In Reggio Emilia, Italy, the youngest children are ensconced in a community of exquisite beauty – vibrant, conscious schools, pulsing with creative energy.
These schools are the tangible result of a cultural philosophy emphasizing the “hundred languages of children” – the infinite potential kids have to wonder, explore, investigate, express, and co-construct their own learning, in myriad ways.
The idea is that kids want to sing, paint, dance, sculpt, playact, move and grow their own experiences – but society, little by little, whittles away at that until we’re pretty much focused on readin’, writin’ and ‘rithmetic. (Or No Child Left Behind mandates, as the case may be.)
The Reggio schools act in defense of the primal creative impulse – offering spaces that are full of freedom but also visionary guidance, full of respect for the individual and the community, full of light.
We were lucky to find our own Reggio-inspired preschool here at home. But if I’m honest, I have to admit I knew very little about the philosophy when we first brought our girls to the All Austin Cooperative Nursery School. The appeal, to us, was intuitive rather than informed.
My first exposure to the source schools in Italy was through a slide show our director presented to a parents’ group one night. Jennifer had been to Reggio more than once and she brought me to tears more than once with her thoughtful discussion and evocotive photographs.
I’m pretty sure it was the articulated presumption that early childhood should be treated with such utter humanity and respect that really slayed me.
A couple of years later, I traveled to Reggio with a study group made up of teachers and directors and parents from our school and others. We listened to pedagogical lectures, toured the centers and ate some incredible pasta. (Okay, there was a glass or two of limoncella, too.)
I returned home:
Wanting to rid my living room of clutter
Promising to build installation art with my kids
And revering Jennifer
So where I am today?
My living room has its good days and its bad.
My girls create more three-dimensional art than I do, unless you count laundry piles.
But I do revere Jennifer.
For the 30 years she’s devoted to our cooperative preschool…for her quiet voice and wry patience… for comforting children (and parents!) out of their separation anxiety.
For leaving her office door open… for listening to what kids say and watching what they do… for continuing to learn, inquire, explore and expand, right up ’til the end.
For creating the perfect amalgamation of Reggio and Austin, in one small space. One small space ringing with the hundred languages of children.
Now, Jennifer’s retiring – leaving our school (a community of exquisite beauty) and our town (ditto). We’re inclined to say we can’t go on – she’s that sort of presence.
But what is truer is this. At the Co-op, she created (okay, co-created) a dynamic model of education – a loving home for children – that is bigger than any one person, and will go on with vitality and respect.
It’ll go on, we’ll go on, and so will she, to fortunate new communities of parents, and children.
I loved Margo’s virtual tour — when she visited Fuse #8, Big A, little a, A Chair, A Fireplace & A Tea Cozy, and others. Her open, touching interviews inspired me to read this tear-jerker of a YA ,and now it’s coming directly to my doorstep.
Here’s what some of the reviewers have to say:
Booklist (Starred Review): “Rabb leavens impossible heartbreak with surprising humor, delivered with a comedian’s timing and dark absurdity. School Library Journal (Starred Review): “Black humor, pitch-perfect detail, and compelling characters make this a terrific read, despite the pain that permeates every superbly written page. As Mia struggles to make sense of her mother’s death and her father’s illness, she also sees humor in everyday situations, and her irreverent commentary brings the story to life.”
The Bulletin (Starred Review): “This is undeniably a book of anguish, it’s also one of raw strength and casual, clever humor in random and surprising places, making it a compelling as well as tearful read.”
In the interest of full disclosure, I’ve just had a birthday. Kind of a biggie.
I know, I know, I’m an Aries. Meaning anything and everything is a big deal. But really. I’m not crying wolf. My new age ends with, umm, a zero.
I celebrated for 24 solid hours in so many whimsical and delicious ways, including a flock of flamingos in my front yard, soft & salty bagels-and-lox, and an hour long conversation with my sister who lives, by the way, in east Africa.
Total decadence — and it’s not over yet.
I still have a little junket planned with three good girlfriends (think vineyards, redwoods and facials) and a new mountain dulcimer to master. (I’ll get back to you on that one. Could you give me ’til next April?)
In the meantime, it’s Friday and (lest we forget) NATIONAL POETRY MONTH!!! What better way to draw out my day into weeks than reading birthday poems?
Come on. Grow old along with me….
