The Red Balloon

            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.