Oh God. The tables. When the Powers That Be ordered these light-pine topped tables for our classroom, I’ve often wondered if they were thinking about dainty ballerinas coming for a tea party instead of the mud-painting, rambunctious first graders we have coming in today.
The tabletops are already stained irreparably in a few spots. I cringe every time an admissions tour group comes by, fearful they’ll judge our space.
'Tsk tsk tsk. Will you just LOOK at that furniture. How could we pay 30K in tuition for SUCH a ragtag institution?'
But I believe strongly in kids making messes. And I hate the thought that our first graders will take less risks in their work because they think they're responsible for keeping the tables tidy. That’s my job.
It’s what I tell my students that every time they start bickering and policing each other. “That’s a teacher job.” Well, keeping a neat and orderly classroom is a teacher job. I want my bologanfini artists and soil scientists to only think about making messes. And learning from them.
Sure enough, within the first class, Ryan is in tears. He points to the stains on his shirt. It looks like someone splatted some chocolate pudding across his shirt. “I have all these spots! Everywhere! I’m sorry!”
I’m stunned for a moment. Why is he apologizing? And then it hits me. He must get into trouble at home for making a mess. My heart feels like a powerful vise has clamped around it, wrenching all kinds of pains from my normally professional exterior. I inwardly command the tears to HALT! The last thing Ryan needs is to see me looking upset. I grin widely at him and throw my arms wide.
“Now that’s what I call an artist and scientist!” He stares at me, his shirt temporarily forgotten.
“Sometimes scientists and artists make messes as they work,” I explain with what I hope is a comforting smile. “In this room, you don’t get in trouble for that. In fact, I’m proud of you for persevering past all setbacks, including things like this. And in fact -”
Now Ryan is spellbound as he watches me take the paintbrush from my teaching cart and purposely smear some of mud on my own shirt. All my clothes have stains and smears that can be traced back to moments like this, when I sacrificed cleanliness to tend to a child's heart.
Just so you know, they were all totally worth it.
Including this one. Because now, Ryan is giggling as I pretend to survey it as an art critic. “I don’t know…it kind of looks like a mud stegosaurus to me. What do you think?”
Ryan’s forgotten all about his stain and runs back to finish his own work. I pray this child is surrounded by many more people who will show him that life isn’t about perfection. Then John appears, looking upset as well.
“I made a mistake.” He’s pouty as he points to his design. I see what he means. He originally wanted to make an intricate diamond design, but the mud has spilled over all the lines he drew, leaving a dark, amorphous stain. “It can’t be fixed.” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking dark and stormy.
But I’m grinning widely without a word. And I don’t say anything. Finally, he notices and curiously asks why I’m smiling.
“Because -,” and I lower my voice here so that his tablemates are now automatically leaning in to hear our very-private-one-on-one conversation better. “It reminds me SO much of these pictures I saw in a space book of a…(pause for dramatic effect)…Black. Hole.”
“A WHAT?” Ava shrieks next to him, completely forgetting she wasn’t supposed to be listening.
I explain what a black hole is, and John seems transfixed as he gazes up at the solar system model hanging over our heads. Suddenly his mistake seems less like an error and more like a Very Important Space Thing. Now he loves it and wants to repeat this exact same “black hole pattern” all over his bogolanfini while others ask him how he made his cool design.
*Names have been changed to protect students' identities
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