I don't generaly address the education of the very young, but this article is very helpful.
https://www.npr.org/sections/goatsandsoda/2021/03/05/974069925/are-we-raising-unhelpful-bossy-kids-heres-the-fix?utm_term=nprnews&utm_campaign=npr&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook.com&fbclid=IwAR2a1d1khkaPNttBie5-fLxhObNOhvrCsmXFom9H6mQIC9XAdBk2y6Txoyo
One of the things I appreciate most about Experiential Education is its randomness. We were kayaking this morning, some of the kids of Station Maine and I. We hadn’t intended to talk about philosophy or psychology. It just came up in the course of normal conversation about what we’re reading. I hadn’t intended to explain how important was the rock weed to the ecology of the planet. It just came up. The purpose of last week’s sail wasn’t to learn the difference between a sloop and a schooner and a ketch, but the captain taught us and now the kids can’t forget. Random things that you learn in random settings often stick like that, as opposed to concentrated facts written up in a text book or a history lesson. You might learn enough to vomit it back on a test paper, but somehow the sticking value is gone in a classroom.
I am not opposed to school. I am not opposed to classrooms. But, as long as we’ve got this Coronavirus to deal with, can’t we take advantage of going outside? Can’t we walk in the woods or in the industrial complex, or even around the block? Can we not ask our students to open their eyes and make one intelligent observation or ask one intelligent question. Discussions of that nature, however far fetched, stay with the participants. The learning becomes more authentic somehow. Learning becomes a habit that lasts a lifetime.
Station Maine went rowing this week. I'm proud of us for that. In the midst of a global pandemic it is very, very difficult for youth organizations to go forward. When I ask myself the difference between Station Maine and all the other youth programs who are unable to function I come back to the nature of the program and the honor code that surrounds it. We are a water born, outdoor program. We have the advantage of fresh air, open ocean, and fresh ocean breezes. But there's more. I trust my crew of young people. The mandate is to wear masks, on and off the water. Nobody likes the masks, but nobody would consider disobeying that order. We have Watch Captains in place who will enforce it in my absence, not because they want brownie points, but because it is right. Like wearing life jackets. Like showing lights half an hour before sunset.
Being on an open boat carries with it risk. Real, genuine, physical risk. This is part of its appeal. But in order to embrace risk our rowers must embrace discipline. Command must be obeyed if the boat is to function. This discipline flows easily into masks. They are just another piece of the program that keeps us safe. Leadership and followership flow hand in hand. We grow as a crew, as friends, and as a community.
So, forgive me if I'm proud, but Station Maine is carrying on as safely as our program can be made. We have attracted a crew of young people who embrace discipline as part of life. I have no doubt that, because of this, their lives will be extraordinary.
I found an interesting link while scrolling through Facebook a while back. This young boy has used the time that the Corona virus has given so many of us and created something complex and wonderful. This is clearly a budding engineer who has been given the opportunity to stretch his wings and fly. He has educated himself in that magical way that young people have. We need to encourage this sort of freedom in education.
Norumbega has a red stripe on her waterline. This is new. It doesn’t show up very well against the black bottom paint, but it has a story to tell that makes us all proud.
It started on an island off the coast of Maine, Hermit Island, where we were conducting our annual Watch Captain training. The kids were on a hike up the Red Trail. Without me. I feel no desire to baby-sit teenagers who are perfectly capable of hiking the coast of Maine without adult supervision. But there was work to be done as well. The trailer needed to be painted. We always bring a job of work to Watch Captain training because work is so much a part of being a sailor and a leader.
So, we were agreed. Take the lunches. Hike, explore the island, swim, play, stay together, Nick is in charge, and be back at three to work. Simple, agreed upon rules, standard operating procedure. I personally held down the fort at the camp because the “training” part of that day was done and I was reading a very good book.
Comes along 3:00. No kids arrive. The general consequence for being late is one push-up per minute of tardiness. They’ll show. Three fifteen. Three thirty. Four o’clock. Five o’clock. Nothing.
I suppose I might have been worried, but I wasn’t. Yes, there are tides, there are cliffs, accidents can happen, but these kids are also trained and they knew where to find me and where to find help beyond me. Somebody stay with the injured party and somebody goes for help. Standard operating procedure. They knew that and I put a lot of faith in that knowledge, which comes down to common sense in hiking. I wasn’t worried, but I was angry.
So, comes along six o’clock then the crew arrives, four teenagers carrying large, huge, bundles of silver driftwood for tonight’s fire. I met them on the road.
I was angry and I should have been, but I wasn’t frightened or panicked. There was no reason to raise my voice. Yet, clearly, we needed to talk.
“Put it down” I said to each of them as they struggled with their bundles. “Meet me in the tent, now.” Each looked at me with a bell curved mix of fear, embarrassment, and confusion. What was about to happen? There was no conversation when I entered the tent, a meeting place I chose for its lack of early evening mosquitoes. Just silence. Waiting.
I sat, I made myself comfortable, and I waited in silence. Tension built. “What happened?” I finally asked.
