Some students enter high school believing—as movies have shown them—that humans and dinosaurs coexisted in the distant past. How distant, they cannot say, because to know the dates for the evolution of humanity—perhaps 4 million years ago—and the last mass extinction of dinosaurs—about 65 million years ago—leads to the simple realization that there’s no overlap here. Further, some students picture this overlap in historical time, Stone Age human beings fending off dinosaur attacks.
If we picture all of human history—about 10,000 years—on my blackboard, which is 5 feet wide, then where did the dinosaurs live? My blackboard is oriented north-south, parallel to Main Street in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. Putting today, 2011, on the far right and the Neolithic revolution, around 8000 BCE, on the far left, we can then extend the timeline back, north along Main Street, and ask, where did the dinosaurs last live? And the answer is, roughly, a bit more than 6 miles north, in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, home of Norman Rockwell and the Red Lion Inn. It’s amusing to picture the dinosaurs in rocking chairs on the Red Lion’s porch, perhaps smoking the cigarettes that, according to Gary Larson, may have done them in. (As one of the largest remaining wood-structure hotels, I’m sure there’s no smoking allowed on the front porch of the Red Lion.)
Comparing the distance between the end of the age of dinosaurs and the beginning of history gives a valuable and needed corrective perspective for students who suffer from too many movie images of the world.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Steiner's so-called "Education for Adolescents"
Among my pet peeves regarding the translation and publication of Rudolf Steiner’s educational work is this:
The book Education for Adolescents is misnamed and therefore overlooked by many Waldorf teachers who might benefit from studying it.
Through about the 1960s, the book was published with the uninformative but more accurate title, The Supplementary Course. It was called this because it supplemented the course that Steiner gave for the teachers at the first Waldorf School in late summer 1919 before the school opened its doors. After one year of success and failure, ups and downs, and observation of how the students and teachers were doing in real life, Steiner gave 8 lectures, literally a course for teachers meant to supplement the course he had given the year before.
Reading through, it’s clear, too that the first four of the eight lectures basically pertain to all teachers, not simply those who teach adolescents. And, later, when he addresses the teaching of adolescents—the Waldorf school was about to open its high school grades—it’s clear that he’s speaking to teachers of all grades (except early childhood, not because he didn’t want to, but because the first Waldorf school had no early childhood or kindergarten program at that point in its life).
It’s one thing for the book to be overlooked by those who might profitably read it.
It’s another when some do read it but ignore the discussion in it because “it's for high school students,” projecting an understanding of an erroneous title onto the contents.
Finally, it’s here, in lecture 3, that Steiner lays out, clearly and beautifully, the concept of a lesson carried over two days (not three; I am not aware of any source for a three day lesson), one that is not, in fact a “threefold” lesson in the conventional way these are conceived, but in a way that calls on the whole child to begin, that then carries into imagination and will, and that then returns to judgment and conceptualization on the following day.
But don’t take my word for it, read the darn thing yourself.
The book Education for Adolescents is misnamed and therefore overlooked by many Waldorf teachers who might benefit from studying it.
Through about the 1960s, the book was published with the uninformative but more accurate title, The Supplementary Course. It was called this because it supplemented the course that Steiner gave for the teachers at the first Waldorf School in late summer 1919 before the school opened its doors. After one year of success and failure, ups and downs, and observation of how the students and teachers were doing in real life, Steiner gave 8 lectures, literally a course for teachers meant to supplement the course he had given the year before.
Reading through, it’s clear, too that the first four of the eight lectures basically pertain to all teachers, not simply those who teach adolescents. And, later, when he addresses the teaching of adolescents—the Waldorf school was about to open its high school grades—it’s clear that he’s speaking to teachers of all grades (except early childhood, not because he didn’t want to, but because the first Waldorf school had no early childhood or kindergarten program at that point in its life).
It’s one thing for the book to be overlooked by those who might profitably read it.
It’s another when some do read it but ignore the discussion in it because “it's for high school students,” projecting an understanding of an erroneous title onto the contents.
Finally, it’s here, in lecture 3, that Steiner lays out, clearly and beautifully, the concept of a lesson carried over two days (not three; I am not aware of any source for a three day lesson), one that is not, in fact a “threefold” lesson in the conventional way these are conceived, but in a way that calls on the whole child to begin, that then carries into imagination and will, and that then returns to judgment and conceptualization on the following day.
