We were gathered around a long folding table under a ceiling of twinkling lights - a group of strangers who'd come together to learn more about the Reggio Emilia approach. The car ride had taken my colleagues and I about five hours, completed after a busy morning of working with our students. We were tired and hungry, but moreover, we were giddy with excitement. Small groups of teachers from different parts of the country joined us there, along with professionals from the host school, who were leading the discussion.
It was very quiet. We visiting teachers gave each other tentative smiles, notebooks open and pens poised. Clearly, we were ready to learn. But it can be intimidating to get the dialogue started, to expose your vulnerability and ignorance, especially in a setting that is so very awe-inspiring. I decided to get the ball rolling with what felt like a relatively safe question: "How many teachers do you have in this room?"
The look I received from one of our hosts could only be described as withering. "Educators," she enunciated. "I think you mean, 'How many educators?'"
I know that she went on to answer my question about ratios, but I couldn't tell you what she said. Instead of hearing the answer to my question, I desperately hoped that I wasn't blushing too deeply and prayed that everyone would forget what the stupid woman in the blue shirt had asked.
Make no mistake about it: Early childhood education in the US is in a state of crisis. Adults entrusted with the care and education of our youngest citizens can't afford to keep their jobs. Burnout is rampant and turnover is high. These factors make it a challenge to attract new, energetic professionals to the field. We're hurting, plain and simple. And so I understand the urgent need to advocate for ourselves - to educate the public about the importance of our work, demand a livable wage, and raise the standards of quality early education. We need to take ourselves seriously because, by God, nobody else seems to be.
But what happens when that good intention goes too far? When does devotion to our profession bleed into resentment? Where is the line that separates passion for our approach from judgment of those who teach differently? Is there ever a point when taking ourselves seriously becomes counterproductive, and we alienate those who could contribute to our professional community?
It's a dangerous area. Teaching without reflection or criticism can become stagnant. On the other hand, it's demoralizing to feel as though your work will never be good enough. There has to be a middle ground, one in which we can take an honest look at our practice while confident in the support of our fellow teachers.
In Reggio-inspired circles, there is a kind of litmus test that I often hear repeated - "Is this the way I would speak to an adult?" I.e., Am I giving this child the respect and trust that I would give a fellow adult? However, I present my colleagues with a new challenge - "Is this the way I would speak to a child?" If a child asked a question of me, would I belittle them? If their theories were different than mine, would I tell them they were wrong? If I saw them struggling, would I shame them? Why, then, would I treat an adult differently?
The future of early childhood education depends on the efforts of every one of us. Let's work together on hearing the questions, instead of how they're asked.
It was very quiet. We visiting teachers gave each other tentative smiles, notebooks open and pens poised. Clearly, we were ready to learn. But it can be intimidating to get the dialogue started, to expose your vulnerability and ignorance, especially in a setting that is so very awe-inspiring. I decided to get the ball rolling with what felt like a relatively safe question: "How many teachers do you have in this room?"
The look I received from one of our hosts could only be described as withering. "Educators," she enunciated. "I think you mean, 'How many educators?'"
I know that she went on to answer my question about ratios, but I couldn't tell you what she said. Instead of hearing the answer to my question, I desperately hoped that I wasn't blushing too deeply and prayed that everyone would forget what the stupid woman in the blue shirt had asked.
Make no mistake about it: Early childhood education in the US is in a state of crisis. Adults entrusted with the care and education of our youngest citizens can't afford to keep their jobs. Burnout is rampant and turnover is high. These factors make it a challenge to attract new, energetic professionals to the field. We're hurting, plain and simple. And so I understand the urgent need to advocate for ourselves - to educate the public about the importance of our work, demand a livable wage, and raise the standards of quality early education. We need to take ourselves seriously because, by God, nobody else seems to be.
But what happens when that good intention goes too far? When does devotion to our profession bleed into resentment? Where is the line that separates passion for our approach from judgment of those who teach differently? Is there ever a point when taking ourselves seriously becomes counterproductive, and we alienate those who could contribute to our professional community?
It's a dangerous area. Teaching without reflection or criticism can become stagnant. On the other hand, it's demoralizing to feel as though your work will never be good enough. There has to be a middle ground, one in which we can take an honest look at our practice while confident in the support of our fellow teachers.
In Reggio-inspired circles, there is a kind of litmus test that I often hear repeated - "Is this the way I would speak to an adult?" I.e., Am I giving this child the respect and trust that I would give a fellow adult? However, I present my colleagues with a new challenge - "Is this the way I would speak to a child?" If a child asked a question of me, would I belittle them? If their theories were different than mine, would I tell them they were wrong? If I saw them struggling, would I shame them? Why, then, would I treat an adult differently?
The future of early childhood education depends on the efforts of every one of us. Let's work together on hearing the questions, instead of how they're asked.