Nick spoke first and immediately. “It wasn’t their fault. It was mine. Don’t blame the crew. I just lost track of time.”
High marks for Nick. He’s owning his mistake and protecting his crew. And there’s more to it than this.
“We found this great tangle of driftwood and rope and net. We wanted a good fire for tonight and we lost track of time untangling everything.”
Here I read between the lines. Twenty minutes late is losing track of time. Life happens and everybody is late from time to time. Three hours late reads more like ‘we’ve found a project we want to do more than paint the trailer so we’ll just stay here and maybe paint later and this is way more fun than painting.’ I am angry, but I’m also thrilled. These teenagers, products of the ‘computer, iPhone, Smartphone, Pokémon, never get off the couch generation’ found a project in the physical world that so engaged them that they stayed at it for hours. Hours of physical and mental work on a wooded beach on the coast of Maine. Still, there’s the matter of giving your word.
I was proud of Nick for owning his leadership, but he wasn’t alone. I asked of each kid in that tent “did you at any time remind Nick that you were expected back at three?” Each of them, though realizing they were late, chose to remain silent on that beach, engaged as they were in having fun. “You said nothing. Are you really ready to let Nick take the fall for this?” Silence. Looks of shame.
“The problem here isn’t painting the trailer. The problem is honor. You gave your word, each of you, that you would be back at three. Don’t give me the lost track of time excuse. You chose to do something else. And you chose to not send a runner back to tell me what was going on and maybe re-write the agreement. You thought it was easier to ask forgiveness instead of permission, and in doing so you compromised your honor because each of you gave your word that you’d be back.
“So, you want to see me mad?” I said quietly. “You’ve succeeded. Integrity above all things. Where was the integrity in this decision?”
Silence.
“I’m not going to tell you what happens now. I’m angry and decisions made in anger are rarely good ones. Take the paint and brushes and go paint the trailer as you promised. Dinner is when you get back. When you come back you need to tell me how you are going to make this right. Remember, this is not about punishment, this is about honor.”
They left for the trailer with paint and rags and brushes. I stayed behind and cooked red beans and rice. When I saw the kids again they had a plan.
“We took three hours from you”, Nick began. “We’d like to get together next week after camp and give back those three hours painting Norumbega. Would that be fair?”
Times like this don’t come often. Here I was looking at the next year’s leadership of Station Maine. They were completely embracing their mistake. They were owning responsibility for it. They were standing ready to make restitution for that mistake. Times like these make me want to cry tears of pride and gratitude and joy and hope for this generation. They have embraced honor.
With both the white topsides and black bottom of Norumbega being painted at once a masking tape strip of unpainted hull remained. We decided to paint it red just because it would look cool. It sort of does. Mostly, though, I catch myself staring at it with unbridled pride. Becoming a Watch Captain is important to these kids. Even more important is the integrity they have displayed in earning that status. They have chosen honor.
This is the generation to whom we will turn over this planet. I am not afraid.
I came across this poem, very well performed, by a young girl who feels trapped in our current system. I hope it speaks to you as it did to me.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EvjSEcYbx5g&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR1szGrlxuKSobba-XY41Kj88zf2W9f4TsjM0Z1OLMgk5E-UI9whsbekJfE
Yesterday I was cooking in our local soup kitchen, which is a privilege I enjoy once a week. We had thawed out beef, and I was trying to mix things up a little bit by serving it Oriental style with rice and vegetables. We never, of course, have all the ingredients we want or need, but therein lies the challenge. Garlic powder replaced fresh garlic, sugar replaced honey, and whole sesame seeds replaced sesame oil. Make do, find a way, and serve 50 hungry patrons.
My supervisor watched me for a moment whipping up an improvised Husain sauce and asked “Where did you learn to do that?” I had to think. I guess I learned something of Chinese cooking from a string of Chinese roommates in college. They never taught me, but I paid attention when they were in the kitchen. I learned to improvise through the simple act of cooking for myself and my friends and realizing that we were out of something. It sort of helped that perfection was never a viable goal in cooking.
I am no Gordon Ramsay, nor do I aspire to be. My point is that I have invested mo formal training in this skill of cooking, yet somehow I manage to turn out many meals of perfectly acceptable quality. I draw on the simple experience of having paid attention in life and of accepting my mistakes, learning from them, and moving on. My entire training in cooking has been experiential. Watch what’s going on around me, pay attention, and try. It has made my life very rich.
An interesting thing happens when an adult does things with kids. They ask questions. Sometimes the questions have to do with what we’re actually doing at the time. But sometimes, because we’re human, the conversation builds to deeper questions. Why are Great White Sharks coming north? Why are there only two candidates for President? Who are you voting for? Why? What makes the earth turn? Why is lead heavier than aluminum? What makes the clouds do that?
I rejoice at these questions. What’s important is that they asked the question and that they are genuinely listening, curious of the answer. These are teachable moments. I’m sure, for instance, that somewhere, sometime, in some science class in school I was taught the difference between brass and bronze. Still, it was not until the subject came up in conversation years later was I able to actually learn. In my science class I was most likely day dreaming while my teacher or text book spewed important factoids at me. In conversation this all suddenly became very interesting and relevant.