But don’t take my word for it, read the darn thing yourself.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Snow Day
Today is the best of snow days. We called it last night around 7 p.m., so no one had to get up extra-early to make phone calls or send emails. And the weather cooperated. By dawn there were six inches of new snow on the ground, and the changeover to ice, rattling my windows, was just beginning. But not all snow days are equal.
A friend used to work as a local reporter. Interviewing a school superintendent, he asked, innocently, “What’s the hardest part of your job?” The immediate answer: “Snow days.”
Snow days remind me of George Carlin’s question: “Have you ever noticed that anybody driving slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster than you is a maniac?”
If we close school, we’re wrong because it just wasn’t that bad.
If we don’t close school, we’re wrong because it was clearly unsafe to travel.
How do we decide? The local superintendent consults the town road crew, who are often actually awake at 4:30 in the morning, plowing, sanding, and salting. And then, based on their recommendation, he makes a decision.
Private schools, of which we are one, follow this decision because some of our students, too, travel to school on buses provided by the district. If the buses are running, we’re open. If not, we’re closed. It’s a pretty simple protocol, and it works well most of the time. But New England weather is unpredictable and so we usually end up looking like idiots or maniacs at least once a winter.
A friend used to work as a local reporter. Interviewing a school superintendent, he asked, innocently, “What’s the hardest part of your job?” The immediate answer: “Snow days.”
Snow days remind me of George Carlin’s question: “Have you ever noticed that anybody driving slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster than you is a maniac?”
If we close school, we’re wrong because it just wasn’t that bad.
If we don’t close school, we’re wrong because it was clearly unsafe to travel.
How do we decide? The local superintendent consults the town road crew, who are often actually awake at 4:30 in the morning, plowing, sanding, and salting. And then, based on their recommendation, he makes a decision.
Private schools, of which we are one, follow this decision because some of our students, too, travel to school on buses provided by the district. If the buses are running, we’re open. If not, we’re closed. It’s a pretty simple protocol, and it works well most of the time. But New England weather is unpredictable and so we usually end up looking like idiots or maniacs at least once a winter.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Another Exchange on Waldorf School Administration
What follows is another brief exchange on administration in a Waldorf school. The questions are from a person thinking of applying to work in a Waldorf school; the responses are mine.
What I have seen in the Waldorf schools I have been associated with are Administrators who have no Waldorf training background or Anthroposophical study (or interest, for that matter).
It seems to me that this is just not workable in the long run—how can the administrator gain the trust of the teachers without at least some real interest? In one school at which I worked, however, one administrator was an anthroposophist through and through but then not a good administrator. This person would sit in the office talking about the influence of Jupiter while the bookkeeper’s questions went unanswered… That was a disaster and the person ended up losing the job. So some interest in anthroposophy is probably essential, but that alone, of course, isn’t sufficient.
It also appears to be a relatively new concept for a Waldorf school to allow someone outside of the faculty to assist with the running of the school. Having been an administrator for a lot of my previous career, I see this as a positive move for the sustainability of Waldorf schools, if a school can afford that position.
I agree, and I think there are differences between what Steiner meant by “administration,” which really has to do with things that impact the children’s experiences in the classrooms, and what we now call “governance,” which includes lots of things that the first Waldorf school simply didn’t have to deal with (and, I’ll bet, when they did have to deal with such things, Emil Molt, not the administrative committee of the teachers, handled them), things like admissions, business management, publicity, development, etc.
I also believe that the role of Administrator is probably different in each school, meeting the school's needs where it is and helping to carry it where it needs to go.
I couldn’t agree more. There is no blueprint. Each school is a different organism.
That being said, do you find that there are some "general" experiences that prove to be beneficial in being an Administrator (qualifications, etc)?
Yes—things that any good administrator would have—organization, a sense for the whole, an even temper, mediation and facilitation skills, management (of admin. staff) skills, strategic thinking, and on and on… And, in my experience, I had to develop what I didn’t have!
Is it necessary to have been a Waldorf teacher? (I know you say it is optimal, but I agree that usually a teacher prefers a classroom--administration, being a part of a team, requires another set of skills--at least that's been my experience).
