Posted June 20th, 2015
Seems I had it all wrong.
Today I stumbled upon the very representation of what’s real, solid and authentic about teaching and learning. WOW. It’s got as much to do with my own practices as a teacher as it does with how the students are learning.
I’ve been reading Anna Craft on creativity and things are starting to make more sense.
Even though The Joy Project started in a fog, in hindsight it’s easy to see I’d plunged the kids right in the middle of the creative zone. But it wasn’t just about the students being creative. They couldn’t be creative without me being creative in my own teaching practices.
Funny that creativity thrives on structure…
But structure doesn’t have to be constricting. There should be room for kids to be autonomous learners, to chill and to enjoy every single moment of every day.
It is now a time of readjustment. My objectives will be realigned. Everything I do from now on will stem from, or be
guided by The Joy Principle.
Craft wrote about this in ‘Creativity across the primary curriculum: framing and developing practice’! (pp.36-37).
*‘Mentoring enables someone with greater expertise to help someone with less expertise in any given domain. It is a similar idea to Vygotsky’s notion of an expert ‘scaffolding’ the learning of a novice. Mentoring creativity means providing a role-model, as well as direct support, for the learner. In other words, mentoring is one of the strategies which brings together the three aspects of creativity, the person, the process and the domain.’
Eisner did too, in ‘Arts and the creation of mind’! (pp.73-74). *In some classrooms students are not to leave their seats without having asked for and received permission. In other classrooms, especially art rooms, looking at fellow students’
work is not only permitted, but encouraged; it’s a way to learn. Furthermore, student work is not only looked at, but discussed by both students and teachers. In this setting classroom norms encourage cooperation, autonomy, and community – students can look at the work of their peers and at the same time become increasingly independent.
Without realising it, I was trying to create an art studio in my classroom. But there were no guidelines. Did I really expect it to come out of thin air?
Now I realise it’s my job to guide kids towards this state of being. I am their mentor, and it’s my job to show them the way.
Alex uploaded the post with greater confidence than he’d felt since he started Running Man. Let anyone read it and dare to post a challenge, he thought. I can defend this.
Chapter 24 – Star dust
Anticipation of Conor Reynolds’ visit had a transformational effect on the
downhearted identity of Beauvista. No renovations had taken place, and yet the school seemed imbued with a never-before-seen sense of optimism. It was as though Beauvista had come of age, at last comfortable and self-assured at the no-frills end of St Margaret. It was a subtle difference; difficult to define, yet tangible. It was as though the school had long been sagging and someone had only just noticed; rushing to pump it full of air. The only thing Alex could credit for the change of mindset was the Conor effect. The school now had something to be proud of. Something other schools, despite greater privilege, could not surpass.
Another result of the Conor effect was that his number one fan seemed at least ten centimetres taller than she’d been at the start of the year. Girls tended to shoot up at this age, but there was more to Yasemin’s growth than simple biology. The intricacies of instigating all this Hollywood razzle dazzle had truly changed her. Though always a confident kid, she was now the consummate diplomat, more poised and self-assured than ever before. Yasemin had become a true ambassador of the school, and the maturity that role had thrust upon her shoulders showed. When Alex saw her chatting with fellow students and
teachers with such easy grace, he couldn’t feel anything but the deepest pride. Alex bumped into Yasemin the day before Conor’s venerated feet were scheduled to hit the asphalt at Beauvista.
‘Oh, Mr Kiernan, I am so excited. This is too cool for words.’ She flicked her voluminous hair over one shoulder.
‘You’ve done a great job,’ Alex said. ‘You’re a leader.’ ‘Everyone’s been so awesome.’
Alex had to agree. Every classroom held a Conor shrine of some sort. With the younger kids, it was just pictures. Sometimes a Conor collage. But the older kids had really gone to town with it. Yasemin’s class had an interactive display, where students could click on links from the smartboard to clips from Conor’s movies, to trailers, or to interviews he’d done on everything from Oprah, to Graham Norton, to Jimmy Fallon. Following Yasemin’s lead, all the middle and senior grades had created similar shrines to the golden expatriate. But in the staffroom, when teachers discussed their lessons, there was never any talk of how the Conor hysteria might fit into the overall learning context of the
school. Alex found it strange they didn’t realise how much the kids were learning, and how much more could be done to capitalise on the wave of passion, however momentary if might be.
Tomorrow would be the last day of Term Two. School reports were finalised and would be handed out to students at the end of the day. But in anticipation of the school being anointed in Hollywood sparkle, reports were low priority in the minds of even the keenest teachers. Alex, whose draft reports had miraculously incurred no thorny questions from Felicity, felt like he’d dodged a bullet. In preparation for the following day’s gala reception, the school’s tired besa block buildings had been festooned in posters, silver foil garlands and large, multi-coloured lettering the size of a small truck.
