Amanda
Is it true that for every good moment there’s an equally as harsh one? I’m not sure, but as I sit across the desk from the principal at Jase’s school, I feel that I may be paying my dues for the lovely weekend Malcolm and I shared only a short week and a half ago.
Sitting here is worse than any time I was ever called to the principal’s office as a student. Though I did attend the same school, the principal has changed. As I sit and take in the cases of books and the windows that look out to the playground, I can’t help but think that not much else is different. It’s like a time machine where only the colors of paint and carpet change along with the players, yet so much stays the same. If I could, I’d willingly go back in time to be sitting here for my own transgressions, instead of hearing about my son’s difficulties.
Through this all, I’ve come to realize that Mrs. Landecker is a caring woman and educator. Even though she is, I’d rather not have become so well acquainted with her. Unfortunately, this isn’t our first encounter. I wish I could even say it was only our second. A little over two months into the school year and this is our fourth.
“Amanda,” she says as I contemplate that the fact that we’ve gotten to a first-name basis is not necessarily a good thing. “We know,” she goes on, “that you’re doing all you can on your end. The thing is I’m beginning to think that Mrs. Williams and Jason aren’t a good fit. That doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with either one, just that there might be a better match for Jason.”
She’s beginning to think? Because five minutes into our second meeting, I could already have told her that. What does that mean, though?
“What options do we have?” Please don’t say private school. My fingers bob against the arms of the chair as I fidget in place. “This is the school I attended, the one Jase’s father and uncle attended. Are you suggesting switching schools?”
“Oh, heaven’s no.”
I let out a long sigh and catch my breath. Even though my lungs are operational, it doesn’t help my nerves. They’re still frayed beyond repair.
The first meeting, only a week or so into the year, included Mrs. Williams, Jase’s teacher. An older woman, she has many times received the best-teaching award. I have no doubt that in her day the accolades may have been warranted. Now, however, she seems extremely rigid in her tried-and-true beliefs. During that meeting, the three of us spent ten minutes discussing the attributes of carpet squares and the importance of sitting still upon said square during circle time, reading time, and what seemed to amount to the better part of the day. If she’d been a salesperson, I might have ordered a lot of carpet squares right on the spot. They sounded almost magical.
“Mrs. Landecker...” I say. The first-name basis only goes one way. “...it breaks my heart that Jase is no longer excited about school. He’s in kindergarten. This is supposed to be fun and exciting and ignite in him the love of learning. He told me the other day he was bad.” I fight back the tears. “My son isn’t bad.”
Mrs. Landecker’s head moves slowly back and forth as her lips form a straight line. “I agree with you. I’ve spoken to Jason many times. He’s a sweet boy who happens to have an abundance of energy.”
I pull a paper from the folder I’m holding on my lap. It’s a chart with days of the week and categories, similar to the carpet-circle categories: reading, circle time, numbers, letters, raising your hand, sitting in your seat. Jase’s chart has a few smiling stickers, but the majority of them are in the column entitled working to improve.
My hand shakes as I pass the paper toward his principal.
“Positive reinforcement...” she begins.
Once her words slow I shake my head. “This isn’t positive. He’s smart enough to see that others are getting more stickers than he. These charts are displayed.”
“Have you ever heard of facilitative learning?”
I shake my head.
“It’s not necessarily new; however, it is for our school district. It’s very similar to the concept of Montessori learning. Mrs. Williams’s classroom is traditional, very much like the kindergarten class you or I attended at Jason’s age.
“Our district secured a grant for a pilot program. We have a new teacher in our district at our school this year, a man...”
My eyes widen: a man teaching kindergarten? I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“Amanda, I assure you Mr. P. is qualified. He came from out of state and is fully versed in the facilitative structure. With the grant, this is a multi-year program. While this is the first year of it here, the structural theory has documented support...”
My nerves seem to have calmed a bit, I realize, as I listen to her explain the theory of facilitative learning as it’s applied to a classroom of small children.
She laughs, easing my mind. “I’ll admit for those of us who aren’t used to it, sometimes it appears more like managed chaos, but I can attest to you that the parents and students have been overly pleased.
“This theory stems from the belief that moving is related to cognitive function. Movement can enhance learning.”
I want to ask how that works with children glued to carpet squares, but I don’t.
