Sprouts Playschool : August 2016

Friday, August 26, 2016

Won't Wash Away

Art Credit: Mason Meyer, age 6

"Did people's houses flood all the way up to the roof?" my friend's six year old son asked her.

Yes, all the way to the roof.

Most of us here in southern Louisiana have friends and family whose houses flooded up to the roof.

My son's school flooded to the roof. Everything was lost.

His dear friend's house flooded to the roof. My husband spent a Saturday helping the family totally gut the house and clear out the wreckage. Working alongside a large crew of many family, friends, and neighbors, they still didn't finish the job.

I'm still watching children process this information.

All the way up to the roof?

Photo Credit: noaa.gov

It's a difficult concept to grasp for adults, even.

For children, it's nearly beyond comprehension, even for those who experienced it firsthand.

***

"Mardi Gras" is a pretty common play scenario around here. Furniture gets moved and tubs flipped over, boxes are dragged out and "floats" are created. Heavy bags full of last year's parade hauls - beads in every color, the occasional strange stuffed toy or piece of plastic jewelry, perhaps a glow stick that has long since lost its glow - are shoved into place in the rear of said "float," and the kids start bopping to the music (real or imagined) and tossing their "throws" to the parade attendees (usually me).

I've seen this scenario quite a bit lately, as it's a fun thing to do with a full house of kids. In a departure from my usual small group of Playschool kids, I've been filling my weekend, afternoon and evening hours with friends' kids and friends of friends' kids, as they clean out and gut their homes, or the homes of neighbors, or volunteer at shelters, bringing much needed comfort and medical attention and supplies to evacuees (both humans and their pets). Women like me, filling this sort of behind the scenes role, have been dubbed "Cajun Rosies" as a nod to Rosie the Riveter and in keeping with the "Cajun Navy" and "Cajun Army," local people on the front lines in flood rescue and salvage.

I've had conversations with kids who lost everything, including their family dog, in the floods. I've seen kids' eyes light up at the sight of a particular toy or book that was a favorite in that child's home before it was taken by the flood waters. The term "shelter" is used often in children's play, even when it is centered around "worms" tunneling through the play dough or "butterflies" emerging from a tangled "chrysalis" of blankets. Death and dying are common themes, embedded in scenarios like "dead foxes" and "dead princess," where all the princesses and woodland creatures can be revived with a quick trip in the box ambulance or some time tucked into the "hospital bed" on the couch. "Death" is reversible, it seems, but that is the term that's used nonetheless. It's something they're hearing, maybe on the news, maybe whispered by adults who think they aren't listening. It's worrisome to them and they're trying to make sense of it. Play is how children process those concepts that are difficult to process. This is how they make sense of their world.

Most of the kids I'm hosting weren't directly affected by the floods and go home to dry homes and familiar toys and pets who are very much alive each night. But they've all had at least one parent wading through floodwaters or knocking out dry wall or negotiating the needs of people who have lost everything in shelters. This is a pervasive part of everyone's world right now.

These kids are trying hard to make sense of the events that bring strong adults in their lives to tears and have taken from their friends the very comforts they take for granted themselves. They act out these things that scare and confuse them by playing "dead princess" and "worm shelters" and controlling the outcomes of the events. They are seeking ways to feel powerful in this time where even those who are "in charge" feel powerless. Sometimes they are more explicit in their play schemes - I've watched children play "our house is flooding" multiple times - packing up toys and art supplies, sweeping them from the shelves into bags and climbing onto chairs. "Oh no! Our house is flooding! Get up here! Get up here!" There is a real intensity in this scenario, with children rushing breathlessly to higher ground.

But amidst all these scenarios (and a healthy dose of your typical discussions of poop and Pokemon), I've seen "Mardi Gras" acted out many, many times. The "floats" seem to become more and more elaborate, and the usage of dress up bin items has been impressive. They dance and sling beads and remind their audience to say "throw me somethin'!" if they want the good throws.

Amidst the loss, the ruin, the whispers of adults who worry many areas of Southern Louisiana will never be the same, these kids are reveling in the beauty of this place, this culture. They are processing through very serious, direct play scenarios, yes, but there is also valuable therapy in celebrating what we have, what we want to hang onto. A little glitter, a little laughter, something special thrown just to me - these things heal. These things remind us what we're working to save. Kids get that.