A huge inscription inside the main courtyard read We love you Conor! At the front of the school, Conor Reynolds, welcome back to Beauvista was an incongruous backdrop to the weedy lawn and the scraggly plantation of native trees. The last letter had lost whatever grip was holding it to the wall, and was now tilted at an ungainly angle, giving the sign a genuine Beauvista touch. Not quite straight, and not quite right.
Inside the corridors, televisions had been set up to play snippets of Conor’s films, which had been edited by the grade three and four students.
These were running on a loop, and had become a constant soundtrack to the daily comings and goings of the student horde.
The whole Conor Reynolds-generated confusion had, however, generated one positive side effect. During what was a crazy busy week in every
classroom, Ivana had somehow taken a hike, and Alex was thus able to
continue working with his class on mentoring towards arts and literacy, with a bit of maths and everything else thrown in the mix. Admittedly, he was being a great deal more managerial than at the start of The Joy Project. Instead of robbing the children of joy, Alex found that gentle guidance translated to learning without stress. Out went forced timelines and rigid schedules that meant one thing must be dropped in order for another to start exactly on time. Without those pressures, learning went on in quite a natural and democratic way. Under Alex’s watchful direction, real discussions took place, kids listened to each other, took turns, and shared their learning.
While the rest of the school surrendered to full blown Conor Reynolds madness, the kids in Alex’s class brought favourite books from home and wrote book reviews, which they displayed on posters and presented to the class. They used reading apps on the iPad, playing games that helped with spelling,
phonics, punctuation and comprehension. Alex didn’t take any of the apps too seriously, but he did like the one that used songs to improve reading ability. With Alex’s help, the kids searched the school library catalogue. He showed them how to log onto the local municipal library site to expand their searches.
Without making a big show of it, and when the weather allowed, Alex made a point of taking his class down to The Park at least twice a week, where they sat, talked, drew, made clay models, or just read their growing stash of favourite books.
Even Amir, who supposedly hated reading was now (thanks to a loan of Alex’s mobile enabled iPad) swiping his way through motorbike websites like
Adventure Bike Rider. Despite his challenges with reading, Alex was pleasantly surprised to see him so intent to nibble at the small slabs of text.
Days passed quickly, the learning in one joining seamlessly to the learning of the next, and Conor’s visit was soon upon them. Bridie’s latest favourite
picture book, Emily’s Blue Period, was written up as a play by her group. They were ready to perform it in costume tomorrow if Conor Reynolds should pop his head through their door. Alex watched Bridie practising her part. Her face was so animated, the little rosebud lips curling around the dialogue, her nose wrinkling up when she delivered the trickier lines. Despite the whole class’s general air of nonchalance, he knew they had all, especially Bridie, been sprinkled with a generous and beneficial dose of Hollywood magic.
* * *
Kym was lying on the bed, her mouth agape. Conor walked up to check if she was still breathing. He nudged her. She moaned, and then opened her eyes a crack. ‘Baby,’ she said, smiling languorously. ‘What you doing here?’
‘We’re in Melbourne. In the hotel. Tomorrow I’m going out to do a gig, and then I’ll see you later on.’
‘Which gig?’ she said, slurring her words.
‘The primary school. You don’t want to go there.’ He meant it as, Don’t ask me to explain, it’s too long a story, but Kym took exception.
‘Whaddaya mean, I don’t want to go there? Who are you to tell me what I should do, or where I should go? If I wanna go to the school, then I’m the hell going.’ She rolled over, her tone more mellow, now. ‘Don’t be an asshole, okay?’
Conor rubbed his temples. The headache again. They’d only been in Melbourne a few weeks, and Kym had already found a dealer. He knew it wasn’t a difficult thing to organise, but Jesus, she could hold back a little in his home town.
What if his mother made contact? He could hardly introduce her to Kym. He could imagine what his mother would say. You could have found a junkie a stone’s throw away from home. Why go to America?
He hadn’t heard from his mother for at least twelve years. His sister gave him regular updates on her health, and so Conor knew that she still lived in the same fibro cement house where he grew up in Sunshine. Years ago, he’d
bought a big new house for her in Toorak. She refused to move. ‘Keep your fancy house,’ she’d told him. ‘Am I not good enough for you, now? I don’t need anybody’s handouts, and I certainly won’t take yours. Your father and I worked for decades to pay off that mortgage, and this is where I’m staying till I die. Real people live around here. Not your kind.’
Every effort to contact her after that point had failed.
