Do as I say…

So, Tristan brought home his first report card today.

I have to preface:  I recently packed up my children and moved them to another continent for a few years so I can work on a PhD. Anyone who expects that because it will be a PhD in Educational Psychology, I would only have done something so outrageous if I was somewhat certain of the outcome for said children would, I’m afraid, be sadly disappointed. After months of paperwork, planning and packing, we arrived in the outskirts of Vancouver on August 1^st, and all three of us had our first school day on September 5^th. We have been on a steep learning curve since then.

The last couple of years, Tristan had expressed curiosity about regular schools, and we had discussed the possibilities with teachers and administrators at his special school in Denmark. The result was that they were unable (or unwilling?) to accommodate his wish of a full-time immersion for a trial period, He was understandably hesitant to follow their plan of coordinating attending a local school for one subject or for a limited amount of time each day, as he didn’t want to stick out as the “weird kid” who also went to a special school.

We continued to be at an impasse, and finally agreed to put off any action until the following school year.

Then, I got offered the PhD position.

This would mean a) new school, b) mainstream classroom, c) a new country and d) a language he had only ever used at home. Gulp. This is definitely a situation that could be described by one of my favorite Danish expressions: ude på et skrålplan, the best translation of which is headed for a deroute. I decided to close my eyes and jump.

One of the administrators at his school approached me on one of the last days of school to wish us safe travels.

“Well,” she said, “You’ll finally be able to try out a mainstream school like you wanted.” Her raised eyebrow sent a shiver down my spine, and I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t being reckless.

He loves it. Tristan, who started school in his special classroom at age 6, overwhelmed by the 5 other children in his class and only wanted to sit alone with a teacher that would read aloud to him, is excited every day when he comes home. He works doggedly at new subjects, including French. He has made a small circle of like-mined friends, who sit together in the computer lab during lunch break. He loves his teacher, His class got to learn about North Korea and go on a field trip to the SFU science labs. He walks to and from school on his own, and one day took initiative to try a new route so he could walk part of the way with a friend.

“Mom,” he tells me, “I thought you said it could be too much to sit in a classroom with twenty-five other kids. So why do I like it?”

“No, my dear,” I tell him, “I said it might be too much. And why do you think you like it?”

But he’s right. He’s been telling me (us) for two years that he is ready. I held back, we all held back, and held him back, fearful of the deroute. I love his school in Copenhagen, and I am unendingly grateful to for the amazing start he got there. But I think maybe we ended up being too careful.

 

I vehemently preach the gospel of “listen to what children tell you” and “ask persons with a diagnosis – they are the experts about themselves.” Yet I had been hesitant to take my own advice, and had become complicit.

His report card was good, which is, of course, lovely, mostly for him. But more importantly, Tristan is good! It’s not perfect; he tends to be hard on himself, and some evenings feels overwhelmed. I know bumps and troubles will come.

But I’m so thankful that I finally dared to open my hands and let the dragonfly leap up into flight! It turns out that, while a nymph needs to be in the water to breathe and grow, when it emerges as an adult, the same water will mean suffocation.

That’s right, an insect metaphor, in honor of you, Tristan. Because I do know that you know what works best for you.

Democratic childhood

I think it may be an occupational hazard of professional childhood and pedagogy enthusiasts to be a curious observer of (as well as occasional participant in) discussions of childcare and parenting on the internet. I know it’s true for me.

In pursuing my hobby, I have found many an example of the universal joys and struggles of parenting and childhood. I always enjoy stories reconfirming that, basically, children are children and parents are parents, regardless of residing on any side of any given ocean. At times, however, I am also reminded of the distance between my current home and my original. Not that there is a consensus on any one side of the water – but there are trends that seem to be stronger in some places than others.

One of these is what one could call “democratic parenting.” When perusing recently, I found an account by a parent in the US. They were struggling with the challenges of a nine-year-old son’s sudden resistance to parental decisions and his smart-mouthed remarks to that effect (and the resulting sanctions that the young man received). I was caught by the tone and language of the comments, advice, and support that was given by other readers.

