Thursday, July 21, 2011

What We Have to Learn from Hogwarts in the Battle for Our Schools

Perhaps you’ve seen Part Two of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in the five days since it was released here in the US. 

If you have, I’d bet one of two things: you’re one of the millions of Potter fans who have watched Harry, Ron and Hermione grow up and make something of themselves in the wide world of wizardry for the past ten years . . . or you’re someone like me, wholly Potter impaired, but desperately trying to combat the sweltering heat of summer we’ve found ourselves swimming through as of late.

Either way, let me humbly propose that you see it, and see it again . . . for the beautifully epic way it invites us to think about our community schools, and the roles we individually play in their success.

Just picture the scene.  The black-shrift and soul-less Dementors hovered in the distance as darkness fell upon the high towered school.  Within, under Headmaster Snipes’ steel-handed guidance, the poor institution already seemed to be faltering — its once brightly lit corridors now dark, its common rooms and halls reduced to encampments with the students sitting together in groups on the floors, disorganized and dispirited.  Then, as Harry is discovered to have returned, the evil Voldemort descended with his dark magic to destroy the school.

No matter where we are on the ideological divide, it is easy for Wisconsinites to import our own villains into this scenario right now.  Even if most state school districts have avoided massive layoffs and spending cuts this year, as Journal Sentinel reporter Erin Richards reported on June 16th, following the extraordinarily volatile dialogue on collective bargaining that took place in spring, the expansion of voucher programs around the state, as well as the budgetary decisions that have recently been made on our behalf concerning the future of public education, many of us feel locked in an epic battle for our own schools.

A battle, I might add, that some people are already treating as lost.  I was devastated this May to discover that our next-door neighbors were putting their house up for sale to move into a new school district out of fear for the future of our own.  They are just the sort of people that give a community and a neighborhood school — its value; a couple with children the same age as our own, they are highly visible in the neighborhood as they walk their children to school, have an open door for friends and family members, a watchful eye for the neighborhood, many community ties, and are active in the PTA.

In the case the house doesn’t sell, they — with several other families whose children go to their school — open enrolled their children in a neighboring school system.

My point here is not to blame them.  As the Roman poet Terence once said, “I am human, so nothing human is strange to me,” so too do I understand, quite viscerally, the motive of fear in facing our schools’ futures.

But, as sociologist Robert Bellah argues in The Good Society, it is through our words and choices, we create, and re-create the institutions, such as schools, that make life possible, that make life meaningful, and which, being created by us, thereby change us too.

The epic battle for the soul of Hogwarts in The Deathly Hallows reminds us of that too.  As the darkness falls in the film, Hogwarts does not yield to an expectant unknowing, but experiences this sort of chaotic resurge in vitality, verve, and, strangely, optimism, as professors, parents and students eagerly begin taking a stake in the defense of their school under Professor McGonagall’s cry “Hogwarts is threatened! Man the boundaries. Protect us!”

Armed with their wands, the professors, parents and students create a nearly invisible shield that deflects the oncoming assault, each person creating a part of that life-preserving force about the school, a part that fuses to each other part to form a seamless, indistinguishable shell.

The beauty and the truth of it brought tears to my eyes.

No matter what is approaching from the horizon, there’s a similar magic we Muggles can wield in the here and now — being committed to sharing our time and talent in our children’s schools.   This fall, for every parent who begins regularly communicating with other parents, becomes an active member of the PTA, volunteers to tutor, cut out activities for the teacher, or to be a scout leader, begins regularly communicating with teachers, attending school board meetings, and otherwise begins building social capitol in our schools, there will be one more slice in that force field that is put in place over each and every school in these uncertain times.   

When our children see us physically and emotionally invested in their schools, they understand we are invested in them and they perform better.  When the educators who teach our children see us physically and emotionally invested in their schools, they are more validated and motivated.  When our communities are filled with schools that are so high functioning, their value increases exponentially for everyone within them.

I may not be up on my Muggles math  with these calculations regarding social forces — after all, I teach literature — but I believe Hogwart’s beautifully spirited defense of herself within The Deathly Hallows can create in us a deep listening, reminding us to our best selves, inviting us to take a stake in our schools against all odds—with our minds, bodies, and souls.   












Monday, July 18, 2011

5 Picture Books that Speak Countless Words . . . and Sharpen Children's Intellects

The marriage between the images and the text in a well wrought picture book is just like any loving relationship — the words of Rilke, they should be “as two solitudes that protect and border and greet each other”, narrative and illustrious in their own right, playing off of one another, each letting the other carry something of their shared story.

Goodall's Nancy is a picture book
without words.  Even the youngest
of readers can map the story of young
Nancy's outlandish behavior
on her sister's wedding day.
Children know this instinctively.  They love to ‘discover’ the story which is not told, but revealed in the pictures — the little micro-dramas unraveling through the pages like whispers.  Books like John Goodall’s Naughty Nancy, Jan Brett’s The Mitten, Martin Hanford’s Where’s Waldo series, Sibylle Von Olfers’ Mother Earth and Her Children or Gyo Fujikawa’s Oh What a Busy Day enable children at various reading stages to enter the world of the story on their own terms . . . to make choices of interpretation, to delight in the unsaid ‘clues’ depicted there . . . in other words, to sharpen the quill of their inner Shakespeare, to hone their inner Holmes.

The images within these stories cultivate children’s skills in conducting independent observation and interpretation, wonder and inquiry.   In a world fraught with multitasking and distractions, such skills have never been more precious, or at risk for being lost altogether.

When Miss S was a toddler, we would read The Mitten aloud and I would direct her attention toward the borders of Brett’s beautiful illustrations, which forecasted each event to come by illustrating it. 