No, not necessary. BUT I believe it’s powerful (and perhaps, according to Steiner, necessary) for an administrator to teach, even if just a period or two per week—if nothing else, the administrator can have a third grade reading group, for example, or teach a middle school main lesson block, or whatever matches with her or his abilities. This contact with students is invaluable—it keeps an administrator “grounded” in the work of the school.
I also wonder if the skills I have in being a director/administrator for several programs for children would be useful in the administration of a Waldorf school? Are they "universally translatable" skills? Or do they need to be more anthrophosophically based?
Yes, I believe solid administrative skills are directly translatable. More than 90% of the work is the same from organization to organization. It’s also valuable to have a solid understanding of Steiner’s work on threefold organization because of the way it informs so much of the rhetoric around Waldorf school governance, administration, and organization. And it’s NOT well understood, in my experience. An administrator who is willing to develop a good understanding of this aspect of work in a school can be invaluable to the institution.
What I have seen in the Waldorf schools I have been associated with are Administrators who have no Waldorf training background or Anthroposophical study (or interest, for that matter).
It seems to me that this is just not workable in the long run—how can the administrator gain the trust of the teachers without at least some real interest? In one school at which I worked, however, one administrator was an anthroposophist through and through but then not a good administrator. This person would sit in the office talking about the influence of Jupiter while the bookkeeper’s questions went unanswered… That was a disaster and the person ended up losing the job. So some interest in anthroposophy is probably essential, but that alone, of course, isn’t sufficient.
It also appears to be a relatively new concept for a Waldorf school to allow someone outside of the faculty to assist with the running of the school. Having been an administrator for a lot of my previous career, I see this as a positive move for the sustainability of Waldorf schools, if a school can afford that position.
I agree, and I think there are differences between what Steiner meant by “administration,” which really has to do with things that impact the children’s experiences in the classrooms, and what we now call “governance,” which includes lots of things that the first Waldorf school simply didn’t have to deal with (and, I’ll bet, when they did have to deal with such things, Emil Molt, not the administrative committee of the teachers, handled them), things like admissions, business management, publicity, development, etc.
I also believe that the role of Administrator is probably different in each school, meeting the school's needs where it is and helping to carry it where it needs to go.
I couldn’t agree more. There is no blueprint. Each school is a different organism.
That being said, do you find that there are some "general" experiences that prove to be beneficial in being an Administrator (qualifications, etc)?
Yes—things that any good administrator would have—organization, a sense for the whole, an even temper, mediation and facilitation skills, management (of admin. staff) skills, strategic thinking, and on and on… And, in my experience, I had to develop what I didn’t have!
Is it necessary to have been a Waldorf teacher? (I know you say it is optimal, but I agree that usually a teacher prefers a classroom--administration, being a part of a team, requires another set of skills--at least that's been my experience).
No, not necessary. BUT I believe it’s powerful (and perhaps, according to Steiner, necessary) for an administrator to teach, even if just a period or two per week—if nothing else, the administrator can have a third grade reading group, for example, or teach a middle school main lesson block, or whatever matches with her or his abilities. This contact with students is invaluable—it keeps an administrator “grounded” in the work of the school.
I also wonder if the skills I have in being a director/administrator for several programs for children would be useful in the administration of a Waldorf school? Are they "universally translatable" skills? Or do they need to be more anthrophosophically based?
Yes, I believe solid administrative skills are directly translatable. More than 90% of the work is the same from organization to organization. It’s also valuable to have a solid understanding of Steiner’s work on threefold organization because of the way it informs so much of the rhetoric around Waldorf school governance, administration, and organization. And it’s NOT well understood, in my experience. An administrator who is willing to develop a good understanding of this aspect of work in a school can be invaluable to the institution.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Why are some Waldorf school parents so emotional?
Parents love and want the best for their children. They live vicariously through their children’s experiences, good and bad, and defend and protect their children vigilantly. All of this, healthfully pursued, is noble, good, and understandable.
The emotions that attend parent experiences in Waldorf schools, however, seem more frequently than at other schools to spill over into extremes.
