The Wine Glass and the Music: A Strength-based Education Benefits the Whole Community.

Last summer, near a stone water tower on a hilltop amid the scent of wild rosemary, thyme, and scrub oak, I had to sit down when my eyes flooded with tears. I was returning from a long walk near our house in the south of France, and was caught at unawares when I heard my daughter’s voice, carried on a breeze out of the hamlet. How far that voice has come, I thought.

In 2004, on a whim, when the dollar was strong against the Euro, we bought a 700

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[This was not the part of the house we lived in. Our kids were earning money for market by moving rubble from our future kitchen]

 

year-old stone house in a tiny French hamlet in wine country. It had a bit of plumbing and electricity, but it was a bona fide—even deeded—ruín. Before we could sleep there on the very first day of our tenure, we went to the hardware store to buy a rake, a push broom, a mop, a bucket, and some French industrial type disinfectant. If the store had sold children’s hard hats, we might have purchased those, too. Our toes stubbed against rocks, newly fallen from the walls, nearly every morning when we climbed out of our sleeping bags. Our three kids were six, nine, and ten years old.

In 2007, we lived there from June until December while my wife went to cooking school. But when we arrived in June, the contractor, whom we had hired to do the big work, was profoundly behind schedule. The house was still open to the elements: few windows were in place; wires dangled from every wall; there were ladders where staircases were supposed to be. In short, it was still a hardhat area. We had no choice but to move in.Vendange looking south over Cazo

Admittedly, this whole “France thing” was self-imposed. In fact, we had even justified doing it because we thought the challenges would be good character building for all of us. School in the USA had been going almost too well for our two oldest children. On the other hand, school hadn’t been going well for our youngest, and we thought a change might come as a relief: barely a day went by, it seemed, without a phone call or a chat at pick-up time regarding her behavior. Hardly a morning went by without a tantrum about attendance.

But we knew her as a wonderful and bright kid: a voracious and hyper-observant reader and a lover of music and art, and so creative that we didn’t worry about her thinking outside the box, we spent our energies teaching her that there was a box. Lilly Cadow deep sandcastle explorerNights, she kept awake singing to herself in the crib, and later, in her bed. She was a quick study of math and science, with a remarkable eye for discerning patterns in the world—except for when it came to social situations. And, first and foremost for her, school was a social situation. She felt ungrounded and anxious there, and so, she acted out.

The constant disruption from work on the French house continued through the summer and dragged on into the fall. Our youngest daughter expressed her stress in the way she always had. One evening in August, I poured myself a small glass of Muscat wine and set it on the windowsill. Before I had a single sip, an old piece of mortar tumbled from between the header boards above the deep window, shattering my wine glass and frazzling my spirits. When, soon after, a new tantrum erupted, my wife gave me permission to go for a walk.

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On an ancient dirt and rubble road, I walked up and away, until the whole hamlet was behind me, appearing as a single clay-tiled mass of roofs crowned with chimneys. And then, next to the chateau d’eau—the water tower—I made a startling discovery. The chimney of our house, located in the very center of the hamlet, acted like a megaphone. It occurred to me that the tantrums over the previous months—and there had been many—had been audible to the whole community. Everyone had been privy to the challenges we faced, or, rather, we did not have the privacy we thought. I sprinted back to the house.

We were mortified. In this cluster of homes, our houses shared common walls. We had thought that the three-foot thickness of stone between each house protected our neighbors from our trials. And now, even though no one—not the hamlet matriarch, nor the young couple, nor the singular teen, nor the man on the moped, nor the octogenarian bachelor brothers, had ever looked askance when we all met at the bread truck in the morning, we felt judged.

The tantrums and the acting out, both at school and at home, did not go away upon our return to the United States, and they affected our American community, too. Our youngest daughter’s grades remained admirable, but the phone calls from school, and the reactions of some of her peers were unsettling, and not just for us. Sometimes, she bit kids.

In the spring of her 8th grade, her guidance counselor suggested that she enter the middle school talent show. She did, but until she needed a ride on the very night of the performance, she didn’t tell us about it. There were a few classical acts, a magic show, a dance routine or two, and several pop songs. Her performance was One Small Voice, from Sesame Street. She had asked a sixth-grader to accompany her on piano. They won.

I had taken the last available seat in the audience, next to the veteran high school chorus teacher. “Does she take lessons?” she asked. “No,” I said. “But most nights, sometime after midnight, we hear her singing and we have to go in and tell her to go back to sleep.” The chorus teacher smiled and nodded. She knew this kind of kid.