A Joyful Song of Five by Katherine Mansfield
Come, let us all sing very high And all sing very loud And keep on singing in the street Until there’s quite a crowd;
And keep on singing in the house And up and down the stairs; Then underneath the furniture Let’s all play Polar bears;
And crawl about with doormats on, And growl and howl and squeak, Then in the garden let us fly And play at hide and seek;
And “Here we gather Nuts and May,” “I wrote a Letter” too, “Here we go round the Mulberry Bush,” “The Child who lost its shoe”;
And every game we ever played. And then–to stay alive– Let’s end with lots of Birthday Cake Because to-day you’re five.
i thank you God for this most amazing day By e.e. cummings
i thank you God for most this amazing day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun’s birthday;this is the birth day of life and love and wings:and of the gay great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any–lifted from the no of all nothing–human merely being doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
Turning Forty By Ted Kooser
At times it’s like there is a small planet inside me. And on this planet, there are many small wars, yet none big enough to make a real difference. The major countries—mind and heart—have called a truce for now…
You can read the rest of the poem here. It’s one of my favorites. But really, I’m not mourning over the old dictator. Conquering the world’s not all it’s cracked up to be and committees are awfully fine. Dontcha think?
Well, I got my glorious brush with fame last week when the uber-talented artist Robin Preiss Glasser (also known as MY illustrator!!!) came to town.
She was touring Fancy Nancy and the Posh Puppy with author Jane O’Connor and I mean TOURING. At least one state per day. Sheesh — be careful what you wish for.
I mean, most of us yearn for our publishers to toss a few bookmarks our way. A tour?!? Complete with airline tickets and a meal or two?!? Nirvana!
Well, let me tell you — they were tired. Posh, but tired. Jane had somehow gotten trapped in her seatbelt the night before and had to be extracated with a kitchen knife, and Robin had been hung-up on by the hotel’s tech guy who apparently decided she was too brain-dead to effectively access the wireless network.
And the night after their Austin stop, they found themselves trapped by Houston thunderstorms. (Raise your hand if you’ve been trapped by Houston thunderstorms before. Double points if you’ve also been stranded at O’Hare at least once…)
Anyway, not that I’m not lusting after the glamorous life, but I was sort of glad to have breakfast with Robin, tour her around town a bit, cheer her on at the bookstore, and then Go Home. It’s cozy here, even if I don’t have turn-down service.
Still, the 1/2 day we got to spend together was delectable. We had never met, but we’ve phoned and emailed for enough years to consider each another friends. When I arrived at her hotel room, we hugged like sisters and then I curled up on her couch while she finished gettin’ fancy.
Next, onto breakfast, where we got to dish about books and kids and husbands — totally titallating subjects, especially when you’re sitting in a comfy booth on a very rainy morning next to the woman who gifted you a more beautiful book than you’d ever dared imagine.
I have been so blessed in my writing life by generous people. People who want success and happiness and books books books for me.
My writing chums, from way back in college and then graduate school; the amazingly talented professors I’ve worked with, including Ron Wallace, Jim Magnuson, Judith Kroll and David Wevill; the illustrious Naomi Shihab Nye who believes, apparently, that there is enough space and success for everyone so she shares secrets like candy; my Goodness group who buoy me up everyday; so many SCBWI friends, including Dianna Aston, Lindsey Lane, Chris Barton, Julie Lake, Cynthia Leitich Smith, Jenny Ziegler, Don Tate, April Lurie, and gosh, a lot of others who’ve shared coffee, advice and editor’s secret addresses; my colleagues at ACC; all the amazing bloggers I’m growing to know (Vivian, Jules and Eisha, Jen, Mary Lee and Franki, Kelly, and many other brilliant voices), and also Robin. I mean, this is the woman who sent me the watercolor original of our book cover to hang above my desk for good luck. As if I hadn’t already hit the jackpot…
I know this reads like a name-droppers notebook but rather than haughty I’m just incredulous — breathless– over my good fortune. That all of these vibrant, loving, talented folk are willing to share their time, their knowledge, bits of their life and humour and wisdom — gosh.
Someday, may I be on a state-a-day tour and gift anyone with the same thoughtfulness. Even if I’ve had to get cut out of a seatbelt to do it…
For now I’ll hop down off my soapbox and just say that my time with Robin was perfect. She was funny and loving and big-hearted with her time and ideas and good wishes — and then, to top it off, she was fancy. She and Jane had a darling little schtick at the bookstore that included eating sweet round cookies off their pretty little pinkies and posture-walking with bananas on their heads.
And then we said goodbye and I sent her off into the rain. What a day. Rich and wondrous day. Almost as fine as when my editor at Harpers told me Robin’d said she’d illustrate my book.
Funny faces stuck to Daddy’s back. Green milk in my coffee. A six-year-old dressed up like an aardvark, complete with pointy paper claws taped to the end of each fingernail. (I’m not sure if the joke here was that we have an aardvark for a daughter or that — surprise — she’s not really an aardvark. Either way, it was funny.)
But here’s the thing. All of these jokes unwound on Saturday. Which was March 31st.
