There are lots of potential challenges when working with an emergent curriculum, but one of my biggest struggles is understanding what our studies should be. Although it's not unheard of, many young children have not yet developed the metacognition to be able to articulate what it is they want to learn about. And so we, as their teachers, must observe them closely, recognize the patterns and questions that we see emerging in their play, and translate that information into the materials, invitations, and queries that help them construct knowledge in a meaningful way.
Tall order! Is it any wonder I drink as much coffee as I do?
I love watching children play, so that's no problem. I'm even pretty good, I think, at finding recurring themes in the play I observe. Where it gets trickier is interpreting those themes. Recently, I noticed that many of my students were using some classroom materials to build rockets. They created elaborate designs, counted down to blast off, and pretended to send them soaring around the room. Their interest was so prolonged and so focused that it almost seemed as though the class had agreed on an unspoken rule: These particular materials were to be used for making rockets. Now, my initial reaction was to say to myself, "Aha - outer space! I have a million resources and ideas for that." I promptly went out and purchased little astronaut figures because, um...space?
What I've learned, though, is that level of interpretation on my part typically leads to a study with a surge of energy and interest when it is first offered, only to quickly fizzle out after the most superficial of explorations. And then, more often than not, what I think is the original interest (rockets, in this case) comes right back up in the children's play. It's obvious that I haven't helped them find answers to the questions they're actually asking.
What if I give myself more time to really try to "hear" what the play is telling me? What if I sit for just awhile longer with the unknown, as it leads me to something richer and deeper?
As I took a closer look at what I saw unfolding before me, I saw a ritual about movement: Counting down, blasting off, and landing. I reflected on how I'd seen the children use our classroom's air vent in their play, sending scarves and other fabric pieces into the air by placing them over the vent. I thought about the photographs that they take each day, how so many of them are blurry from the physical action of the photographer. It seems so obvious in retrospect, but the realization was slow. These children were begging to learn about motion. And not just any motion - motion that they, themselves, controlled. Experiencing life as people who so rarely have any say in what happens to them and around them, I could see the sense of power and satisfaction that came from this play: I made it do that.
I decided to approach our work together through this lens, with the guiding question, "How can we make things move?" And the floodgates opened. There was an almost palpable sense of relief, as if the children were saying, "Finally, Tr. Adrienne! Finally, you understand what we've been asking for all along!" Suddenly, I couldn't offer experiences fast enough to keep up with their learning. Chemical reactions and gravity and friction and inertia and force and kinetic energy and literal rocket science. It's been an exhilarating and joyful study, and I don't think we're anywhere near finished.
So what's the key to accurately "interpreting" the play? I'm still figuring that out. But I can say, with absolute certainty, that my expectations have an enormous influence on the success we have. When I view my role with the expectation that the children's questions will be complex and their understanding sophisticated, we almost always enjoy a rewarding study.
Tall order! Is it any wonder I drink as much coffee as I do?
I love watching children play, so that's no problem. I'm even pretty good, I think, at finding recurring themes in the play I observe. Where it gets trickier is interpreting those themes. Recently, I noticed that many of my students were using some classroom materials to build rockets. They created elaborate designs, counted down to blast off, and pretended to send them soaring around the room. Their interest was so prolonged and so focused that it almost seemed as though the class had agreed on an unspoken rule: These particular materials were to be used for making rockets. Now, my initial reaction was to say to myself, "Aha - outer space! I have a million resources and ideas for that." I promptly went out and purchased little astronaut figures because, um...space?
What I've learned, though, is that level of interpretation on my part typically leads to a study with a surge of energy and interest when it is first offered, only to quickly fizzle out after the most superficial of explorations. And then, more often than not, what I think is the original interest (rockets, in this case) comes right back up in the children's play. It's obvious that I haven't helped them find answers to the questions they're actually asking.
What if I give myself more time to really try to "hear" what the play is telling me? What if I sit for just awhile longer with the unknown, as it leads me to something richer and deeper?
As I took a closer look at what I saw unfolding before me, I saw a ritual about movement: Counting down, blasting off, and landing. I reflected on how I'd seen the children use our classroom's air vent in their play, sending scarves and other fabric pieces into the air by placing them over the vent. I thought about the photographs that they take each day, how so many of them are blurry from the physical action of the photographer. It seems so obvious in retrospect, but the realization was slow. These children were begging to learn about motion. And not just any motion - motion that they, themselves, controlled. Experiencing life as people who so rarely have any say in what happens to them and around them, I could see the sense of power and satisfaction that came from this play: I made it do that.
I decided to approach our work together through this lens, with the guiding question, "How can we make things move?" And the floodgates opened. There was an almost palpable sense of relief, as if the children were saying, "Finally, Tr. Adrienne! Finally, you understand what we've been asking for all along!" Suddenly, I couldn't offer experiences fast enough to keep up with their learning. Chemical reactions and gravity and friction and inertia and force and kinetic energy and literal rocket science. It's been an exhilarating and joyful study, and I don't think we're anywhere near finished.
So what's the key to accurately "interpreting" the play? I'm still figuring that out. But I can say, with absolute certainty, that my expectations have an enormous influence on the success we have. When I view my role with the expectation that the children's questions will be complex and their understanding sophisticated, we almost always enjoy a rewarding study.
