Those of us entrusted with the education of young people are already confronted with multiple demands.  My hope is merely to propose a more integrated way of thinking about these three essential aspects of human experience.

During a career in which I have held positions of widely varying responsibility with children, I’ve noticed that they manifest an almost universal game-playing instinct.  In fact, I can’t think easily of a setting in which selective game-playing has not proven both to enhance relationships and to cement learning.  I would even go so far as to say that all successful teaching derives from this fundamental rule.

This last point has led me to a truly astonishing realization: if teachers want to increase their chances of winning--that is to say, being successful in promoting greater learning of the part of their students, they are then obliged to follow the rules of the broader educational game.  Thanks to a seemingly universal need, these rules stipulate that effective learning can neither be divorced from selective game-playing nor from trusting relationships.

If learning outcomes are indeed enhanced by trusting relationships and selective game-playing, teachers who follow the rules are therefore likely to enjoy greater success.  Research makes clear that students need to feel genuinely supported by their teachers; not only do they pay closer attention when they feel a connection, they work harder and assume a greater responsibility over their own learning.  But no less important is the power of play.

This is where the skill of the expert teacher can be best illustrated.  Games are not much fun when they feel overly artificial, nor does learning benefit when games are offered as rewards or time-fillers.  It should come as little surprise that children have very exacting standards about the quality of so-called educational games.  After all, the driving force of childhood learning may be its uncompromising devotion to selective game-playing.

I don’t know what the research says about a human game-playing gene, but I suspect that there are both cognitive and social advantages to play.  In learning the rules of someone else’s games, whether in the classroom or on the playground, we codify expectations and routines at the same time that we practice behaviors and potential solutions.  Similarly, in making up our own games, we have ample opportunity to consider the needs and perspectives of others.

I am humbled by the fact that the lesson I thought I had learned in childhood is only partially correct.  Though it is true that one stands a better chance of winning if one follows the rules, I also recognize that not everyone is equally interested in winning.  Some people enjoy games for the sake of structure or connection; others, no doubt, for the simple pleasure of participation.  In all of these instances I would argue that we are always calculating our next move.

I have the pleasure of sponsoring a once-a-week chess club for our upper schoolers, and I imagine that chess is the prime example for a game defined by calculated moves.  We have some decidedly competitive chess players in the club, to be sure, but we also have plenty of mere enthusiasts.  In observing the natural respect that each group has for each other, I have learned a delightful and rather inarguable lesson: If you calculate your moves in such a way that you stay true to your own interests, you stand a better chance of benefitting from the experience.

Elementary school teachers are technically and temperamentally well-suited to provide young children with gifts such as these.  After all, both the “natural born” teacher and the most highly trained are those who focus as much on social development as on strict academics. Just consider the potential of genuine connection between teacher and student, the kind of bond that can create short-term trust as well as lifelong motivation.  For teachers this potential finds fullest expression in a desire to make a difference.

In a political climate where teacher performance is most often associated with students’ test scores, I would argue that a teacher’s highest achievement can be measured by the degree to which he or she has provided clear direction, personally meaningful validation, and concrete motivation. Indeed, these are among the greatest gifts that a teacher can bestow upon a young person.  Children who receive such gifts may live lives that are forever changed.  This is what it means to have had a teacher of difference.

The demographics of human migration are profoundly exciting, but they also give rise to an unexpected paradox: as much as modern anthropology has encouraged us to pay closer attention to the uniqueness of indigenous peoples, we have also come to value the transformative power of cultural mixing.  I believe that this paradox makes itself manifest itself on multiple levels.  Homogenous urban neighborhoods are easily critiqued in a society that cares about multiculturalism, and yet isolated native populations that are equally homogenous are actively and legitimately admired.  The blessing (and curse) of contemporary life is that we want to have it both ways.