Yesterday the Krewe of Ms. Sylvan's House put together a fantastic float, spanning a large area of my living room. They decked it out and prepared their throws. When the parade was ready to start, they requested music. I queued up a Spotify playlist entitled "New Orleans" after a quick scroll through to ensure there wasn't anything inappropriate in the lineup. I started to sweep up from the day's snacks and craft activities, and Professor Longhair's "Go to the Mardi Gras" began and the living room Mardi Gras party was in full swing. As I stowed away rogue crayons and blocks, the parade continued, kids laughing and dancing and slinging beads. The next song began, and it was less ebullient: Steve Earle's painfully beautiful "This City."

The words and the contrast to the joy of the moment moved me to tears and I had to excuse myself to the kitchen to wipe down counters and cry.

Watching from the doorway where they couldn't see me wiping away tears, I was further moved by their resilience, their complete immersion in their play that blocked out the lyrics:

"This city won't wash away
This city won't ever drown
Blood in the water and hell to pay
Sky tear open and pain rain down
Doesn't matter 'cause come what may
I ain't ever gonna leave this town
This city won't wash away
This city won't ever drown"

They continued to dance and laugh and toss beads around my living room. They continued to be children, and to immerse themselves fully in this moment that brought them joy.

That is what moves us forward.

That is what we are working to save.

That can't be washed away.

Want to help Baton Rouge's Flood Relief Efforts? Here are some great local organizations working hard to rebuild our city and the beautiful community of people in it:

Together Baton Rouge

North Baton Rouge Disaster Relief

Companion Animal Alliance

The Loveabulls Project

Flood Recovery Fund for East Baton Rouge Public Schools

Runnels Art - Flood Recovery Fund

First United Methodist Church - Flood Relief

Read more about the effects of the flooding on the city's children here.

Learn more about play's healing effects in our city here.

Thursday, August 11, 2016

Part of the Solution (Guest Blog for PLAY EMPOWERS)

Originally published on Play Empowers Blog 8/4/2016

I live in Baton Rouge.

I love this city.

I work here as an early childhood educator and an advocate for play-based learning.

I advocate on behalf of my own two children and of all this city's children.

My work is play and I believe strongly that it is the most important work I'll ever do.

Photo Credit: Maggie Clarke

Three years ago, my little family embarked on a grand adventure.

We packed up our belongings and moved nearly 800 miles from Winston-Salem, North Carolina to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, a city where we knew no one and which we had only visited once in a whirlwind trip to find a home and visit a few schools.

I was immediately taken with this city, with its majestic live oaks stretching across the streets, beads glittering from their branches. I reveled in its culture of celebration, constant festivals and parades and football tailgates. We moved in July - I brought the kids down a month ahead of my husband to give them a chance to feel at home and make friends before school, and everyday life, began in earnest. The heat and humidity were oppressive and the mosquitoes were numerous, but I quickly fell in love with my new city. We made friends, we made our house a home, I got a job and life seemed good.

School started in August. My four year old son wore a uniform for the first time, as do all public school students in East Baton Rouge parish. He chose a backpack and lunchbox emblazoned with his favorite super heroes and struggled to keep his burgundy polo shirt tucked into the tiny elasticized waistband of his navy blue shorts. He and his classmates ate their free school breakfast in silence daily. He learned to walk quietly, in straight lines. He adored his preschool teacher, though the parents of many of the other students complained that she let the three and four year olds in his class play too much and she did not give them enough homework.

He wondered out loud about the differences from block to block in town - from the quaint, well-kept homes on our street to the "shotgun" style row houses closer to his school which were clearly in poorer repair, some with broken windows or holes in the roofs. He worried that his classmates lived in these homes, wondered what happened when it rained. He asked why no one cared more about those people and those neighborhoods. I didn't have an answer.

I made my own adjustment. I was transitioning from an extremely progressive magnet school in North Carolina, one that embraced students as people and gave them ownership of their learning, that gave teachers autonomy in the classroom with the expectation that they would reach those kids. I was now expected to test my students weekly in every subject and graph their test results for weekly data meetings. Students were expected to be re-tested until they "passed," with the data taking precedence over actual knowledge retention. We were encouraged to plot student progress on wall charts for all to see. Recess was fifteen minutes daily. Lunch was silent. Children who struggled with emotional regulation were to be sent to the time out monitor, not a counselor. There was required paperwork to track their referrals, and I was told this information was needed for when they "entered the system" later.

