Last week was marked by two back-to-school nights- one mine, one my kid's.
I wish I'd been to my son's back-to-school night, before I had performed at mine.
Here's what back-to-school looks like, in the public, Title 1 middle school where I teach: teacher at the front of the classroom, armpits sweating, grading policy and syllabus projected on a screen. She stumbles over her ten-minute spiel in the key of nervous-sharp before the passing bell rings again. Parents, folded into rows of desks, quietly will the teacher to understand that they are Involved. Some will ask questions, some will nod enthusiastically. Some are skeptical. The teacher will do her best to prove to these devoted few that she will not lead their teenager any further into ruin this year. She is a sainted martyr to work with so many kids. She is a teacher on parade.
Here's what back-to-school looks like in my son's Waldorf kindergarten classroom: a circle. A "we". Parents quietly pad in past a wooden "no phone zone" sign, and onto a carpeted floor. They take their seats in their children's (very tiny) wooden chairs, and sit in a perfect circle. The teacher begins in a soft voice, and within minutes, parents become integral components of a dialogue about family rhythm, childhood development, and the necessity of school volunteers. The hum of a projector and the scooting of chairs on an industrial tile floor are noticeably absent. The sounds of soft talking, and expectant listening, are blatantly present. In the forming of a circle, it is immediately implied that all voices are needed in the bringing up of Our Children. The evening is not a show; it is a communal action.
I recognize a community circle when I see one. My school has been trying to utilize them in recent years, in an attempt to bring our students' social-emotional wellness to the forefront. Our understanding is that these circles embrace an age-old practice for bringing equity and restoration to a shared community. Like King Arthur's round table, there is no head, and thus every voice is equally important.
Want to know what it's like running a circle with 36 thirteen year-olds? Awkward as hell.
The feeling of being a part of one of these circles at a Waldorf campus? It felt as if this was the only way it should ever be.
Despite the fact that many parents were still dressed in their professional attire, and we were all asked to sit in itty bitty chairs that made our knees shoot up into the air, the feeling in the room was perfectly familiar. It was because this circle wasn't a variation from the norm; rather, I got the impression that this is how they do everything. Everything is everyone's shared responsibility. The unspoken message, before anything had even been said, was that we are bringing up each other's children as we are bringing up our own. My son's teacher facilitated our dialogue. However, she was not there to prove herself and we were not there to be her judge. This was our accepted family, each one agreeing to guide our tribe of little ones together. I think we even heard an owl hooting outside. No one even mentioned the chairs.
This immediate implied understanding changes the setting of back-to-school-night from that of a stage, to a campfire. I look back to my own nervous performance in front of parents last week, and think, What if? What if we had just sat in a circle, acknowledged the hard road, and went from there? Even in our short time frame, I would have gotten to know the parents better. They might have seen me as a fellow human- one with a brain and a heart, and maybe even pedagogical expertise. I could have seen the same in them. And what kind of implicit understanding could this have delivered, about how I value their children? Better yet, what kind of prep time would it have required? None! (Even when waxing poetic, a teacher's got to be practical.)
It turns out, attending my son's back-to-school night showed me how my own school's conversation with parents could develop. It's not a night of "she" and "us"; it could be a question of "ours", and how we can do the most right by them. Even if it means sitting in tiny chairs.