Double rainbow over Cazo at high Noon, December 07

From that moment on, music emerged as key to our youngest child’s identity. As a freshman, she joined chorus and became integral to the theater group. Fast forward to one day in her junior year: the phone rang. It was from the school. We held our breath. My wife answered.

Her new chorus teacher introduced herself. It was all good news. “You have a remarkable daughter,” she said.

Then came last summer. I took a break from repairing the tiles on the roof. As I struck out for a walk, the children in the hamlet, offspring of the young couple from 2007, were waiting for my daughter. With my poor French, I explained that she had just woken up. They should give her a little time. More than an hour later, as I followed the old dirt road back to the hamlet, I heard her.

The song of our youngest daughter was spilling out of our chimney and down into the streets. By time I reached the place where the road becomes paved, she had switched from an aria to a French folk song. At the corner of our little rue, I met one of the neighbors. He, too, seemed lost in thought. “C’est ta fille qui chante?” he asked: It is your daughter singing? Inside, in the salon, four children from the hamlet were standing around the keyboard. My daughter was teaching them songs.IMG_2054

Fast forward to the present, her senior year. She shares the directorship of the co-ed a cappella group: she is a teacher apprentice in two sections of chorus; and in one section of theory. She is the secretary of the school council. She is taking an independent study in conducting with the orchestra teacher. She has been hired by a community church to direct their choir; she gives voice lessons; and, she’ll be singing at graduation. I could go on, but what is most important is that she has a win-win relationship with school and community… in two countries, even.

Music has become her anchor, keel, and rudder in navigating the world. Her studies of other subjects both deepen and serve as accouterments to her understanding of it. Just the other day, she came home to explain that they had been exploring sound waves, frequency, and resonance in physics. She set a crystal wine glass on the kitchen counter, and ran her finger along the rim to find the pitch. “I’m going to try to break it,” she said.

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Summers, Snow Days, Better Ways to Measure Student Progress

Snow Days Don’t Hurt Student Progress!

–a finding by Harvard Professor Joshua Goodman

The spring that I turned six, I learned how to ride a bike. Early that summer, I rode my boy_bike_street_375pxbicycle to the penny candy store. The quarters in my pocket covered the purchase of thirty fireballs at three for a nickel. I didn’t eat them. I pedaled back to our summer house, where I sold them two for a nickel to our guests and to my siblings, netting a profit of twenty-five cents, which I reinvested in my fledgling company. Very soon, I could no longer operate out of my pockets. I used an empty Kleenex Box, then an old sewing machine table to display my assorted candies.


 

My cousins, my brothers and sisters could rot their teeth from the following menu:

  •     Fireballs:        2 for 5¢
  •     Smarties:        2 for 5¢
  •     Bubble Gum: 3¢ (Bazooka or Double Bubble)
  •     Mary Janes:    3¢
  •     Bit-o-honey:   3¢
  •     Licorice:          5¢ (red or black, long shoestring variety)
  •     Bottle Caps:    5¢
  •     Charms’ Pops: 5¢ (Tootsie or blow)
  •     Candy Sticks:   7¢ (same price as the store, but I did not pass on my quantity      discount
  •  Asst, boxed:    10 – 20 ¢ (Hot Tamales, Jujyfruits, Junior Mints, Good~n~Plenty, Neccos, etc.)

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For a quarter each, I also managed to sell a few pieces of my art to doting older aunts and cousins. My work was drawn on lined, three-ring binder paper. I offered a dScreen Shot 2015-05-13 at 6.32.46 PMog’s face, a tree, and a pig. Also, I have a confession to make, and I hope my siblings and cousins will forgive me. The gum, Mary Janes, and Bit-o-honey cost me the same as the fireballs and SmScreen Shot 2015-05-13 at 6.29.52 PMarties, but I wanted a better profit margin.

Despite competition from my mother, who had hung art of a more professional quality around the house, and also offered healthier snacks, such as popcorn and carrot sticks, out of the kitchen, for free, I did quite well. I bought a Screen Shot 2015-05-13 at 6.26.12 PMkite and an extra roll of twine with the profits. I also ate some of the profits. But at the end of the summer I opened my first bank account, number 235-16610, with ten dollars.