We were not preparing children to be leaders, to be citizens, to be thinkers, to be voters.

We were preparing them to be prisoners.

The students in Baton Rouge's public schools are predominantly black, predominantly poor. The schools here didn't even begin desegregation until 1981, and that effort has been largely declared a failure.

These children are being denied their childhoods, their opportunities to play and strengthen social skills and emotional regulation. abilities. These young children, largely underprivileged children of color in a historically segregated city, are being prepared not for college, not for careers, but for prison.

I had many seasoned teachers and administrators tell me that things HAD to be this way because Baton Rouge has such high poverty levels. "You must not have had poverty problems where you come from" was the common refrain, and I was never believed when I insisted that, yes, we did. Winston Salem has very high levels of poverty, and my school there was a fairly accurate representation of the city's demographics (we were a "lottery" magnet, meaning selection was purely random, based on lottery). We had some of the highest test scores in the state. We let children play. We gave them ownership of their learning. We gave teachers the autonomy to teach in ways that were authentic to them and their students.

We believed in our students. We envisioned them as college graduates. As successes. As people.

I keep in touch with former colleagues and students and am constantly impressed with the work they are doing (see linked articles above to read about two phenomenal young women I had the opportunity to teach at this very special school, representative of the accomplishments of the majority of that school's graduates). We also had fantastic family involvement that, yes, spoke to the kinds of families who were attracted to our school, but also spoke to the kind of atmosphere we created - one that embraced all students, all people. One that meshed with the surrounding community. This was very intentional. It was not luck or happy coincidence. It was our mission.

We prepared students to be future leaders because we not only allowed them to think and to question, we encouraged them to do so. We not only allowed them to "goof off" and be kids from time to time, but we encouraged them to do so.

We embraced and nurtured their humanity.

The mistake of policy makers in East Baton Rouge schools is that they continue to do more of the same thing they've been doing for years and expect different results.

They continue to emphasize conformity and control over connection and humanity.

They continue to expect failure from these kids rather than searching for their greatness, striving to control and manage them until they can pass them on, rather than nurturing them to their highest potential as human beings.

They continue to take away recess, to take away teacher autonomy, to shame rather than uplift, to direct rather than collaborate, to declare rather than listen. Our children are suffering.

This quote is lovely and makes the rounds often. I'd argue, however, that all students come to school to be loved. And that we need to spend far more time listening to their needs and less time testing their recall of facts. Alfie Kohn writes about this here and here.

I didn't feel like I was part of the solution.

I felt like part of the problem.

I traded in my public school job for running my own tiny in-home playschool. My work has grown from a small group of kids in my own backyard to outreach programs throughout the city.

I'm sure there are some that wonder, in light of the systemic issues I describe, why building with cardboard boxes and climbing trees have become my focus rather than something larger and more visible.

I found myself wondering this, too, as my city erupted in anger and panic over these past weeks as the long-simmering tensions boiled over. I wanted to help in healing this place I call home, and worried that I could not possibly do enough.

But the truth is, we all have to do our own small part. No person can do it all, and we all have to share whatever gifts we have. That's how we make an impact. That's how we make a change.

My city is hurting right now. We are in the news for recent tragic events but the pain is not new. People are angry, and rightly so. We are painted as being very much divided, but from where I sit, people on both "sides" want a lot of the same things.

They want to feel safe.

They want a better life for their families, for their children.

They want to feel that their voices are heard.

This is where we can be part of the solution.

In the days following a string of tragedies both in my city and in other parts of the nation, from the shootings of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile to the shooting of the Dallas policemen and the protests and unrest that grew out of those events, I held a pop-up play day for Baton Rouge kids.

We played.

Photo Credit: Sylvan Taylor

We built.

Photo Credit: Sylvan Taylor

It rained.

Photo Credit: Sylvan Taylor

And rained.

Photo Credit: Sylvan Taylor

And then we played and built some more.

Photo Credit: Sylvan Taylor

These kids worked together, helping one another to build forts and scale trees and fight off "bad guys."