Sometimes, parents who apply to a Waldorf school have their child rejected, and then seem, instantly, to develop animosity to the school, a school they were almost desperate to be part of moments before; their hopes were high, then their hearts were broken. By contrast, parents of applicants rejected by local prep schools are much more likely to be upset but still to hold the school in high esteem; and, if a place there opens in the future, to send their children. Those rejected by a Waldorf school may form a negative impression that they carry for years. They don’t just feel rejected, they feel ill-used.
Or parents enter a Waldorf school community with tremendous energy, enthusiasm, and idealism, only to have their perceptions change a couple of years later when they realize that the school actually doesn’t, can’t, live up to their image of it. In my experience, this process is more intense than the general “burnout” that parents who volunteer at any school can feel. And schools contribute to this phenomenon—maybe even cause it—by allowing expectations to be so high. Out of insecurity, perhaps, Waldorf schools may represent ideals, far more than they can ever deliver, without offering a healthy dose of reality.
Or parents withdraw their students—sometimes for perfectly valid reasons, and sometimes for reasons that have more to do with adult interactions and not with a child’s experience in school—and badmouth the school for years afterward. Again, by comparison, parents who leave a more conventional school may blame a teacher or an administrator or a social dynamic, but they are less likely, I believe, to blame the school as a whole.
In all of these cases, it seems as if the emotions attached to the experiences are greater than the emotions attached to parallel experiences at another school—Montessori, Country Day, public school.
I have two interlocking theories about why this is so.
First, the idealism and even zealotry of the convert can be dangerous. To the extent that parents act as “converts” to Waldorf education and see Waldorf schools as “more” than just schools, or to the extent that Waldorf schools raise parents’ expectations too high, higher than the schools can ever fulfill, they are in for an awakening down the road. Many families navigate this terrain well, but for a few it provides a shock from which they don’t easily recover.
Second, parents see the world through their children’s eyes and occasionally forget that it’s not appropriate for an adult to see the world only as a third or seventh grader sees it. Research demonstrates, for example, that children lose confidence or faith in school between third and fourth grade. Whether we call this evidence of a “nine year change” or something else, it’s a genuine phenomenon. Teachers see it all the time. Children who loved school and loved their teachers in second grade begin to question these things in third and fourth grade. A parent invested in perfection just can’t stand to hear the words—perhaps uttered more as a test than as a fact, “I hate my teacher.” The teacher is the same one of whom the student said the year before, “I love my teacher.” Usually it’s the student who is changing, of course, not the teacher. (This is not an argument for parent blindness—not all teachers are good teachers for every student, and no parent should be so zealous as to keep a child in a class or school against better judgment.)
And parents don’t just lend undue credence to the reports of their children, they often affect the behavior of their children, as well. I have seen seventh grade parents, upset with children’s behavior that caused hurt feelings and schisms in the class, behave to each other exactly in order to create hurt feelings and schisms among the parents. A rule of thumb for teachers and administrators might be, parents may look like adults, but, when pushed, will behave like the children in whom they have such a great stake.
I don’t say this to insult parents (I have two children myself, and my wife frequently used to ask, “How can you be so good with other people’s children, and so obtuse with your own?”) but to warn of unconscious behavior that can only make some difficult situations worse.
What do you think?
The emotions that attend parent experiences in Waldorf schools, however, seem more frequently than at other schools to spill over into extremes.
Sometimes, parents who apply to a Waldorf school have their child rejected, and then seem, instantly, to develop animosity to the school, a school they were almost desperate to be part of moments before; their hopes were high, then their hearts were broken. By contrast, parents of applicants rejected by local prep schools are much more likely to be upset but still to hold the school in high esteem; and, if a place there opens in the future, to send their children. Those rejected by a Waldorf school may form a negative impression that they carry for years. They don’t just feel rejected, they feel ill-used.
Or parents enter a Waldorf school community with tremendous energy, enthusiasm, and idealism, only to have their perceptions change a couple of years later when they realize that the school actually doesn’t, can’t, live up to their image of it. In my experience, this process is more intense than the general “burnout” that parents who volunteer at any school can feel. And schools contribute to this phenomenon—maybe even cause it—by allowing expectations to be so high. Out of insecurity, perhaps, Waldorf schools may represent ideals, far more than they can ever deliver, without offering a healthy dose of reality.
