Listen to thisVerna Olberg
As a Child and Youth Care practitioner I have had a long and relatively successful history. For a dozen years I worked as an Early Childhood Educator and developed a way of being with young children that acknowledges and mirrors their experience. This is all very fine and well in the playroom but when it comes to being involved with older children in classrooms, well that’s where the story begins.
My third year practicum placement is in the community school – in the “suspension room” no less. Here come the children who are constantly at odds with the authorities that are supposed to control their rebellious behavior. And here I come, armed with my own “anti-establishment” beliefs and biases about authority and the effectiveness of the school system. I am a child of the 60s and 70s. The children of the 90s have much to teach me. My aspirations are entangled with issues of power and authority. How do I respond to the formal rules and regulations? How do I establish my own personal authority without diminishing the autonomy of others? What do I need to do to create an environment and relationships that invite participation and provide security at the same time? How much will my own unresolved stuff around power and authority get in the way?
In the beginning the children trample all over me. They mimic my facial expressions and body postures. One boy goes so far as to tell me that I’m “childish.” I tell him I think it’s important to “keep the child alive in me.” He shakes his head in confusion. Pandemonium takes over whenever the supervising adult leaves me alone with the children. Inadvertently, I encourage this by not following the prescribed method of maintaining control by allowing no interaction. The rule is that they are to keep themselves productively occupied with school-work for the duration of their suspension. My curiosity about each of them prevails; my beliefs about developing interpersonal relationships with kids are clearly at odds with the goals of the program.
Any time the “the big guy” leaves, the kids stop their work and begin to engage with each other, and with me. The minute he returns, they get right back to work. When they are playing around with each other, and with me, relationships in the classroom are fleeting and superficial. We all know we are “out of bounds” and will be stopped at some unpredictable moment. For this reason, their antics are more disconcerting than growth enhancing. I am acutely aware of the mess I’m making of the established program. Weeks later the roles of the “big guy” and myself, the Child and Youth Care student, are seemingly reversed. We are still struggling to work together, to form a coalition that establishes an effective learning environment for the children. In an effort to support me, the “big guy” and our supervisor have a little fun by threatening to get me a uniform to define my authority. They tease me about taking lessons in yelling. I desperately want the children to develop their own methods of self control and responsibility and I feel frustrated in my efforts. I don’t want to lord over them or anyone. I find myself at odds. I am not yet conscious of how I undermine my own authority by creating my own implicit set of rules. In a way, the chaos is a reflection of my confusion.
The disciplinarian
After several months of these ridiculous scenes, the “big guy” adopts a
new approach. He hangs around just on the other side of the door waiting
to enter when the atmosphere is more in line with the formal
expectations. Bless his heart. I begin to believe that I am in control.
Then one not so fine day, I am surprised to find myself raising my voice
with a defiant boy when the Principal walks into the room. He doesn’t realize that I’m raising my voice, but my supervisor certainly notices
and turns it into a cause for celebration. I feel a sense of remorse for
reacting from a place of anger; I feel as if I’ve let myself down and
caused the child to experience more injustice. Talk about boundaries, or
lack of them.
Six months on I’m still struggling but there are enough candid moments between myself and some of the children to keep me inspired. I have come to believe that interaction is necessary to support academic and social learning and have accepted my role as the adult in charge who keeps children focussed. In a way, I become the disciplinarian and, through this, I begin to get some clues about each child's emotional, cognitive and behavioral needs. Now I am more capable of accepting the structure and I begin to take on a new role by initiating one-to-one intervention with the most troubled students. This I believe to be the heart of Child and Youth Care and I’m ecstatic, busying myself with all kinds of reflection and anticipation.
My first assignment is with an eight-year-old boy. He has been in the “suspension room” and he and I have an established relationship that seems to be conducive to growth. His teacher invites me in to observe in the regular classroom, and I feel exalted. Such an incredible opportunity, I think, but my old biases remain alive and well beneath the surface. I watch as my young friend finishes his work and passes out folders to the others. He has uncharacteristically managed his day very well and has earned free time to play dice. I wonder if he knows I’m here just to focus my attention on him? Later in the afternoon, the teacher asks a big favor – would I mind supervising the class for an hour? Well, what a grand honor, thought I, as I fluffed and preened my feathers.
There are two other boys whom I’ve come to know through their time spent in the “suspension room.” They are a “crafty team” and I have yet to get any respect from either of them. I decide to watch them carefully. The teacher fills me in on what is expected of the children in terms of work to be done. It sounds simple enough. I’m ready and willing to experience myself in charge of a regular class of sixteen rambunctious eight-year-olds.
When she leaves, my young friend invites me to play a game of dice but I decline because the kids are getting up out of their seats and are milling around restlessly. I gravitate to the “crafty team,” and they respond to me with disdain and rejection, just as they did in the “suspension room” when the “big guy” wasn’t around. I disengage knowing that this situation can only get worse. I move toward another kid who is interfering with a dedicated student who is trying to work. No luck there either. They seem to be tolerating each other well enough so I trust they can solve their problem without me; besides there are other things going on. I find myself wandering over to detach four kids tugging on a giant pencil. I know who the pencil really belongs to and exert my fragile authority in “redirecting” them. Another boy sits alone, sullen, avoiding his work. He pays no heed to my positive attention. (Later he remains in class after school to complete his work and tells me about his expectation that he will be rewarded with an ice-cream treat from the Dairy Queen. Two weeks later I find him in the detention room but, this time, he respectfully seeks my attention and tells me about his reading problems).