Photo Credit: Sylvan Taylor

Things like age and race and gender didn't matter ~~much.~~ at all.

Heat didn't stop us. Thunderstorms didn't stop us.

Our city was hurting and afraid, and these kids reminded us that there could still be joy.

The next day brought more unrest and anger as peaceful protests turned agitated, as fearful police were directed to respond with force against citizens trying to be heard. As the voices of a few drowned out the reason of many.

Out of the pain and anger grew a call for unity. Local churches gave me an opportunity to hold a children's event alongside their worship service.

Again, it rained, and our outdoor service was moved into an oyster bar across the street with generous owners.

The rain stopped, and again, we played.

We chalked the walks with words of love and peace for all to see.

Photo Credit: Sylvan Taylor

We blew bubbles and made a banner and played some more.

Photo Credit: Casey Meyer

And it was all so beautiful.

You might still wonder why this is my response to all the hurting, the violence, the divisiveness all around me.

Why am I standing there blowing bubbles?

Why am I still hauling cardboard and chalk out through rainstorms and cheering on kids climbing trees and wielding duct-taped "swords?"

There are so many reasons.

Imaginative play is one of the best ways for children to process their emotions during times of crisis and tragedy. The news right now in my corner of the world is scary indeed, and children need outlets to process their fear and grief.

“The inherent desire to create – whether on paper or in scenarios with toys – is universal to us all. For this reason, play is an invaluable tool for communication.Children learn how to process complicated feelings through a playful filter and explore tough questions in a language that is easier for them to understand... And while the world and the threats it poses may change, children everywhere continue to try to solve its problems through imaginative games." ("How Children Use Play to Make Sense of Terrorism," Lizzie Enfield)

In play we are at peace. We are in a state of calm alertness; we are aware of all around us and awake, but not agitated, not stressed. We feel joy. We feel a sense of belonging.

That is healing no matter who you are. I challenge you to watch children at play and not smile at the very least, if not feel the urge to join in.

We build connections through events such as these. People gather and talk. They laugh. They feel together, not divided. We learn to truly SEE one another.

This heals.

The greatest reason, however, is that play is an investment in our children.

True free, authentic play is how children develop a sense of empathy. This is something that cannot be taught, especially not in traditional schools. This is something that is only developed through play.

Empathetic children grow up to be empathetic adults.

They grow up to be people who can see things from another's perspective, who can bridge differences and solve problems with words. They grow up to be the helpers, the police officers who embrace protesters, the protesters who use words instead of violence, the teachers and social workers and ministers who speak out for making a difference. The citizens who help out their neighbors.

These are leaders. These are peacemakers. These are the GOOD we wish to see in the world.

Opportunities for child-led play are also the solution for raising children who can regulate their emotions, especially fear and anger.

This is the "emotion regulation theory of play—the theory that one of play’s major functions is to teach young mammals how to regulate fear and anger.[4] In risky play, youngsters dose themselves with manageable quantities of fear and practice keeping their heads and behaving adaptively while experiencing that fear. They learn that they can manage their fear, overcome it, and come out alive. In rough and tumble play they may also experience anger, as one player may accidentally hurt another. But to continue playing, to continue the fun, they must overcome that anger. If they lash out, the play is over. Thus, according to the emotion regulation theory, play is, among other things, the way that young mammals learn to control their fear and anger so they can encounter real-life dangers, and interact in close quarters with others, without succumbing to negative emotions." (from "Risky Play: Why Children Love It and Need It" by Peter Gray).

Children given the opportunities for free play become adults who can control their fear and anger. Again, they become problem solvers, effective collaborators and leaders. They become peacemakers.

They become the solution.

My part may not be loud or flashy.

But it brings me tremendous joy and it IS the solution for our nation's future.

A friend shared this with me as I was writing this post, and I want to close on this idea:

“The future of our country is being built on our work in early childhood development. We all must play a role in helping every child succeed. We are overdue, my friends. Nearly 120 years ago, The New York Times wrote an editorial with these words: ‘Given one generation of children properly born and wisely trained, and what a vast proportion of human ills would disappear from the face of the earth.’” ("Investing Early: The Best Sort of Nation Building" by David Lawrence)

This is my solution.