I’m not sure how easily or how soon the 21st century global community will learn to reconcile the tensions that arise from the constant mixing of cultures, but I am confident that the strongest local communities are those that are comprised of families of difference.  This applies equally to complex urban settings and to small private schools.  Neighborhoods filled with local merchants are invariably more interesting than those dominated by national franchises, just as classrooms filled with children of difference are automatically more energized than those filled with overly similar ones.  The presence of such difference is just a small part of what I value about CHS and certainly to be counted as a holiday blessing.

If I or other school heads didn’t genuinely believe this, I’m not sure how long I or they could survive the demands of the job.  We all recognize that there are always problems that can’t be solved, opposing points of view that can’t be reconciled, personalities that can’t or won’t get along, and upsetting circumstances that can’t be foreseen.  If one truly imagined that a community of people were powerless against such challenges, our work would no doubt feel overwhelming.  But simply by imagining that a community of people can make a difference in the lives of children, suddenly the whole proposition feels meaningful and compelling.

The list that follows is intended simply to trace the outline of what I consider the everyday greatness that takes place with dizzying frequency in schools such as CHS.  I invite readers of the blog to add additional comments and suggestions:

• a child volunteers to help a classmate who is struggling with an assignment
• another child leaves a group of established friends to join a classmate who is all alone
• a caregiver reaches out to a child’s teacher with a willingness to assist with homework
• a parent steps forward to take on an essential, if unglamorous, volunteer responsibility
• balancing creativity and logistics, a group of parents launch a new program that becomes an instant tradition
• noticing that a normally vivacious child is suddenly withdrawn, a teacher creates a safe space for the child to talk
• already deep into overtime, a custodian comes to work early in order to help prepare for an important student assembly
• in addition to exhaustive duties and responsibilities in other areas, an administrator pours heart and soul into a new project
• never satisfied to rest on his or her past successes, another teacher notices an irresistible opportunity for dynamic curricular innovation
• at a time of particular need, a community member organizes food and transportation assistance for the family of another community member
• without losing focus on day-to-day matters, another administrator reaches out and makes connections with colleagues at sister organizations
• accruing hour upon hour in a volunteer capacity, a trustee committee chair develops an extraordinary vision for a high-impact but long-neglected possibility
• quietly and without fanfare, an alumnus from a previous generation chooses to write a institution-affirming check in support of his or her elementary school

Proponents of the Big Dig may be tempted to conclude that Boston’s friendlier attitude toward its suburban neighbors is a result of successful bridging and tunneling.  I agree, but my claim is that the most enduring hallmark of Boston’s unique stature as a leading international center is far more complex than that of mechanical engineering alone.  Blessed by a proud history of education and research, the culture of Boston has long benefitted from an altogether different version of bridging and tunneling.  Schools like CHS are direct beneficiaries of this important tradition.  Drawing inspiration from Boston’s many intellectual leaders, our teachers are constantly creating pathways from one place to another.

According to Wikipedia, “Engineering is the discipline, art, skill and profession of acquiring and applying scientific, mathematical, economic, social, and practical knowledge, in order to design and build structures, machines, devices, systems, materials and processes that safely realize improvements to the lives of people.”  We do not often think of our teachers as engineers, but the educational bridging and tunneling that allows young people to get from one place to another is nonetheless a feat of remarkable engineering.  I am confident that our students are receiving highly relevant instruction in matters of scientific, mathematical, social, and practical importance.  I can only hope that they will choose to translate their growing knowledge into systems and processes that will bring about improvements to the lives of others.

Ten years later, I’m not sure how the pieces have begun to rearrange themselves.  As much as we strive to protect children against unspeakable dangers, I suspect that we will forever be subject to their reciprocal care-taking.  I would even go so far as to insist that adults need children as much as children need adults.  As any teacher, parent, or caregiver will attest, it is a unique privilege to see the world constantly afresh through the eyes of young people.  Curiosity, enthusiasm, loyalty, unbridled joy: these are part of their legacy to us.  As we embrace a generation of children whose heritage of 9/11 is only historical, let us open our hearts to them once again in the hopes that only through their eyes can we learn to save ourselves.