I was recently doing an unrelated search through old work emails when I came across one I'd written about ten years ago. There was nothing unusual about the email, really. It was a quick update letting a parent know that their child was having a challenge attending to circle time. Polite, professional, proactive. So what was it that made me stop in my tracks?
Reading that email was like stepping into a pedagogical time machine. I saw my classroom, clear as could be, the bulletin boards covered with bright red paper and glitter border. I saw the detailed expectations for circle time behavior posted at the front of the room: Eyes on the speaker, legs "criss cross applesauce," lips still, hands in laps. I saw the repetitive vocabulary drills I'd excitedly purchased from a big box curriculum, certain that a brightly-colored parrot puppet would be the key to unlocking the joy of learning. And, most of all, I saw myself. I saw an eager young teacher trying really hard, so badly wanting to get everything "right," and yet never - not once - asking herself what she might be doing to contribute to a student's difficulties.
Ouch.
A decade later, things are different. I work hard to keep the classroom environment cozy, neutral, and home-like. Children can be seen sitting in lots of ways, legs sprawled in all directions, only sometimes raising their hands before sharing their thoughts and ideas with the group. I'm not sure where that expensive parrot puppet is, but the scripted lessons have been replaced by conversation, debate, and delightfully random non-sequiturs. And I've come to get really comfortable with not knowing, to be constantly reflecting, and to redefine what I think learning really looks like.
Tr. Adrienne from ten years ago didn't necessarily have the wrong approach, just like Tr. Adrienne today doesn't necessarily have the right one. But that email was an important reminder to me that teachers are always learning, growing, and evolving right along with their students. And that we need to extend the same grace to one another in our own learning as we do to our students. Students AND teachers do as well as they can.
Reading that email was like stepping into a pedagogical time machine. I saw my classroom, clear as could be, the bulletin boards covered with bright red paper and glitter border. I saw the detailed expectations for circle time behavior posted at the front of the room: Eyes on the speaker, legs "criss cross applesauce," lips still, hands in laps. I saw the repetitive vocabulary drills I'd excitedly purchased from a big box curriculum, certain that a brightly-colored parrot puppet would be the key to unlocking the joy of learning. And, most of all, I saw myself. I saw an eager young teacher trying really hard, so badly wanting to get everything "right," and yet never - not once - asking herself what she might be doing to contribute to a student's difficulties.
Ouch.
A decade later, things are different. I work hard to keep the classroom environment cozy, neutral, and home-like. Children can be seen sitting in lots of ways, legs sprawled in all directions, only sometimes raising their hands before sharing their thoughts and ideas with the group. I'm not sure where that expensive parrot puppet is, but the scripted lessons have been replaced by conversation, debate, and delightfully random non-sequiturs. And I've come to get really comfortable with not knowing, to be constantly reflecting, and to redefine what I think learning really looks like.
Tr. Adrienne from ten years ago didn't necessarily have the wrong approach, just like Tr. Adrienne today doesn't necessarily have the right one. But that email was an important reminder to me that teachers are always learning, growing, and evolving right along with their students. And that we need to extend the same grace to one another in our own learning as we do to our students. Students AND teachers do as well as they can.
"Behind the Curtain Up Close" by Matthew DeFrenza
I don't engage much in Reggio-inspired teacher groups on Facebook anymore, though I used to quite a bit. At first, I was so excited to connect with other teachers who had similar philosophies, to see their beautiful classroom set-ups, and to have meaty conversations with them. What I found over time, though, was that my participation in those groups always left me feeling worse. Responses were often condescending, didactic, and critical. In those spaces, the Reggio Emilia approach seemed to only exist in some mysteriously pre-ordained binary: Either you "were Reggio" or you weren't. And if you weren't, it was probably because you weren't very smart and couldn't grasp its complexities and nuances. Not really the positive and open-minded professional community I want to be a part of.
How did we get here?
Recently, though, I felt compelled to join in a conversation about infant room decor from a teacher who had only just been told that her center was making the switch to being Reggio-inspired. I could all but feel her tears and overwhelm. What if, instead of making teachers new to the approach feel inadequate or ignorant, we welcomed them with kindness and warmth? What if we reassured them that they have everything they need within them to be successful? What if - and bear with me, here - we treat them with the same love and support that we extend to our students as they fumble their way through learning?
I will never forget visiting a shall-not-be-named center known for its Reggio-inspired practices. This school hosts yearly professional development opportunities, complete with tours of their (admittedly stunning) spaces. One of the teachers must have noticed me gaping at the pristine classroom and sidled up next to me. "Want to see what's behind the curtain?" she whispered with a gleam in her eye. It was an invitation I couldn't refuse. She quietly but triumphantly opened the storage cabinets running the length of the room, displaying a completely haphazard mess of a million different supplies. "Don't let all this intimidate you," she said. "We shoved everything in these cabinets before you all came here. Just like everybody else."
That was brave. That was vulnerable. That was a teacher who wasn't too proud to share her truth for the sake of another's learning.
Let's not be afraid to keep growing. And let's help one another find that courage, too.
How did we get here?
Recently, though, I felt compelled to join in a conversation about infant room decor from a teacher who had only just been told that her center was making the switch to being Reggio-inspired. I could all but feel her tears and overwhelm. What if, instead of making teachers new to the approach feel inadequate or ignorant, we welcomed them with kindness and warmth? What if we reassured them that they have everything they need within them to be successful? What if - and bear with me, here - we treat them with the same love and support that we extend to our students as they fumble their way through learning?
I will never forget visiting a shall-not-be-named center known for its Reggio-inspired practices. This school hosts yearly professional development opportunities, complete with tours of their (admittedly stunning) spaces. One of the teachers must have noticed me gaping at the pristine classroom and sidled up next to me. "Want to see what's behind the curtain?" she whispered with a gleam in her eye. It was an invitation I couldn't refuse. She quietly but triumphantly opened the storage cabinets running the length of the room, displaying a completely haphazard mess of a million different supplies. "Don't let all this intimidate you," she said. "We shoved everything in these cabinets before you all came here. Just like everybody else."
That was brave. That was vulnerable. That was a teacher who wasn't too proud to share her truth for the sake of another's learning.
Let's not be afraid to keep growing. And let's help one another find that courage, too.