I run into a lot of people who say that kids don’t do that sort of thing these days. All kids do is text, game, watch videos. Those people are wrong. I see hundreds of kids every day, and they too have dreams and ideas that they act on, if they have the time. And then ‘those people’ say, no, given the time, the kids will just sit down and play video games. Perhaps, but I know a lot of kids who, of their own volition, are learning code, and are trying to write their own games, or their own apps… perhaps we should recognize that today’s $2.00 app may be the penny candy of the new generation, and these guys want in on the deal. But the system we adults have created does not allow the time, nor teach our students the habits of self-agency and resourcefulness that they need. Our present system focuses too much on test taking.

Which brings me back to snow days. (We hardly want to talk about those in May, but suffer on, please).

Test scores are the number one go-to for measuring student progress. I did not read Joshua Goodman’s study of snow days. I only read about the finding, cleverly reprinted on the weather page of our local paper. Test scores were the only measure for success listed in the article. If Professor Goodman went to neighborhoods to see the snow forts or the snowmen the kids built, or how the kids put into practice their intuitive knowledge of the inclined plane by sledding down the steep part of a hill and going back to the top by taking a gentler contour, the article didn’t mention it.

Maybe I’m in a confessing mood because it is a Sunday morning… but I have another. Stephanie Bilak, from second grade, if you are out there… I had a mind-block back then about the answer for 3 + 6. Despite having money in the bank, I was awfully anxious. So, I copied you. It was the last time I ever cheated, because where our wonderful teacher, Miss Napoleon, had written “Name:______,” I also copied you. I wrote down your name.

My point is that testing for math may tell how good of a test-taker one is, but at least in my case, it gives little hint at the capacity or inclination to apply the knowledge. Test-taking may have its place, but that place ought to be much smaller than we make it. Our most important assessments of teacher effectiveness and student learning are an accounting of how the students implement their knowledge in their own lives. In my case, I had been employing math all summer as I ran my store, but 3 + 6, on a piece of paper, simply felt entirely irrelevant.

What if, on a snow day, teachers didn’t stay at home, but spilled out into the streets to play with the kids? Imagine the math and science teachers explaining the whys of what the students are already discovering—such as the calculation that supports their finding that the 18-inch ball of the snowman’s belly weighs way, way more than twice as much the 9-inch ball they made for his head. Effective snow shoveling is a great example of levers and mechanical advantage.

For English and Social Studies teachers, there is nothing like unstructured play to help a person realize that they are part of the story of the human condition. A child in the snow may relate better to Ezra Jack Keats’ The Snowy Day, Wilder’s epic blizzard in The Long Winter, the fierce cold of London’s To Build a Fire, Shackleton’s survival on the ice, and the miserable cold and deprivation of the French troops during their 1812 foray into Russia. The shared experience of cold and snow may be the best hook for student engagement many subjects. A vague awareness that some day, a question about these stories might prompt you to fill in the correct oval with a number two pencil, well. It teaches the unfortunate importance of obedience.

Although Stephanie Bilak wasn’t anywhere near me when I took the SATs, the GREs or the Military Officer’s Exam, I did well enough. But I want to share my career trajectory. When I became old enough, I got a summer job with the same family that ran the penny candy store, and developed a fondness for inventory control. On the side, I sold my artwork, which had advanced from line drawings to woodburnings and driftwood sculpture, at a local gallery. Two years after I graduated college, I joined the Navy as a supply officer. My military job was not all that different than pedaling candy and selling souvenirs on an island: I made sure that our ship had everything it needed to run: I was in charge of purchasing and planning for the food (I had moved up in the world from sugar to deep-fry). I oversaw the ship’s store, the vending machines, the barbershop, the laundry, the payroll, travel claims and shipboard purchasing contracts. I was in charge of about a hundred people. After my Navy stint, I went back to that summer town and opened a grocery store and wholesale business. My inventory suggested my maturity through its concentration of natural products. And, at one point, I employed more than 90% of the graduating class from the local school.

The business was remarkably successful, and well loved, but I sold it to free up time when my children were born. Afterward, what I really missed was working with kids. That is what led me to a second career in education.

There is, I am sure, a correlation between my passing the standardized tests and the relative success I have had. But the step by step cause and effect that has brought me to successful adulthood has had more to do with free time than with seat time. Seat time helped me learn that I had a very hard time sitting still. It was during my down time–snow days and summers–that I engrossed myself in projects and discovered my strengths.

If we moved more projects into our classrooms, perhaps the adverse effect of snow days on learning might actually materialize, and wouldn’t that be a wonderful thing?