Student teaching has been heaven so far. It offers all the
enjoyment, fostering and connection to the students without the responsibility
of lesson planning, curriculum oversight and the very real burden of statewide
testing and district paperwork. But that will change. As I am given more to do
this semester, my blithe ride on my mentor or co-operating teacher’s coattails
will evolve into the very real demands of being a teacher until, by then end of
my final student teaching semester, the responsibility will be mine-all-mine.
And the weight of twenty-six little worlds will be on my shoulders. But for
now, I am still the student, and it’s pure delight.
I
was placed in a second grade classroom in a public school a few towns away but
much like our own here. It’s an inclusion classroom as they will all be one day
and the term will have faded away into oblivion. We teach, accommodate and modify for all manner of learners,
because it’s slowly dawning on us as a nation that we do not all learn the same
way. Recently, after snack, the lights were dimmed and my ‘co-op’ put on a
movie. It was “The Red Balloon”, the original version in muted, sepia-like
tones, except for the bright red balloon. And the little girl’s blue
balloon—remember her? I hadn’t recalled there being so little dialogue—I had
the book as a child—but what dialogue there is, was in French.
The
children were transfixed. Even D, with his cognitive and impulse control
challenges sat and watched, mesmerized by the rich images, lush music, and the
boy’s adventures. Eventually, the students began to comment aloud and point and
giggle at the balloon’s hijinx. Then they had questions. Why is the boy
carrying a briefcase? I told them that children carried satchels before there
were wheeled book bags and knapsacks. Why are the grownups so mean to the
balloon? I sighed. I wanted to say, “Well, kids, this was Paris in the
fifties—a time and place populated with adults not known for whimsy,” but I
didn’t. They asked why the boy was allowed to walk to school by himself. I
laughed out loud. “Children were more independent then,” I said, “they were
encouraged to explore their neighborhoods after school as long as they were
home for supper.” Then, instinctually, I stopped answering directly and only
led them to the answers they were seeking. I coaxed them to imagine what the
boy must be saying to the balloon, to imagine what words would have been spoken
between them. I asked them the questions. Then I listened as the children
created story dialogue for them selves. I led them inside the boy’s world then
let go of their hands.
My
co-op was generous to let me have this back and forth with her students as the
movie continued. She allowed me to guide them without stopping, editing or
adding to what I was saying. I was grateful to her for giving me the
opportunity to become a member of the democratic classroom community she’d
spent all year carefully creating. I was excited for the chance to tie in what
they were watching with the themes they would be exploring in language
arts—themes that included narrative story telling, fairytale, fiction,
characters, and a sense of place and drama. I encouraged them to notice how
music can change the viewer’s mood.
As
the movie neared its heartbreaking conclusion I worried the students might feel
the devastation I remembered feeling as a child. Those bullies had upset me so;
even their eyes were cruel. I prepared myself for their tears, but the children
were all just fine. They were content that the boy was ultimately happy as he
reached for the strings of Paris’ myriad balloons and gathered them into a
tangled jumble. Perhaps my presence had something to do with the safety they
felt as he floated away unmoored. But it’s probably hubris on my part. Kids
have seen it all by second grade.
The
movie ended and my co-op told her students to sit on the rug and close their
eyes. She stepped outside into the hall and brought in two large bags of
inflated red balloons—twenty-six in all. She gestured for me to take a bag and
release the red balloons so that they would cascade down over the children.
They opened their eyes as the balloons bounced and filled the room; squeals
filled the air. For the children who learn sensorially, emotionally or
visually, here was a chance to claim this experience for them selves, to forge
their own relationship with a red balloon, to own a story and make it personal.
D hugged his to his chest while the boys with ADHD were given full license to
bounced theirs atop their heads and slap them into the air. The group learners
immediately discussed what to name their balloons, while the solitary learners
felt comfortable moving away from the larger group and exploring the
possibilities quietly and alone. Everyone was fully present. No one felt
shamed, left out or behind.
It
was a moment of pure joy watching these learners internalize on their own
terms, then create their own connections to the little French boy’s story the
way they chose fit. It was fantastic to see them up out of their chairs and not
simply drawing a picture of a red balloon or filling out some worksheet
silently at their desks. It was a simple thing but so imaginative on the
teacher’s part, to think of a way to imprint a story on a group of children, in
a way that makes most sense to them. It was quite magical, I must say, watching
the children so full of glee—almost as magical as the story itself.