“Stay strong,” was the essence of several. “Be firm. Don’t give in.” Others warned,

“Just wait – this is only the beginning,” referring to the rebellious teen that would shortly emerge from the docile cocoon of childhood.

As the parent of two independent-minded children of 8- and 9-years-old, I find myself not infrequently debating this very dilemma with myself.

I am in the privileged position of knowing personally – and professionally – a multitude of wonderful parents and childcare professionals from different countries and backgrounds, and being able to observe the different ways of dealing with “willfulness” and “backtalk.”

Generally, in Denmark, there is much less focus on “respect” toward parents (and teachers, for that matter). Backtalking – rather than compliance – is more or less expected, and in some ways encouraged as a sign of healthy independence. Mutual respect is on the agenda, and parents are often encouraged, through laws which protect children’s rights at least as much as parents’, through public media discourse and through the advice of professionals, to find ways in which democratic values can be integrated into the family structure.

Professionals, and often parents, promote the concept of anerkendelse in their dealings with children. Anerkendelse can be translated, roughly, to the words “acknowledgment” and “recognition,” both of which are important elements of this approach to childcare and parenting. It is the responsibility of the adults to acknowledge – and take seriously – the child’s thoughts and feelings. They should be recognized as full participants in the democratic structure that is the family or the institution.

I encountered, somewhere along the line, the idea that “children have a right to an explanation.” Here in Denmark, this idea seems to have gained a broad societal appeal; I don’t think I can recall ever having heard the Danish parents I know use “because I said so” as a reason for a child to comply.

For me, this is the bare minimum of what any child can expect of an adult who is giving them a demand. I have tried to make this idea into a sort of parenting mantra: when my children object to something I say, I try to evaluate why I have said “no” or “you must,” and if I can’t find a satisfactory and meaningful explanation, I (sometimes grudgingly) revise my position. And, to my chagrin, it turns out that my demands are quite often unreasonable!

So, in my case, the right to an explanation leads to the adoption of other rights; for instance that the children’s positions are heard and taken into account when making family policies. And that although I may want my word to be be law, it is important to remember that in healthy democratic systems, laws are subject to revision.

This approach often seems anarchistic and chaotic to outsiders. My American students, who are encouraged to observe children and families both in their practicum sites and in informal settings, are frequently horrified by the behavior and language of children and young people, which they find disrespectful and inappropriate. Others find the freedom given to children alluring (if in a mysterious sort of way) – and most reach a healthy and critical balance during their time in the Danish school and childcare system.

I was surprised to discover, on the last day of class one summer, that the most memorable take-home point from a whole course in Scandinavian pedagogy and special needs had been a comment about the state of my “nerves.”

I had told my students about the principle of the right to an explanation, reassuring them that this doesn’t necessarily equate to laissez faire parenting. I do, in fact, forbid certain activities – also when I am aware that there is no really compelling reason that they may not, for instance, play with water balloons in the bathroom sink.

In such moments, I can be heard to say (wail) my explanation in best Jane Austen style:

“Because my nerves can’t handle it right now!”

Most likely, I should be embarrassed to admit that I consider this a legitimate explanation for my children. But I do feel it is well within the framework of what I am trying to achieve with regards to anerkendelse. It is, for me, a more honest version of “because I said so” that indicates I have reached my own personal limit, instead of setting a seemingly random limit for them. And it has the added bonus that my children get to practice being considerate of other people.

I admit to being startled (dismayed?) that this was the quote for which I would be remembered! Firstly, it probably says more about the quality of my teaching than the state of Scandinavian pedagogy. Secondly, however, it points out how surprising – and fundamental – such differences in the roles and relationships in families and institutions can seem.

Ultimately, I did not comment on the discussion of the willful 9-year-old, for a number of reasons. I generally don’t feel it is anyone’s place to comment on other people’s parenting, especially when one doesn’t know the whole story. (And yet, here we are. Hypocritical much?) Also, with parenting, different doesn’t necessarily mean better, but it can easily sound that way in a short comment on social media. Not to mention the fact that the jury is still out; as any self-respecting parent, I wonder on a daily basis if I really know what I am doing!