Meanwhile, back in the classroom, I am aware and self-conscious about the comical posture I have assumed. Many are the times the kids have razzed me about it. It’s a hoped-for casual look, hands clasped behind my back as I stroll from one entanglement to another. Today it feels particularly wrong. I adopt a serene look with hands folded gently over my stomach. I feel closed and powerless. With effort, I let my hands hang helplessly at my sides. This is more congruent with how I’m really feeling. Five minutes have passed by.
Eventually, I decide to “let it go” hoping that these kids will manage to display some level of self-control, but I doubt it. It occurs to me that my desire to exert my authority over them is being matched by their desire to have control over me. As the noise level escalates beyond tolerable limits, I remember the small bell on the teacher’s desk. This strategy of introducing an auditory distraction, is known to work well with pre-school children. I pick up the little bell and really like the feel of it. It has a nice little stem to hold between the thumb and forefinger. “Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle” goes the bell as I wave it daintily in front of me. I imagine my expression to be one of Victorian primness and become conscious of “the entertainer” within me. When they stop to look at me in sheer amazement I say, “Class, is it supposed to be this noisy in here?” “Yes,” they respond in unison before returning to the cause of creating bedlam.
I feel like a humming bird, small, worried and persistent, hovering and poking my nose in every here and there. I hover over this fertile sea of oozing mud, in a labor of love, coaxing the latent flowers to burst forth into this life, into my life, as I would like them to be with me. There exists within each of us a little bud, a radiating source, energetic and mystical, a place that at this precise moment, I have no idea how to access. My attempts to control the group, to force them to comply with my expectations, are futile – they don’t know what I expect and neither do I. I think what I probably expect is instant mutual positive regard; how realistic! In poking my nose in every here and there I can only invite each one into relationship with me and be open to cultivate the possibilities. (Some weeks later, back in the “suspension room,” one of the “crafty” boys, for whatever reason, invites me into his world, and sets about his work in a self directed, non-manipulative manner.)
When the teacher finally returns, the atmosphere and tone of the room de-escalates noticeably. Every few minutes she puts up her hand and the kids who notice, mirror her. Those children each receive a paper token which is placed carefully into a jar. At the end of the day she draws a name and the lucky winner gets a prize. It’s an established ritual in this classroom and it seems to be accepted as “fair and fun”. This reward system is enacted several times during the last ten minutes of class. What a lot of energy these youngsters exude. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to harness all that energy toward co-operative community spirit within the classroom? Why do they need external rewards?
Assumptions
On reflection, I began to consider the possibility that my dilemma in
the classroom might stem from my commitment to working with children on
an individual basis, in which case, my behavior was simply out of
context. It also occurred to me that my belief system might also have
undermined my effectiveness. I was driven by two opposing views: one,
that children can exist co-operatively in a group; the other, that that
our society has not prepared them very well to do so. While I believe
that children can be instilled with the skills that encourage
self-regulation and motivation to behave co-operatively, I also believe
that this innate desire can be interrupted by external influences beyond
their control. When they behave in a derogatory manner toward me, I can
still be curious and compassionate, knowing that their behavior is not
really about me. I can be caring and patient and still set limits and
expectations. I can acknowledge their expression of distaste and reflect
back with my own experience.
The bottom line is that when I’m with children I truly enjoy being with them, to have fun and make light of life. I wonder how teachers can keep up with the children's excessive need for external acknowledgment and reward? I wonder what is the ideal size for a group of children involved in this thing called “education”? How can children be taught academics when some of them need emotional support to such an extent that they distract others from learning? Statistics reveal that many kids are in “behavior support” programs because of anger, so could it be that anger due to frustration is the foundation for the troublesome behavior? The children might be telling us they are frustrated and angry because they are lacking fundamental skills and/or basic needs. At a personal level, could it be that my own issues regarding power, control and authority have been frustrated during my formative years leaving me with a shaky foundation for my own place in the scheme of things?
Would it be delusional of me to think that every teacher could be supported by a Child and Youth Care professional to ensure that schools are more able to address the multitude of needs presented by children in the classroom? I now realize that being responsible for the education of a volatile group of kids is no easy task and I am no longer surprised when teachers appear more concerned with the functioning of the group than the well-being of the individual.
Our society is changing rapidly and children are caught up in the confusion. Educationally we still need to provide children with safe and predictable learning environments, but our schools must also find new ways to respond to those children who find themselves alienated from the system. Labeling them, suspending them and drugging them may make it easier for adults to cope, but do these things really work to the benefit of the kids? I don’t think so. I believe the time has come for professionals to work collaboratively “for kids to see that we adults can create our own climate of mutual respect and support. Surely we can do this in the schools? So let’s get creative and get moving.
For this to happen, we need more than changes in policy. I think we need to take a look at our own attitudes and preconceptions. This applies not only to educators but to us Child and Youth Care folks. Even with years of experience and a high level of confidence, “intervening” can still cause a whole range of emotion within me. What might be viewed as a “lost cause” because things didn’t turn out the way I idealized them , can also be viewed as fertile moments, rich in the here- and-now. To exist fully in the present sometimes takes an appreciation of the absurd. If it weren’t for the absurdity of the situation, my reactions and interactions could be saturated with frustration, an expression of submerged anger.
I endeavor always to enjoy being with the children; it is the most precious gift I can give. When my attitude is one of light-heartedness I can see beyond the child's behavior, knowing that that’s what kids do. They respond and react according to the invitations of adults. They mirror us, and we mirror them. The misbehavior is their way of “checking in”, to discover limits and hoped for acceptance. If I were to respond from an angry place I think that they would laugh inwardly at me for my lack of self-control. They might feel insecure and frightened, unconsciously employing more behaviors to find my limit and to reaffirm their sense of self that sits at their heart of their anxiety.
This feature: Olberg, V. (2003). The Absurdity of Intervention, Relational Child and Youth Care Practice, 16, 2. pp. 58-66.