That’s right. Our whole family spent about two hours cuttin’ it up on the wrong day. By the time Sunday rolled around, we’d exhausted our creative depths and besides, nothing is as funny as celebrating April Fool’s Day in March.
On Friday, we spent the evening soakin’ up the vibes at the annual Coffehouse and All-School Art Show at our beloved elementary school.
This is the talent show to end all talent shows. The stage steams. The crowd swoons. Reality TV quakes in its Uggs.
The objective stats: 3 hours, a coupla dozen performances, a hungry line at the pizza table all night long. But that’s not the half of it.
It’s the courage exhibited by these vivid, dynamic, uninhibited kids — singing, dancing, joking, kung fu-ing — in front of a cafeteria chock-full ofparents, teachers, neighbors, friends. The curtain opens anew on each act, and there is a 6-year-old, finding her voice; two 5th grade boys playing a ragtime duet on the piano; a couple of 8-year-olds kickin’ a Scottish dance.
To me there’s hardly a thing in the world more moving than young people courageous enough to put themselves out there and adults engaged enough to receive them with roaring applause. If there is this much heart available in your average elementary school — this much heart and imagination and humour and connection — all is not lost.
Here were some highlights of the evening:
Our daughters. Naturally.
Elder daughter played a Brahams waltz on her violin and took a deep and satisfying bow at the end; younger daughter played two songs on the piano at mock speed — I think with the hopes that she could get off the stage more quickly — but she was spot-on, and you should have seen her pink dress and her tiny feet dangling from the bench as she played.
Elder daughter also sang in a skit with 3 friends — a dramatization of Oh, Dear, What Can the Matter Be? — and her voice could’ve busted a goblet.
A 3rd grade boy did an original comedy routine based on the fickle, funny life of a frozen lasagne. There’s no way I could do this one justice but suffice it to say that his timing was genius and I was not the only one with tears running down my cheeks.
OK, everyone cried at this one, too. But I mean, really cried. A little boy — in 1st grade I think — singing Puff, the Magic Dragon and accompanied by his dad on guitar. He knew every slow, crushing word of every verse and he sang like a bell and the audience, little-by-little, chimed in very quietly at the chorus. All the way through the part where old Puff drags his lonely self off to a cave. It was utter heartbreak.
But then we were resuscitated by a little kindergartener doing a speed round of cup stacking. Who knew???
And then the 5th grade orchestra played Stand By Me, and there was a lovely Fur Elise on the piano and a couple of beautiful cello pieces, too. (A cello can put a lump in my throat the moment it’s set up on its end-pin.) But there was also hip-hop dancing and a sort of free-form drum solo and at least one original song — sung a cappella — through a microphone. I mean, have you ever been that brave?
The clincher, for me, was my friend Bernadette and her daughter reciting mother-daughter haiku. With their arms casually slung around each other’s waist. Haiku about their family, three walking-talking kiddos and a brand new baby, haiku about their family being its own party, about seeing each other in themselves, about love. That did me in completely.
At the end of the night, all the dads moved to fold up the tables and the kids ran wild on the darkened lawn until a few of them fell and skinned their knees. Then we reluctantly crawled away toward our own homes, not wanting to give each other up, to let go of the throbbing hum, the choir of voices, the whistles and whoops and laughter that happen when a whole group of folk comes together to celebrate the vision and voices of kids…
My only beef with National Poetry Month is the presumption that poetry be relegated to a single month — a terrible misinterpretation that would narrow the scope of the art rather than explode it wide open, which I’m sure was the founders’ intent.
So, if we all agree that reading poetry only in April would be like granting love or chocolate just 30 humble days of our attention, then we can move forward and celebrate.
Hark! The arrival of National Poetry Month, a time to truly wallow in words when ordinarily we might merely float, wade or dabble.
And for the 9th year running, Knopf makes this an especially lush immersion with their Poem-a-Day emails and podcasts. The lazy man’s poetry search engine, Knopf does the work for you — selecting and sending a single piece each day in April. Your job is just to sit back, and absorb.
Knopf has published some of the country’s most beloved poets over the years so really, you can look on it as a little survey primer. Or as a multicourse, prix fixe meal. Or as a spiritual ritual. Sort of like lighting candles only without the puddles of wax on the tablecloth.
Would you like a little taste of things to come? This, from the Knopf site and written by Franz Wright:
R e q u e s t
Please love me and I will play for you this poem upon the guitar I myself made out of cardboard and black threads when I was ten years old. Love me or else.
—Franz Wright
from THE BEFORELIFE (c) 2001 by Franz Wright
How can you resist? And why should you? Happy National Poetry Month. Bon Voyage.
On Tuesday, my voice was sufficiently humanoid for me to make good on the school visit I’d booked. I had to suck on the occasional lozenge as the day progressed but I stayed upright and I don’t believe I ever blacked out or spoke in tongues. (If I did, the audience was very polite and wrote it off as poetry.)