When I have been caught in a long and painful negotiation with Ariel (in which she is usually gaining ground), or when both children stage yet another demonstration against early bedtime, I try to remind myself that there is a meaning to the madness. I hope to raise children who question authority!

(Even though it means they question mine.)

Researching marginalised groups: some difficult questions

Source: Researching marginalised groups: some difficult questions

Learning on the path less traveled

This blog is about learning—sideways.

There is a simple sentence that I never expected I would hear from one of my children, but which has become an everyday phrase around our house:

”I hate school.”

Needless to say, this is not the response I had hoped for when my daughter Aerial started kindergarten last year. She attended the first few days enthusiastically, and the first few weeks happily, but we weren’t even halfway through October before she started hating it.

I do not exactly know what to do with a school-hater, having taken to school myself like the proverbial fish to water. Both my mom and I recall my impatience during the endless days of waiting between Thursday afternoon, when Kindergarten got out for the week, until Monday morning rolled around. And I never really did get tired of it. Summer vacation was always delightful, but – let’s face it – at the age of 40, I’m still school oriented, as I strew applications around me one after another, hoping to snag the elusive PhD stipend.

On the other hand, I have always been aware of the school-haters around me. I clearly remember silently and agonizingly rooting for the child in the next row, groping for the correct sound when we took turns reading aloud in first and second grades. I also remember questioning the validity of the labels given to “good” and ”bad” students, when one of the notorious school-failers consistently won the annual spelling bee.

Through the years, I have only become more skeptical of these labels; at long last I have a couple personal examples in my own home: a brilliantly intelligent autistic son, and a daughter who decidedly resembles more closely the fish with the bicycle when it comes to school. The same daughter who taught herself to add on her fingers at the ripe old age of three, and who observed, at about the same age, that ”grown-ups without kids only need half a car,” now laments that she is the worst in her whole class in math. And, after devouring pages of early reading material with me in the evenings as she eagerly anticipated starting Kindergarten, she suddenly proclaimed that she “hates to read,” and practicing with her school library books even for a few minutes a day is an agonizing chore.

What exactly has happened here?

What I found straightforward and effortless about this particular format and setting of what we call learning is just not working for her. I now have concrete evidence, readily available, of something that I have felt in my bones these many years: learning is sometimes (often? never?) a straightforward process.

I like to use the term sideways learning, inspired by the Danish word, skæv, which most basically means “crooked,” “sideways” or “askew.” In Danish usage, skæv also enjoys a rich metaphorical life in phrases like skæve boliger (literally “crooked homes”: non-traditional housing solutions for homeless persons), skæve personer (“crooked persons,” who are on the periphery of societal norms) or skæve ideer (literally “crooked,” or offbeat, ideas). Crooked, sideways, unorthodox – and in some way also creative, innovative, unexpected, genius.

This seems well suited to an oblique style of being-in-the-world that puts one at risk of being (or becoming) an outsider, at least in traditional learning settings. I am afraid that is what is happening with Aerial. I believe it is neither possible nor desirable to separate social from academic learning processes; they are often one experience for the learner, and can be anywhere on a rather broad spectrum of positive to negative. I can see that she is learning to take a marginal position, both in the social and academic arenas of life. In school, her primary lesson is learning to be an outsider.

This blog is also about autism, which is definitely a certain type of sideways learning! Although it is her brother Vanya that has a diagnosis, Ariel is, at the moment, clearly the one with the greater challenges in her school setting.

There are many who would point to Aerial as the success story. She apparently manages to sit quietly on a chair in a general education setting and even look cheerful and attentive much of the time. But she often sits with a clump in her throat, pain in her stomach, and a pervasive sense of failure and outsiderness. Vanya, in his special classroom, is a thriving social butterfly with a driving motivation to learn to read and multiply. Hmm.

Two sideways learners in the house, one who has found a niche. What matters more: the type of learning community (e.g. Special or general education), or the quality of participation in said community?

There are no quick or easy answers. But, in the meantime, I know which of the two children I worry about most.