Or parents withdraw their students—sometimes for perfectly valid reasons, and sometimes for reasons that have more to do with adult interactions and not with a child’s experience in school—and badmouth the school for years afterward. Again, by comparison, parents who leave a more conventional school may blame a teacher or an administrator or a social dynamic, but they are less likely, I believe, to blame the school as a whole.
In all of these cases, it seems as if the emotions attached to the experiences are greater than the emotions attached to parallel experiences at another school—Montessori, Country Day, public school.
I have two interlocking theories about why this is so.
First, the idealism and even zealotry of the convert can be dangerous. To the extent that parents act as “converts” to Waldorf education and see Waldorf schools as “more” than just schools, or to the extent that Waldorf schools raise parents’ expectations too high, higher than the schools can ever fulfill, they are in for an awakening down the road. Many families navigate this terrain well, but for a few it provides a shock from which they don’t easily recover.
Second, parents see the world through their children’s eyes and occasionally forget that it’s not appropriate for an adult to see the world only as a third or seventh grader sees it. Research demonstrates, for example, that children lose confidence or faith in school between third and fourth grade. Whether we call this evidence of a “nine year change” or something else, it’s a genuine phenomenon. Teachers see it all the time. Children who loved school and loved their teachers in second grade begin to question these things in third and fourth grade. A parent invested in perfection just can’t stand to hear the words—perhaps uttered more as a test than as a fact, “I hate my teacher.” The teacher is the same one of whom the student said the year before, “I love my teacher.” Usually it’s the student who is changing, of course, not the teacher. (This is not an argument for parent blindness—not all teachers are good teachers for every student, and no parent should be so zealous as to keep a child in a class or school against better judgment.)
And parents don’t just lend undue credence to the reports of their children, they often affect the behavior of their children, as well. I have seen seventh grade parents, upset with children’s behavior that caused hurt feelings and schisms in the class, behave to each other exactly in order to create hurt feelings and schisms among the parents. A rule of thumb for teachers and administrators might be, parents may look like adults, but, when pushed, will behave like the children in whom they have such a great stake.
I don’t say this to insult parents (I have two children myself, and my wife frequently used to ask, “How can you be so good with other people’s children, and so obtuse with your own?”) but to warn of unconscious behavior that can only make some difficult situations worse.
What do you think?
Friday, January 21, 2011
A Perspective on Wealth
If you are reading this, you are likely among the wealthiest persons ever to live. Ever.
Do you have heat in your house, a car, hot and cold running water, a refrigerator, a washer and dryer, a TV? Do you have more than one pair of shoes, more than a couple of sets of clothes?
Imagine trying to replace all of these things with labor—yours or your servants’—in a pre-industrial world. Think of the horses, liverymen, stablehands, cartwrights you’d need to begin to replace your automobile. (And, if you don’t own a car, you can still probably travel a hundred miles or so by public transportation for the cost of about an hour’s labor.)
Imagine what it would have taken to have a variety of fresh food—bananas in December—available to you year-round.
Imagine the labor necessary to cut, haul, and split the wood to heat your house and your stove.
Imagine the labor needed to herd the sheep, grow the flax or cotton, harvest or shear it, turn it into thread, weave the cloth and sew your clothes. To make your shoes. To bring you news of the world. To give you a hot bath or shower any time you like.
(Of course, regardless of your wealth, the pace of your travel wouldn’t come close to the speed of travel today, for those who can afford it. You might not be able to find a banana in January for all your wealth. And nylon, lycra, and polypropylene simply didn’t exist.)
Each of us in the industrialized world lives like only a king could live through most of human history. Cheers!
Do you have heat in your house, a car, hot and cold running water, a refrigerator, a washer and dryer, a TV? Do you have more than one pair of shoes, more than a couple of sets of clothes?
Imagine trying to replace all of these things with labor—yours or your servants’—in a pre-industrial world. Think of the horses, liverymen, stablehands, cartwrights you’d need to begin to replace your automobile. (And, if you don’t own a car, you can still probably travel a hundred miles or so by public transportation for the cost of about an hour’s labor.)
Imagine what it would have taken to have a variety of fresh food—bananas in December—available to you year-round.
Imagine the labor necessary to cut, haul, and split the wood to heat your house and your stove.