Kym had sunk back into her drug-addled stupor, and Conor opened the sealed plastic bag that contained his costume. He did this often when travelling. His people were good at providing ordinary street wear. They’d trawl the second hand shops and find him a cheap brand of jeans, a polyester polo shirt and a battered fleece jacket. The look was completed with some ordinary running shoes and a peaked cap with some nondescript commercial logo. Wherever they were in the world, this stuff was always an easy find. Dark glasses
completed the look. He looked in the mirror. Just an ordinary bloke about to go for a stroll.
Who do you think you are, calling yourself that ridiculous name? his mother told him when he landed his first acting job. Craig is what I named you, and Craig is what you’ll always be. And don’t you forget it, Mr High’n’Mighty.
Well, here he was, twenty years later, going down thirty two floors to street level to walk around his old city the way he used to when nobody knew him. This afternoon he would be Craig. Craig Reynolds from Sunshine.
Chapter 25 – A different life
The day had finally arrived. Felicity woke at five after a fitful night. There was no point trying to return to sleep, and so she got up and padded around her house in the dark, thinking about Craig.
She’d bought this house while he was still at Beauvista. Felicity
remembered him standing by her side as she bid for it, and though neither of them had broached the subject, in her heart there was a scintilla of hope that he would one day share it with her.
When the auctioneer brought down the hammer on the last bid and the house was hers, she threw herself into Craig’s arms, and they kissed right in front of the gathered crowd. There were cheers and wolf whistles, and to this day, Felicity still reddened at the thought of that public display of affection. It wasn’t like her. But maybe it was a portent of things to come for Craig.
Now, standing in the doorway of the lounge room, the outline of the furniture silhouetted in the glow from the street light, she remembered Craig helping her move in, all the hours spent in this very room, downing red wine, reading books, and catching up on last-minute planning for school the next day.
It was in this room, curled in front of the fire, that Craig had first shared his plans to travel to the US. He hadn’t mentioned acting. At the time, all Felicity wanted was an invitation to join him. She would have put her house on the market at the first hint of a shared life. She would have gone anywhere just to be by his side.
Perhaps he had not dared to expect she’d drop everything to follow him into the unknown. He hadn’t dared to ask her to give everything up with nothing to offer in return. Six months later, she read in the paper that he’d been cast in a supporting role in a blockbuster movie. The die was cast. Craig reinvented himself; no longer the primary school teacher from the land of the ordinary, but Conor Reynolds, a soon-to-be Hollywood megastar.
She wondered what today would bring.
After her shower, she stood in front of the full-length mirror in the
bedroom, trying to decide what to wear. She looked at her legs, now lumpy and veined, and felt ashamed. The women she’d seen snapped in the company of Conor Reynolds did not have legs like these. Then, there was the matter of her face. The lines, the inevitable sagging that were part of being over fifty, could not be hidden. She put on her reading glasses and peered at herself in the better light of the bathroom. Nothing that a facelift couldn’t fix.
But she was who she was, and today she would dress and put on make- up as she’d done for the last thirty years of her teaching life. Steadfast and ordinary.
Later that morning, Felicity arrived at school amid a flurry of activity. Several local channels’ vans were parked in along the school boundary, with cameramen setting up their equipment. A pretty reporter in a too-small suit was already filming an intro. On a day’s leave from Federation, Jess arrived soon after, car full of cupcakes, slices and other delicacies.
Felicity retreated to her office to settle her fluttering heart. She had on her charcoal suit; dependable attire for more formal days. A pair of silver earrings. Plain stockings. Black heels. Nothing special for Craig.
She sat in her office, glancing out the window far too often. Soon, he would be here. Soon.
* * *
Like an impatient child fixated on a promise, Alex studied the movement of parents and press at the school periphery. Is he here yet?
At ten minutes to ten, Alex had a surge of adrenalin as he spied a cortege of black cars pulling up in front of the school. There were two plain black
Mercedes. The third vehicle was a limousine.
Not long after, Nick’s voice came over the loudspeaker.
‘Attention everyone. I am very pleased to announce that Conor Reynolds has arrived at the school, and will soon be entering from the main office into the quadrangle. All teachers, please escort the students to their usual assembly positions, and be ready to welcome Mr Reynolds.’
Mayhem broke out. Kids who just seconds ago had sat frozen, taking in Nick’s every word, now morphed into a riotous mob, darting in different directions around the classroom with no particular purpose, squealing and bumping chairs as they went.
‘If you want to see Conor Reynolds,’ Alex shouted above the din, ‘let’s get organised.’
As if under a magical spell, twenty seven little bodies quickly formed two perfect lines at the door. Minutes later, Alex’s kids were standing raggle-taggle