The worst thing you can say to this teacher.

Like most school districts these days, mine is determined to provide as many “Professional Development” days as possible.  Theoretically, these days allow us all to learn new tricks which will make us more effective/successful/motivated teachers.  So we all get together in a big room and learn about new programs that the district has bought to help us to do what we’ve all been doing for years.

Woohoo.

I don’t usually love those days, to tell you the truth, because I have a very hard time sitting still and listening for 6 hours.  I am used to recess, you know? When I’m in a room full of adults, I really miss the kids.

But I do what I am asked to do, and I read and talk and listen and take notes.   I try to get along with everyone and I try to be enthusiastic about the “new” information.

Sometimes, though, by the end of “Professional Development” day, I just want to climb onto the nearest bridge and scream out my frustration before hurling myself into the abyss.

A few years ago, for example, I was in a big room full of fifth grade teachers, and we were asked by the facilitator to create a piece of art that represented how we feel about teaching.  I happily launched into poetry writing, while planning a series of watercolors to illustrate my ideas.

One of my colleagues, though, from a more traditional, structured, buttoned down school was struggling to understand the task. “Oh, come on!”, she urged the facilitator, “I hate all this creative stuff! Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it!”

I was aghast.

Her comment has been fodder for many a joke among my more creative and spontaneous colleagues, as you can imagine.  See, in our district there are five elementary schools, and each has had, for almost 40 years, a distinct “culture” and “flavor”.  My school has always been the offbeat, creative, expressive, “crunchy granola” school.  We loved our quirky ways, and for decades now we have prided ourselves on our child centered approach to learning. We have long embraced the idea that children can only thrive and grow when they are engaged, excited and curious about the world around them.  We have always been the place where children can collaborate, create, inquire and learn with other children.  We have always been the place where intellectual curiosity is prized over “correct” answers. So the very idea of “Just tell me what to do” has been anathema to us, and the utterance of the phrase has caused us to shudder in dismay.

And that is why I was shocked to speechlessness this morning by the Science Curriculum Coordinator, as she stood in my doorway just before the students arrived for the day.

She was asking me for feedback about the new $1,100 science “kit” that the district had purchased for the fifth grades, in an effort to raise our scores on the standardized state tests.  She wanted to know how well the nicely scripted, neatly boxed kits were working for us.

I don’t know what came over me when she asked.  Perhaps it was my night of poor sleep, broken up by an hour’s obsession over how to organize four distinct reading groups in the classroom. Perhaps it was the fact that I was arriving an hour later than I had planned, after enduring a two hour commute to work.  Maybe I was just plain feeling ornery, and in need of a second cup of espresso to see me through the day.  All I know is that for some strange reason, when she asked about that damn kit, I answered her truthfully.

“Well, you know,” I began, “This program seems to be a little redundant.  We are going over the same information virtually every day.”

“Ah!”, she miled, “Of course!  The program is designed to be redundant, to foster concept development.”

I cleared my throat, “Well, uh, but the kids are finding it pretty boring.  It’s just going over the same information again and again.”  I wanted her to understand that the students were certainly able to memorize the little factoids, but they were feeling restless about the lack of excitement in the program.  I tried to make her see what I meant.

“The kit has left out a lot of really interesting ideas.”, I said, “Like, you know, acid rain, and pH testing!”.

My science curriculum administrator shook her head. “No, no!” She said, wagging a finger in my direction. “You don’t need to teach all that!  They don’t need to know that!”

What?!  Who says they don’t?  I felt a little spurt of anger in the area around my heart. “You mean they won’t be tested on it.”, I declared firmly.

“Right!” she answered, apparently happy that I understood. “They don’t need to know that stuff!”

To my credit, I held my tongue and held my breath and held my blood pressure down below extreme explosive stage. I smiled and I nodded and I let her drift away, out of my classroom.

But I have not let go of what she said, and why I know it to be wrong.

My students don’t “need” to know any of the crap we teach them.  They don’t “need” to know how decimals work, or why the Pilgrims really left England, or how various species interact in aquatic ecosystems.  They don’t “need” any of that stuff.

What they do “need”, though, in spite of what the bureaucrats think, is a healthy dose of curiosity about every single thing in the universe around them. They need to wonder about acid rain, and water pollution and dragonfly nymphs and the rotation of the goddamn earth.  They “need” to learn to wonder and think and ask great questions and go out there in the big wide world and find the answers.

And that is why the very very worst thing that you could EVER say to this teacher is “They don’t need to know that.”

They are the future: they need to know everything!