Imagine the labor needed to herd the sheep, grow the flax or cotton, harvest or shear it, turn it into thread, weave the cloth and sew your clothes. To make your shoes. To bring you news of the world. To give you a hot bath or shower any time you like.
(Of course, regardless of your wealth, the pace of your travel wouldn’t come close to the speed of travel today, for those who can afford it. You might not be able to find a banana in January for all your wealth. And nylon, lycra, and polypropylene simply didn’t exist.)
Each of us in the industrialized world lives like only a king could live through most of human history. Cheers!
Monday, December 20, 2010
Theories of Motion
The Greek “dunamis,” from which we get words like “dynamic,” can be read or translated several different ways, and each interpretation brings with it a world-view. At one end, we can translate it as the physical property of “potentiality.” This ignores, however, much of what Aristotle or another Greek would have meant by the word. They would have tied our material interpretation to other, metaphysical and immaterial meanings, ultimately, perhaps, including a concept of “divine power” and the force of a “daimon,” a deity inferior to the highest deity or deities.
If we ask today why a ball that we throw through the air continues to move after it has left our hand, we discuss mass, force, acceleration, momentum, and gravity, each of which can be measured, if not (yet) thoroughly understood.
But the dunamis, because it is immaterial, cannot be measured. Hence, we have learned over the past centuries to redefine it, to shape it into a concept (potential energy) that can be measured, and to ignore other meanings that it may have.
Further, ignoring these other meanings, relegating them to the qualitative sphere that we have gradually come to see as derivative of a more quantitative engagement with the world, we have come to disbelieve in their existence, to see their existence as superstition.
But this disbelief consists of a series of assumptions that put us in an illogical, if apparently reasonable, position. We may say that we have no need of an immaterial concept of the dunamis, that we find it extraneous to what we want to know and do, but we simply cannot pass judgment on its existence or non-existence. Without quite acknowledging it, we have allowed theory to become fact.
We throw a ball and it travels through the air. The ball weighs, say, 5.25 ounces and has a circumference of 9.25 inches. It’s covered in white horsehide and stitched with thick red threads. It spins and generates air pressure differentials that cause its trajectory to curve. The “force of gravity” (which we can measure but cannot yet comprehend or explain) draws it and the earth together. It drops past the batter’s knees, a called strike three. And there may—or may not—be a lower deity, a daimon, one of the dunamoi, guiding it along its way. We just don’t know.
Am I actually suggesting that I believe in immaterial beings of motion? I don’t believe but I also don’t disbelieve in them. But I acknowledge that my belief in physics does not contradict a belief in a qualitative understanding of motion and even of beings of motion, the dunamoi.
If we ask today why a ball that we throw through the air continues to move after it has left our hand, we discuss mass, force, acceleration, momentum, and gravity, each of which can be measured, if not (yet) thoroughly understood.
But the dunamis, because it is immaterial, cannot be measured. Hence, we have learned over the past centuries to redefine it, to shape it into a concept (potential energy) that can be measured, and to ignore other meanings that it may have.
Further, ignoring these other meanings, relegating them to the qualitative sphere that we have gradually come to see as derivative of a more quantitative engagement with the world, we have come to disbelieve in their existence, to see their existence as superstition.
But this disbelief consists of a series of assumptions that put us in an illogical, if apparently reasonable, position. We may say that we have no need of an immaterial concept of the dunamis, that we find it extraneous to what we want to know and do, but we simply cannot pass judgment on its existence or non-existence. Without quite acknowledging it, we have allowed theory to become fact.
We throw a ball and it travels through the air. The ball weighs, say, 5.25 ounces and has a circumference of 9.25 inches. It’s covered in white horsehide and stitched with thick red threads. It spins and generates air pressure differentials that cause its trajectory to curve. The “force of gravity” (which we can measure but cannot yet comprehend or explain) draws it and the earth together. It drops past the batter’s knees, a called strike three. And there may—or may not—be a lower deity, a daimon, one of the dunamoi, guiding it along its way. We just don’t know.
Am I actually suggesting that I believe in immaterial beings of motion? I don’t believe but I also don’t disbelieve in them. But I acknowledge that my belief in physics does not contradict a belief in a qualitative understanding of motion and even of beings of motion, the dunamoi.
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