A little story about desks.
When I first considered implementing the Reggio Emilia approach in earnest, I attended professional development that featured Louise Boyd and Ashley Cadwell. The Cadwells worked in the municipal preschools of Reggio Emilia and Louise Boyd Cadwell is the author of the wonderful book "Bringing Reggio Home." They now consult with schools, offering a wide variety of services from curriculum design to architectural reimagining. That day, during one of the small break-out sessions on learning environments, Ashley offered feedback on a classroom space right there in the school that was hosting them (brave teacher who welcomed that experience!). While Ashley had many positive things to say, his primary critique centered on a sizable teacher desk that occupied a large section of wall on the only side of the classroom to receive natural light. "Who is the classroom for?" he probed. "The teacher or the students?"
"Ah, yes," I thought as I nodded with solemnity. In my frenzied enthusiasm to "be Reggio," I interpreted this query as meaning one thing: Reggio inspired spaces do not have teacher desks. So out it went from my classroom. Sure, I had my school-issued laptop that helped me with some daily tasks, but that could travel around the room with me, right? After all, the classroom wasn't about me. It was about the children. It must follow, then, that any space dedicated solely to teachers was therefore a resource taken away from the children. A desk was selfish.
Removing my desk had repercussions I hadn't anticipated, however. I didn't have a place to store my laptop, sure, but I also didn't have a place to set down my coffee cup. I didn't have a place to temporarily put an object that needed mending or a book that I wanted to read tomorrow or a drawing made for me by a student. I felt unanchored without my desk. I felt restless and untethered, with no little spot to close my eyes, take a breath, remove myself - for just a moment - from the intensity of the classroom. I know that it impacted my practice in a negative way. Eventually, I realized that it would actually benefit everyone to have a proportionally small part of our shared classroom environment dedicated just to me and my teaching partner. We now share a table wide enough for us both to work from, our chairs facing one another. It is often covered with "stuff," yes, but it is also our touchstone. It is our own tiny island of pedagogy. It is the area where, every day, we look each other in the eyes across that desk and ask one another, "Did you see...?" "Did you notice...?" "What do you think about...?" It serves us all to have the teachers in the room, both literally and metaphorically.
When I first considered implementing the Reggio Emilia approach in earnest, I attended professional development that featured Louise Boyd and Ashley Cadwell. The Cadwells worked in the municipal preschools of Reggio Emilia and Louise Boyd Cadwell is the author of the wonderful book "Bringing Reggio Home." They now consult with schools, offering a wide variety of services from curriculum design to architectural reimagining. That day, during one of the small break-out sessions on learning environments, Ashley offered feedback on a classroom space right there in the school that was hosting them (brave teacher who welcomed that experience!). While Ashley had many positive things to say, his primary critique centered on a sizable teacher desk that occupied a large section of wall on the only side of the classroom to receive natural light. "Who is the classroom for?" he probed. "The teacher or the students?"
"Ah, yes," I thought as I nodded with solemnity. In my frenzied enthusiasm to "be Reggio," I interpreted this query as meaning one thing: Reggio inspired spaces do not have teacher desks. So out it went from my classroom. Sure, I had my school-issued laptop that helped me with some daily tasks, but that could travel around the room with me, right? After all, the classroom wasn't about me. It was about the children. It must follow, then, that any space dedicated solely to teachers was therefore a resource taken away from the children. A desk was selfish.
Removing my desk had repercussions I hadn't anticipated, however. I didn't have a place to store my laptop, sure, but I also didn't have a place to set down my coffee cup. I didn't have a place to temporarily put an object that needed mending or a book that I wanted to read tomorrow or a drawing made for me by a student. I felt unanchored without my desk. I felt restless and untethered, with no little spot to close my eyes, take a breath, remove myself - for just a moment - from the intensity of the classroom. I know that it impacted my practice in a negative way. Eventually, I realized that it would actually benefit everyone to have a proportionally small part of our shared classroom environment dedicated just to me and my teaching partner. We now share a table wide enough for us both to work from, our chairs facing one another. It is often covered with "stuff," yes, but it is also our touchstone. It is our own tiny island of pedagogy. It is the area where, every day, we look each other in the eyes across that desk and ask one another, "Did you see...?" "Did you notice...?" "What do you think about...?" It serves us all to have the teachers in the room, both literally and metaphorically.
A few weeks ago, I dared to take up space in a different room: Delaware Legislative Hall. I'm just starting to get my feet wet in advocacy work on behalf of early childhood education, and offering commentary at a public budget hearing seemed like a manageable baby step. My remarks were unpolished, but what I lacked in nuance, I made up for in passion. I took my seat after speaking, hands shaking and heart pounding, and felt grateful that I was able to share my voice. Who knows if my contribution will have any impact, but I got to speak. I have the right to speak. And the more I learn about advocacy, the more I see that there are so many chances for me to speak. For you to speak. I like to think we are made better by having lots of voices in the room.
If you've read my blog before, you know I'm a huge musical theatre fan. I'd be hard-pressed to choose a favorite number from "Hamilton" but "The Room Where It Happens" would definitely be on the short list. In it, the character of Aaron Burr begins by serving as a narrator, describing a dinner meeting taking place between Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and Thomas Jefferson. About three-quarters of the way through the song, however, his role changes. Hamilton steps out the tableau Burr is describing and asks him directly, "What do you want, Burr?" In a delicious half beat, the audience hears Burr realize it for himself; he no longer wants to tell the story, he wants to be creating the story itself. It's a significant turning point for the character, one that shapes the rest of the musical's narrative and it's eventual tragic conclusion. Burr transforms from the cautious and level-headed scholar we've come to know and becomes a driven and ambitious politician. But to get to that point, he first has to reflect on what it is he really wants to do with his life.
"I...want to be in the room where it happens."
Me too. I hope you'll join me.
"I...want to be in the room where it happens."
Me too. I hope you'll join me.
