Every time I think about what elementary school calls upon a child to do, I start to feel almost dizzy. I mean there’s an array of subjects like math, reading, social studies, science and music, art, plus maybe a language. There’s all this stuff to manipulate like balls and ropes and hula-hoops, computers, lockers, backpacks, boots, sneakers, microscopes, scissors, tape, paint and clay. There’s playground and having to deal with kids disrupting your work or being the one who disrupts others and figuring out inclusion even when you don’t want to. You get the idea.
My eight year-old burst out up the path one afternoon this past week after his afterschool sports activity (think, an extra gym class for kids who want to play for a little longer twice a week) and he was so excited. They’re doing circus arts and he’s perfected plate spinning and he’s trying hard to improve his juggling. Juggling, that’s what I’m trying to say, childhood is about learning to juggle.
Juggling is such a good metaphor because the action requires mind and body to work together. And by learning something like juggling we are reminded that mind and body do work together, that you learn with your whole entire self.
In adulthood, we so often specialize to such a degree that we never get to try really new things (I know, we juggle responsibilities all the time, but I’m talking a different juggle just for now). All to say that when director Linda McInerney of Old Deerfield Productions asked me to participate in a staged reading of Mixed Relief—a piece about women writers and the WPA—my first reaction was simultaneously I don’t have time to do that and, perhaps more importantly, Me onstage?
She convinced me I could pretty much show up (minimal rehearsal time) and the subject was so great… and my mother-in-law had agreed to participate, as well… and you know, really, I wanted to try juggling. I’d logged so many years (and could have more ahead, who knows?) as a Nutcracker parent, herding young prancing reindeer and twirling party guest children through the maze beneath the stage at the very beautiful Academy of Music Theatre in our town that I had to seize the opportunity for a turn under the bright lights myself.
**
My eight year-old, Remy, truly fears the spotlight. In kindergarten, at the spring festival, I thought well, he could look unhappier although I’m hard pressed to imagine how. Each instance of anything performance-like—Halloween parade at school, Poet’s Café in first grade during which each child read a poem she or he had written, the drama camp play (a misstep on my part, three weeks of angst for two words spoken onstage)—has elicited a tremendous amount of anxiety.
Then, last weekend, I went to an event at Hampshire College for the James Baldwin Scholars Program, which, in a half-sentence, provides a route to Hampshire for underserved students (and began by taking students from Springfield only before broadening out geographically). Getting comfortable speaking in front of people is, in large part, a learned skill. Some of the students took a big leap, because they’d had little chance to practice in their lives. This made their brief presentations about themselves and their work that much more powerful and got me thinking about how much time is spent presenting work in front of others at my kids’ elementary school.
So, I found myself pondering one of those conundrums parenting brings: on the one hand, when I listen to self-assured sixth graders read their poetry—as I’ve been able to do when my older two participated in readings with their classmates at the Forbes Library when they were sixth graders—I see the gift in all that practice. But what of a kid like Remy, who frets in anticipation of the limelight for weeks and weeks (think, hours and hours of teary angst)?
And in this case, add a touch of irony: when he read the poem at the Poet’s Café last spring, he did just fine.
Yet, yet, here’s what I’m thinking about: as a parent—and clearly I believe educators should be focused this way—my hope is to support the whole child. In doing that, I want to see myself as someone who does two things that sometimes conflict with or contradict the other: I want to provide a varied diet of experiences with a willingness to support finding some comfort and ease with things that don’t come naturally while playing to my children’s strengths and celebrating what they love (whether those things come naturally or not). Whew.
When my very imaginative and intellectual and verbal eldest child was in preschool, I felt anxious about the fact that he really could not play on the playground; he was scared to climb high or slide fast. He didn’t jump around. I kept asking the teachers for help to engage him in playing. They pointed to his gifts and tried to reassure me he just wasn’t a physical kid.
He needed—and finally got—some help in first grade: he couldn’t hold a pencil and write his name and he couldn’t hop on one foot. That was stuff he needed some help to learn. And he did. I’m pretty sure I’m safe in saying that he’s glad he got help to do those things and glad about the ballet and Gyrotonic (never heard of that, then click) and art that followed that basic skill-building. Being able to write, enjoying the process of making art or dancing, those are big experiences to miss because his wiring didn’t let them come effortlessly. I’m glad we persisted (and wish I’d known to persist earlier and sometimes wish I’d persisted still more).
As I listen to Remy worry for the entire month of October about the Halloween parade, I do wonder, though, push it? Skip school that day? Complicate this question—not of the parade but of the juggling issue—a little more and read my friend Dave Marcus’ wonderful blog piece about grappling with the fact that his son’s brain isn’t wired for the Ivy Leagues and how he, the dad, has had to work hard to embrace his son’s strengths (of which there are many). Dave’s essay echoed so many conversations we’ve had over the years about embracing our children for the people they are, not for a set of accomplishments they might strive to achieve.
I don’t know how we sit with these questions as parents (or educators) exactly; I just know these are questions to keep asking.
**
I was, admittedly, a bit nervous about getting onstage. I also had a blast. And I was mindful that—with a little nudge from a dear friend—I could talk to Remy both about being nervous and choosing to do something new that was a tiny bit scary. So, I did. When I got home from the performance, I found that he’d made me a present. It’s like we’re in a conversation about juggling.
