In late September, I received an email from Cassie, one of our 5/6s Head Teachers, inviting me to come to her class to tell a story. Not to read a story, but to tell a story. As one who spends most of my time in meetings and conversations with adults, I immediately jumped at the opportunity to convene with children around one of my favorite pastimes: storytelling. I clicked the signup.com link and made a date with Room 205 for October 23. Plenty of time to revisit the memories of my childhood, select a juicy narrative, and refine my craft.
The guidance was broad and open-ended: If you are curious about a starting point, themes for this group are… Dogs or pets, Family Structure, Mistake Making, Truth Telling, Friendship, Bilingualism, New Siblings, Moving, Inclusion/Exclusion, Games.
Where to begin? The time I was the dissenting vote in a 4-1 family decision to put our beloved Springer Spaniel, Mandy, to sleep? The time I refused to extract myself from the back seat of our family station wagon in protest of my parents’ decision to go out for Chinese food instead of pizza? The time I inadvertently stole a pack of flower seeds from the rack outside the local corner store?
And then it occurred to me. As an initial foray into Lucy Calkins’ Writers Workshop, the children were studying the qualities of a good story—a beginning, a middle, and an end; the element of surprise or suspense; a climactic or moral moment; strong characters and relationships. I couldn’t help but think of the time that my best friend, Mikey Brillman, and I, at the age of six, ventured into my next-door neighbor’s back yard for an adventure gone wrong. Or was it just right?
Here’s the story.
It was the summer after Kindergarten, and we were always curious about what resided in the Mendelsons’ back yard. From our perspective, their yard was massive and ripe for exploration, and while the Mendelsons were nice enough, they also had this detached quality that rendered us intimidated to ask permission to traverse their land. In retrospect, they were kind of like the Boo Radleys of Hartwood Drive.
When we saw the Mendelsons pull away in their car for a weeklong vacation, we knew we had to make our move. An uninhabited house = our opportunity to go exploring. And so we did! Not long after we entered the back yard did we notice an oblong pond—goldfish, lily pads, the whole nine. What could be better? Mikey quickly turned to me and said, “Let’s jump over the pond.” “Not a bad idea,” I thought, so I asked if he wanted to go first, or should I? Since it was his idea, we agreed that he would take the inaugural jump.
A few seconds later, fully clothed, and with a face full of pond muck, Mikey crawled his way out of the pond seething with shame and blame. “Why did you make me do that?” he proclaimed, before insisting that he wasn’t going to be my friend anymore unless I too jumped into the pond. Ahhh. The moral moment. The theme of friendship. What to do? What to do?
[You might imagine what was going on in Room 205 at this juncture of the story. Eyes bulging. Hands up. Curiosities aroused.]
Without much time to weigh my options, as Mikey was becoming more heated by the second, I suspended my better judgment and joined my best friend in the Mendelson pond dive of 1978. Soon we were both dripping wet and full of mud, and our next adventure was to sneak back into my house without getting caught. [Yeah right!] But that’s a story for a different day.
Back in Room 205. “I know someone named Mikey.” “My uncle’s name is Mikey.” “I have a goldfish.” And the big questions. “Did you get in trouble?” “Did the fish bite you?” “Is Mikey still your friend?”
A simple childhood story became the text for a rich and lively discussion with five and six year-olds who were grappling deeply and intellectually with the themes of friendship, loyalty, independence, rebellion, reconciliation, freedom, and responsibility—all the while learning the elements of a good story. Every one of the twenty children was focused, engaged, participatory, and respectful as we sat around the rug and shared our thoughts. I couldn’t help but think, “What if all the grown-ups in our world were as curious, mindful, and expansive in their thinking as these Kindergartners?” We have a lot to learn from children.
Before long, after several claims of “I know how to jump over ponds” and “I’m a really good jumper,” we were spontaneously out on the deck. In an instant, the children were running and jumping—in an organized and deliberate fashion—over a chalk-drawn, oval-shaped pond. Laughter and joy abounded as the children imagined themselves in the Mendelsons’ backyard, circa 1978, leaping through time, space, and imagination.
About the blogger:
Jed Lippard is the Dean of Children’s Programs and Head of the School for Children at the Bank Street College of Education. He and his husband Todd are the proud parents of twin boys who attend Bank Street in the 10/11s. He got into a little bit of trouble, the fish did not bite, and he is still close friends with Mikey B.