“In essence,” she goes on, “instead of telling students what they need to learn, in Mr. P.’s classroom, students discover learning on their own. It’s that desire that helps them move freely among different activities.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand. How does a kindergartener know what he needs to learn?”
“I had the same question.” She pauses, studying my reaction.
“I wish I could introduce you to Mr. P. today, but his class is on a field trip. You see, kindergarten students come to us with an array of backgrounds. Many, like Jason, have attended preschool and have parents like yourself who have spent time working with them. They are familiar with a classroom setting, being around other children, and come to us with a knowledge base that years ago was meant to be accomplished by the end of this school year.”
“Do you think that’s the problem...that Jase is bored? Did we teach him too much?”
She shakes her head. “I’m an educator. There’s never too much. However, in the traditional setting where everyone must sit and recite numbers or the alphabet, to those students who are already familiar it can seem redundant and even...yes...boring.”
“How is this facilitative structure different?”
“I’ll tell you what, even though Mr. P.’s class is out of the building, let me show you his classroom.”
I look down at my watch. I’d told Cruella de Vil that I’d be only an hour late, but now that I’m here, and for the first time feeling hopeful, I can’t stop now. “I’d love to see it.”
As we enter the kindergarten hallway, the classroom Mrs. Landecker leads me to is noticeably different. Of course, there are numbers above smart boards and letters in large colorful posters throughout, but there’s no line of desks. Instead there are clusters of desks and additional round tables with tubs of manipulative items: spongy letters, numbers, and shapes.
I simply stand and turn a full circle as I take in the difference. There’s something in the air that’s reassuring, such as a scent or a presence. I can’t put my finger on it, but somehow it eases my anxiety.
“You said managed chaos?” I ask.
“Yes, you see,” she explains, going to a table and lifting a lowercase letter B. She turns it one way. “It’s a b,” she says. Then she turns it the other way. “It’s also a d.”
My eyes narrow. “All right.”
“Dyslexia is more common than we realized.”
“Are you saying that Jase...?” I’d never noticed him reversing letters.
“No, I’m not. I’m explaining how a three-dimensional letter satisfies more senses in a child than a two-dimensional letter on a board or on a piece of paper. They can pick it up, manipulate it, and understand it.”
She pulls out two other letters: a lowercase U and a lowercase G. She then places the letters on the table and spells bug. With a smile, she asks, “If you were Jason and you were allowed to discover on your own that if you simply...” She turns over the B...and creates the word dug. “...could manipulate one letter and create a whole new word, it makes learning to spell a process of discovery rather than rote memory.”
“And it’s more fun,” I say with an understanding smile.
“It seems to be. Mr. P.’s classroom is filled with engaged learners.” She takes a step toward me. “I’m not trying to pry, but without a father figure at home, Mr. P. could also be a good influence as a positive male role model for Jason.”
I want to argue that Jase has my father and brother as positive male role models, but I see her point. Of course, my mind momentarily goes to Malcolm. The longer we’re seeing one another, the more I find myself thinking that he too could be a positive role model.
Yet I told him that I’d never introduce him to Jase.
What would happen if I did?
“Amanda, with your permission, I’d like to transfer Jason to Mr. P.’s classroom.”
“When?” I ask, again taking in the surroundings.
Even Mr. P.’s desk is different. Instead of sitting like a judge in the front of the classroom, he seems to have a long work area along one wall. That’s when I notice the corner filled with books.
“Mrs. Landecker? Are children in his classroom reading?”
She tilts her head. “Reading isn’t on our list of kindergarten behavioral objectives, but that’s the thing with this model of learning: children discover at their own speed. Jason won’t be required to read by the first grade; however, if he can construct words out of foam letters at this table, then the next obvious step is wanting to put the words together in a sentence, and then put sentences together and understand stories.”
Tears fight to pool on my lids as I take in all she’s saying. “Yes. I see.”
Her smile grows. “If you can bring him to school again tomorrow morning, I believe having you and Jason sit down for a few minutes with Mr. P. will ease your concern and help to make the change easier.”
I know in my heart that Ms. DeVoe won’t be happy, but priorities are priorities. “What should I tell him?”
“Tell him that tomorrow he’s going to move to Mr. P.’s class.”
“Will he know who that is?”
“Oh, yes. All the students know Mr. P. and most of the moms, too,” she says, the last part with the biggest grin I’ve seen all day.