In eighth grade I was given the opportunity to go to Washington DC with my class. In recent retrospect, I realize it was a transformative experience for me. If I had to distill its specialness to one factor, it is that my classmates and I were given autonomy.
To my total shock at the time, we were set free for several hours on one of the three days. I came from a very strict family. There was no “setting free” in a city. There was no city either, only suburban streets, parks, and woods of the neighborhood’s backyards. An adult either always had an eye on me or thought they knew exactly where I was. The one time my parents didn’t know where I was and got caught, I got grounded for an entire summer. (My mom might still be mad at me, she was so worried.)
During our free time in DC, I roamed around with five friends to explore. I never stopped being in shock that we were simply given a time to return back to our meeting place, left only with directions to always stay in a group. My middle school mind was blown, as this was a huge departure from what I was used to in terms of autonomy and freedom.
While some of my classmates went to the Air and Space Museum, others danced with Hare Krishnas. My friends and I found our way to the National Gallery of Art and stayed there for the full time slot. It was my first time stepping into an art museum. And from then on, art museums have been sanctuary-like to me. Perhaps because they are associated with a visceral memory connected to complete freedom. Whenever I hear about people talking about “calm nervous systems,” I picture several settings where mine goes calm. An art museum is one of them.
I don’t totally understand what was going on for my 14-year-old self. I think at the time I did know that I had found a place that was centered on beauty and on creating. I remember being riveted that I could see actual paint brush marks on the paintings. To this day I feel a splendid connection to the artist when I see those tiny swipe marks. My friends and I roamed the National Gallery’s halls and each corner of each room, sometimes chatting, sometimes pensively quiet. My mind’s eye pictures us roaming and exploring the masterpieces, sculptures, and courtyards– sitting on a bench by a fountain. It didn’t hurt that we met and hung out with very cute boys from Boone, North Carolina who had alternative “skater boy” haircuts, different from any boy’s haircut in Upper Arlington, Ohio. (Land of the buzzcut.) One boy and I exchanged one heartfelt letter each in the weeks following. Alas, our love affair ended there.
With this newfound freedom, on some level, I knew my friends and I were being taken seriously to use our time meaningfully. And we did just that. We made meaning by our own internal compass. And we had fun. We rose to the wonderful occasion!
This summer I read David Yeager’s 10 to 25: The Science of Motivating Young People. His thesis and all of his research (which is utterly thorough) is that 10 to 25 year olds’ motivation is primarily shaped by experiencing two feelings: that of status and respect. This shockingly broad age group’s brains crave experiences such as pride, admiration, and respect and are averse to socially painful experiences, such as humiliation or shame. Yeager frames it as hunger for deep and meaningful experiences of respect. The Washington D.C. trip nailed these elements for me.
Thinking about 150 eighth graders being let loose in DC, I now realize I ended up coveting the opportunity – the freedom. My fellow 14-year-olds and I rose to the high expectations. We didn’t get kidnapped (my parents’ ultimate fear), but instead discovered the treasures in and of a museum. In our own way, I suspect all of us encountered meaning and the joyful thrill of being trusted and autonomous, empowered to explore unfamiliar surroundings, using our common sense while still being guided by our pure sense of wonder.
My friends and I helped each other, waited on someone while they tied a Ked, took a snapshot with their disposable camera, wandered off and found the group again. One friend got her period for the first time in the museum bathroom. We handled it and supported her. I have no recollection of feeling in over my head that day, even though I had never encountered anything like this outside of my provincial experience.
Perhaps the National Gallery of Art remains a vivid core memory to me because it is a major reference point for tenants of progressive education: experiential and hands-on learning. So now as a parent and educator of elementary school children, I am compelled to ask myself: What is our version of giving our children, whatever age they may be, the respect and trust of freedom to grow their internal purpose? How do we invite children to use their time meaningfully? What is our own children's metaphorical national art gallery?
It’s something I invite us to think about throughout the school year together. At Westland, by giving children ample time and space for their work and play, we empower them. We invite them into discovery. They learn how to organize themselves, problem solve, and make meaning. They become self-reliant and grow the “I can do hard” muscle – all while staying curious.
They are given the gift to discover what they will become passionate about, whatever may launch them, big or small: finding fossils in the mud of a construction project, discovering a bird nest made entirely of clear fishing twine, spotting a Corinthian style pillar on a drive through downtown, picking a radish straight from the garden, being invited to place a photo on a Dia De Los Muertos altar, or, yes, visiting an art museum for the first time. And while they have these experiences of independence, the children learn to lean on each other too, not just us adults.
We must trust our children and give them developmentally appropriate opportunities to “go off” on adventures, and to embrace challenges. I would say we must let children struggle so they have the tools to deal with discomfort once they are off and autonomous.
A year or so ago a friend sent me a viral reel of a little league mom in the stands of an evening baseball game, the sun setting right in her son’s eyes on the pitching mound. The glare was quite terrible. I remember the uncomfortable sensation myself when I was a second baseman, literally praying that a pop up wouldn’t come to me when I was facing the setting sun, I confess. In the reel, this well-intentioned mom is holding up a gigantic golf umbrella in the stands, angling it just so in order to prevent the sun from shining in her son’s eyes – to my horror and to others’ apparent delight, judging from the comments.
I watched and rewatched the reel with worry and maybe even disgust. (I admit.) While I think this mom’s actions were intended to be dear, supportive, and loving, I developed deep and sincere worry for this boy on the mound. I had to wonder, is this child learning and internalizing: “I cannot do hard. I cannot be uncomfortable. I am dependent on my parents forever. My mom controls the sun." I even jumped to his future partner and future colleagues. Would he need them to constantly shield him from any painpoint? I hope not, but I worry.
Because in under 30 seconds, this scene encapsulates the worry I have for this generation of children – that they are learning to be helpless because of well-intentioned adults, be it “helicopter” or “snowplow.” It has me wondering how many children are receiving unintentional messages through well-intentioned parents and teachers. Messages that they can’t do hard, that expectations are low, and that resilience is to be learned later. I believe these messages are disrespectful to children and greatly underestimate what they are capable of.
I go to self-focus and think of all of the times I overfunctioned for a child. Many! I am motivated to be more consistent and do better by children, trusting them, respecting them, and having high expectations for them. I have clanged this bell before. Quoting a parenting expert Regina Paley’s wise and strange words: “The purpose of parenting is to become obsolete.” Quoting Caroline Pratt, “Don’t do for children what they can do for themselves.”
My new bell I’m sounding is, “Put down the giant golf umbrella. Let the sun shine!”
Because, what if the sun is shining directly in their eyes and our child drops the pop-up? They’ll deal with it! Because life is full of mistakes, disappointments, hardship, and dropped pop flies. We must learn from the error, the mistake. And our children will learn with one another, as a group: how to take risks, how to deal with disappointment, how to be responsible and gentle with oneself, how to be a kind friend – trusting and trusted.
I am heartened to know that at Westland, we have set intentions around experiential, hands-on learning opportunities. Those words reside in our mission. We’ve organized children’s time and built structures so that children can both find their museums, yes, but also find their sunglasses, hats, and sunscreen when the sun does shine directly in their eyes.
And because of our care, love, and honoring of children, they will – no doubt – encounter incredible, even life-altering, growthful experiences in the elementary school years and in all of the years to come, pop flies and all. And we, as their trusted adults, will let the sun shine.
