Our first graders have been studying soil for the past few weeks - collecting it, analyzing it, and performing all kinds of tests. It’s been a wild flurry of test tubes, sample cups, and mud stains.
When I first introduced the topic, a few students scrunched their brows and I could almost read the puzzlement on their faces. ‘It’s DIRT. What’s there to learn about DIRT?’
But their enthusiasm for this ground material has since burgeoned exponentially. Now they can’t get enough of it. Our soil scientists have been bringing me (what I hope is) soil from all over Atlanta, proudly exclaiming things like, “I’ll bet this soil has tons of clay and sand. I know because of the color and because it starts to form a ball when it’s wet, but then it falls apart like beach sand.”
My heart sings to see them nonchalantly wield their expertise, as if it was no big deal to analyze soil compositions by mere sight and touch.
As we drew our study to a close, I showed students some examples of traditional mud art called bogolanfini that Malians create from fermented soil. Our scientists were fascinated. “I never thought of that!” Shyrani* exclaimed. “I get mud and dirt on my clothes all the time. Why would anyone ever even buy paint?“
So when I announced we’d be using different muds to create our own bogolanfini, they were practically squirming in their seats and itching to get started.
I love weaving science through the other disciplines. It gives our young scientists opportunities to see how their expertise can apply to so many different areas. But I wasn't always such a fan. I still remember years ago, when a former colleague approached me about her idea of launching an interdisciplinary project. Following the school’s strategic plan, teachers were given permission to take risks, fail even, and find fresh connections between subjects that were formerly contained in neat separated boxes. Tons of my colleagues were excitedly getting together and planning new collaborations.
Me? I felt dread. I was horrified at the thought that a dance teacher would approach me and suggest we do an interpretive dance of a butterfly’s eclosion from its chrysalis.
What actually happened wasn’t much better. Fran, our music teacher nabbed me on my way to lunch. She was excited. “Jane, we should totally do a project on science and music!”
Inwardly, I groaned. But the people pleaser in said, “Awesome! Let’s do it!”
Sometimes I want to punch that people pleaser in the face.
But in hindsight, this was one professional risk I'll be forever glad I took. I still remember the first day when my students confusedly saw me sitting on the bleachers as they streamed into the music room. Fran, our master music educator, softly sang a song they all knew and some of them hummed along as they found their practiced spots. It was her way of getting them ready and centered for their singing.
But it didn’t work as well that day. The incongruence of seeing their science teacher in their music room was too much.
“MRS. CHOI!?!” Brian* yelled, abruptly interrupting the the singing. “What are YOU DOING HERE? DID YOU GET LOST?” (I should also mention that Brian was working on modulating his volume.)
I’m sure I replied with something. As a teacher, you get good at giving responses to all kinds of random inquiries. Why is your hair down today? Why is it UP today? What’s your favorite part of a unicorn? But what I remember most about was how smooth and suave Fran was.
“Music and science are like cousins,” she said. Then, as though she hadn’t said the most PROFOUND THING I’D EVER HEARD, she continued. “Music is all about creating sounds that are pleasant to our ears. Scientists study those sounds and think about how they’re made, how they change, and how we hear them.”
Over the course of that project, my heart for interdisciplinary work grew threefold like the Grinch’s. We experimented with sounds, investigated recycled instruments made by artists and musicians in developing countries, and rustled things out of our trash bins at home to make our own instruments. (Because of that, years later, I still look at an empty oatmeal tin and think - that’s a good drum).
So our soil scientists’ heads are going to have to accommodate a few more hats. They’ll be anthropologists, bogolanfini artists, gallery specialists for the final display, and quality checkers for mud production (more on that later).
Stay tuned for more classroom adventures!
*Names have been changed to protect students' identities.
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