The school – in a bedroom community north of Austin – is tremendous! There were 250 kindergarteners, which is how many students went to my four-year high school. There’s some trivia for you. But nobody seems the least bit overwhelmed – the hallways are bright and pretty, the library is cozy, and all the adults speak with warmth and humor to the kids. All in all, a great way to emerge from my cocoon of coughs and fever.
A few highlights (or lowlights, as the case may be):
I got lost on the way to the school in the morning. One would think that East and West would be pretty self-explanatory since the main highway runs directly North-South, but apparently I need these things translated into simple Lefts and Rights. Still trying to figure out if there is any way I can blame this on my ailing health.
During one of my sessions, when I came to the line “A pocket for a farmer is a dell, hi-ho…”, I asked the kids if they recognized that, from a song. “Yeah,” answered one world-weary little guy, “but it’s also a place to work.” Oh. Right. Dell.
When I was signing books, one particularly earnest little girl asked if they were going to have to give the books back. I pointed out her name in the inscription and said that it was hers, to keep. She leapt. Like a frog. Even hung there at the top of her jump for a moment, suspended with delight.
In the midst of one rather lively question-and-answer session, a student asked about the silver sticker on the front of my book. I explained that the book had been nominated for an award, and that the label recognizes that. A discussion ensued about “all those other books that win ‘cott awards” and I laughed and said something about how happy those labels make their authors.
“So is that why you do it?” asked a boy in the back. “Is that why you write books, to get more and more labels? To win more and more awards?”
Wow.
“No,” I answered. “I write books for you. I write books because I loved reading when I was a kid, and I loved being read to, and I’m inspired to be a part of that for you! Awards are a nice bonus, but they’re not why I write.”
Pause. Deep breath. Final answer.
“Yeah, that’s what I wanted to get outta you,” he said, satisfied.
I was satisfied, too. I love a kid who knows what he wants.
I’m well aware that I may be poppin’ open a can of worms here, but nonetheless…
My daughter’s 2nd grade teacher has just earned prominent hero status in my book – for questioning the value of homework.
There is no way, with my left-over laryngitis, that I could sing hallelujah loud enough right now.
Here’s the skinny. After reading The Homework Myth by Alfie Kohn, Ms. D decided that if all the traditional justifications for homework didn’t fly, then maybe it’s not such a hot idea to keep plugging along as before.
In her letter to us parental types, she declared that kids need a break afterschool (hooray!) and that she’d still assign monthly projects (in-depth efforts like family trees and book-report dioramas – hooray!) and that all her students should still read nightly but they should read WHAT THEY LIKE and FOR AS LONG AS THEY’D LIKE TO (hip hip hooray!)
She also said she wanted our input and feedback, and what she got was a deafening show of support. Who knew that we were a classroom ready to raise a revolution with just the slightest push?
Here’s the thing, I’ve always facilitated my daughters’ homework assignments because I want to support and respect their teachers’ efforts, and I’ve never found it to be so overwhelming as to warrant protest. But I am, in my heart-of-hearts, anti-homework. Seven hours in school takes it out of a kid. I believe those few, precious hours after school are for fresh air and exercise; creative endeavors and play; family chit-chat and cuddling; and reading for pleasure.
When we were kids, we rode bikes for hours everyday afterschool – no worksheets required – and we lived to tell about it.
Those larger projects we’ve still been promised – interviews, science fair projects, genealogy? They offer up rich opportunities for individualized critical thinking and exploration, and I’m on board all the way. (I still remember making a fabulous topographic map as a kid with rows and rows of chocolate chip mountain ranges. I got a little sick off of the sweetened coconut I used as snow, but it was better than eating paste.)
And reading? Look, I totally recognize the need to bone up on reading comprehension. My daughter’s been bringing home little mimeographed books all year that she reads and then is “quizzed on”. They’re fine – just this side of dull – and she’s gotten pretty good at them. But has anyone ever noticed those aren’t what kids want to read by flashlight at bedtime? That’s when Junie B. and BabyMouse and the Capital Mysteries Series come out. Technically they don’t “count” for anything, but you could have fooled me.
Now, all our at-home reading is being returned to us and our whims. How delicious.
So I’m offering a deep bow and a tip of the ol’ hat to the divine Ms. D, for her willingness to think this through so deeply… to be flexible and creative enough to change course mid-stream… and to put her thoughts out there and ask for input. I don’t know that many teachers – or professionals in other fields, for that matter – who would be so amenable to opening up the thought process, risking controversy and change, and putting the effort into revamping a practice that’s become standardized. This is how systems evolve – one classroom at a time.