“What animal finds the mitten next? “ I would ask, and with a glance at the illustrations she would rightly answer, “The fox!  The mouse!  The bear!” and so forth.  Sure enough, when we turned the page, the animal had appeared on the scene.   

She had not only been reminded of the names of these animals, but she was as proud as a peacock to have forecasted what was coming based on her own observational skills. 


Breckling Press’s version of Von Olfers’ Mother Earth and Her Children is another fantastic tool to hone young readers’ observational skills in the process of reading a lovely story.  Illustrated by master quilter Sieglinde Schoen Smith, the glorious pictures depict a cosmos of small creatures at work and at play — ladybugs and butterflies, larkspur and forget-me-nots, beetles and earthly cherubs. 

Within the book there are fantastic ‘treasure hunt’ prompts that parents can use to encourage children to look more closely: 

If there is a fault with the design of this book, it is that these great questions are printed on the back of the dust cover rather than within the book proper . . . and therefore, are more likely to be damaged or lost as the book is handled.  That being said, this book not only entertains, but beautifully invites three to four year old readers to think categorically, analyze the illustrations for content, and to use them in order to hypothesize character motivation. 

                                                                                                                       
Within Gyo Fujikawa’s Oh What a Busy Day — which remains to this day my most beloved picture book from my own childhood — Miss S. has spent hours of her life reading the events that are unraveling across the glorious page spreads—deciding for herself which of the children at the playground are having the most fun, or which foods she would eat for breakfast were she at the kitchen table full of children that Fujikawa illustrates early in the book.  


The gloriously detailed images in Oh What a Busy Day can draw 4-5 year old readers into a state of ‘parallel narration’—where they observe the characters at work and play in the illustrations, and find themselves invited to deliberate on the characters as representing choices —going sledding or skating, being generous or selfish, going camping or on a picnic. 

Generations of children who have swam through the illustrations in this book have encountered choices upon choices upon choices laid before them . . . and as they mulled over and through them, they have been afforded opportunities to see themselves as possessing choice as well — in what they choose to do, in how they choose to behave, in what they choose to want today, tomorrow, and 18 years down the road. 

A most valuable skill to hone, actually. . .  whether one is four or forty!

. . . and of course, Where’sWaldo is a mainstay of every seven to ten year old’s reading repertoire because of Hansford’s exquisite illustrations, which are not merely designed to obscure Waldo, but to weave an intricate number of stories, subplots, and dramas which are just waiting to be unveiled by the young reader’s eye.  Waldo is for advanced elementary readers in so much as many of the illustrations derive their humor from situational wordplay . . . a coffee presenting a cake. . . a flower taking the long road toward the glory of cakedom.   Miss S. giggles for hours on end with the Waldo books as each new secret is revealed, each new word play deciphered.

Wonder is but a light skiff and inquiry its billowing sail.  Any meaningful education requires both parts of this trusty rig –wonder making inquiry buoyant, inquiry moving wonder across the waters of the unknown.

Through these five picture books, even young readers are able to begin charting the waters successfully.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Seeing Brian's Painting at the Anderson Arts Center!

Summer wanes like a moon over late harvest . . . sweetly, slowly.   In its languidness I have discovered there’s an inverse relationship between the amount of time I have and the time I take to write.  Here, in a summer packed with dinner conversations, long walks along area beaches, nights full of star-fire and camp songs, pockets full of discovered things . . . writing has taken a back seat to the pleasure of just being with my children and their friends through the long, but alas shortening days before us.

 
Brian with his watercolor
painting King Tortoise Speaks
to the Animal Kingdom
It is clearly a time for a gathering . . . hence, the delay of a week in this and several  newsworthy posts — hopefully the old maxim better late than never still rings true!

Last Sunday June 26th, Brian and I headed to the Anderson Art Center in Racine to attend the Artist’s Reception marking the beginning of the Wisconsin Artists Biennial Exhibition.  One of Brian’s original paintings for the Kwaku book, titled King Tortoise Speaks to the Animals, was accepted into the juried exhibition in April.  It is one of 93 original works, within a variety of media, that will be on display at the beautiful lakeshore mansion between now and August 7th.   

There was a large turnout
at the reception honoring
the artists.
At 8 x 10, the watercolor painting is a diminutive piece, which is all the more extraordinary for the level of detail that is woven into the depictions of each of the characters.  As we walked away from it, and into the various galleries filled with larger instillations, I was reminded of the Mona Lisa.  At 20 in. x 30 in., Da Vinci’s quixotic lady hung in her Louvre in much the same way. . . visually lost among the huge baroque masterpieces surrounding her.  That is, until she was at last given her own room in the museum six years ago. 

Perhaps it may seem I am being delusional by the comparison between King Tortoise and Mona Lisa, but there are countless comparisons to be made. 


The WVA Exhibition booklet.
For instance, it isn’t just the size of the two paintings relative to their contemporaries that sets it off.  Both projects —Leonardo’s and Brian’s — took nearly four years to complete! 

The comparison goes on . . . but now I’m undoubtedly embarrassing my fantastic brother in law, so I’ll cease and desist.  

If you have time this summer to make the trek to the beautiful Racine lakeshore from wherever you are, please check out the exhibition at the Anderson Arts Center, and let Brian know that you did!    

This is Brian’s first piece to be included in a public exhibition, and although I wish my sister and nephews could have made the long trek from northern Wisconsin to be with him for this event, I was thrilled beyond thrilled to see his painting, and to see others see his painting, in what will hopefully be a lifetime in which he is able to share his gift of visual storytelling with others.