Clearly not every adult can answer every question posed by kids. That’s not the important part. The marvels of Google allow us to look up the answer. If you remember to look it up. The moment might be lost for that particular factoid, but interest is renewed where genuine curiosity is shared. And it will be remembered. Learning is a natural part of life. If we blow on those little embers of curiosity they will fan out and grow into a really interesting human being who, because you valued these random questions, will not be afraid to keep learning.
It is breaking my heart to write this quarter’s newsletter. I’m scrolling through old photos and old newsletters remembering the vitality that filled and surrounded Station Maine only a year ago. I know that I am in the company of thousands of teachers and coaches and youth program staff who all love our jobs, love our kids, and want it all back.
But looking into the young faces in these photographs I cannot allow myself to be discouraged. We owe this next generation the tools and the education they will need to face the task ahead, the task of rebuilding this planet. We ( I ) do not have the right to rest on the laurels of years of work already accomplished. Now, amidst a virus, climate change, and a certain political unrest, the young need to look up to a calm, if slightly lined and wrinkled, face and see the resolve to keep going forward. They deserve to live out loud, to be safe, to learn, and to prepare to take their place in their community.
I know that I am not alone when I dig deep into my imagination and draw on my waning reserves of strength and courage to provide that education. We are all struggling. And because what is at stake is, literally, the future, I believe we will all find a way to educate this next generation, to give them light, to give them hope. I believe this because to sacrifice that future is too high a price to pay for our lack of imagination.
So, I am going back to write my newsletter with new courage, buoyed up with the certain knowledge that in every town and village in the world there are teachers and coaches and youth program directors facing and solving these same problems. Failure is not an option, and so we will succeed.
My friend Bill Ebert posted this on Facebook a while back. I find it very much on-point for today.
"In 1971, the social critic Ivan Illich published “Deschooling Society,” a critique of institutional education. He argued that the oppressive structure of the school system must be abandoned because it contributes to a type of learned helplessness. We depend on institutions so completely that many of us can’t perform basic human tasks — delivering babies, educating children, cooking our own food. The virus has exposed this helplessness, what Mr. Illich would call a form of poverty.
Deschooling’s core principles — that education should be self-directed rather than compulsory, that human growth and curiosity cannot be quantified and that children learn best in natural environments and mixed-age groups — have gained some recognition in recent years. But the idea of truly communitarian, noncompulsory, family-centered approaches to education were largely limited to the radical fringe of pedagogy. A lot has changed in six months."
It is entirely possible to wander blindly through life and see or learn almost nothing of true value. I have taken whole classes through walks and woods teaming with learning opportunities and had them tell me they had learned nothing. So, we to learn to evoke our inner Sherlock.
Look at something. Anything that strikes your fancy. The seaweed washed up around the hauled up tugboat. Wait, that’s not the same seaweed I mulched my garden with in June. It’s sea grass. The sea bottom here must be different than the south end of the harbor. Mental note to come back with buckets, and to remember it for next year’s garden.
Sand, so much fine sand around the boat. They must have sand blasted. Sand is good for garden soil, but not mixed with the chemicals of boat paint. The hull can’t be wood if they sand blasted. No, it’s steel. Not in great shape. It can’t belong to the yard whose name it carries. They maintain their boats better than that. I’ll bet they sold it to the Vietnamese men who were working on it.
I can hear my roommate coming home from work. He didn’t have a good day. His posture is melting and he can barely pick up his feet.
There are no bird calls on the air. All I hear is the buzzing of grasshoppers. They have entirely different mating cycles. But the air is filled with fledgling seagulls and osprey. Most of them won’t live through the winter. It truly is the survival of the fittest on the coast. OK, sometimes it’s survival of the luckiest. Bad storms or mild winters tip the scales.
Sometimes my inner Sherlock tweaks me to research something I have seen. Sometimes it encourages me to act. Mostly, though, I go home and carry on with my day. I don’t want to be so hyper-vigilant all the time. My mind needs time to rest and process. But I learned a few interesting things today that will serve me. All I needed to do was observe and think.
I walked through North End Shipyard this morning. I’ve decided to walk every morning and observe. I’ve decided to spend my summer learning new things as much from experience and observation as I can manage. Which, admittedly, isn’t much different from my life as it’s always been, but this time I want to share.
I found an osprey’s nest. It was built on a high platform, obviously man made, which dominated the surrounding area. So why, in the middle of North End Shipyard, am I seeing a deliberate action to attract ospreys to roost? Well, as I thought about it, I began to see it differently. See those tall masts in the background? There is no way to avoid ospreys. They have been in Rockland Harbor long before any of us. They are instinct driven to build their nests on high spots. The clever boatyard managers decided to reframe the problem from “How can we get the ospreys out of our rigging?” to “What can we do to encourage ospreys to nest elsewhere?” They worked with, not against nature and built the osprey pole. They watched the ospreys. They learned. Just by paying attention to what was around them.
