If I Only Had a Brain

“If I only had a brain, a heart, the nerve.” Echoed by so many young children in our care, especially those with special rights (or special needs as we say in the United States), the desire to experience success, to love and be loved and have the courage to try must be foremost in our minds as early childhood educators. Beginning her presentation on children with special rights with the familiar characters from the wizard of Oz, Barbara Acton emphasized our role to assist all children in their realization of their potential and their discovery of self-worth. While Acton used this metaphor throughout her presentation, I believe it can be extended further to include the Wizard’s role in the journey to discover one’s self and place in the world.

Challenging us to ponder what and how we communicate with children, Acton portrayed teaching as more than talking. Holding children with special rights in mind, Acton asked us to question what we communicate when we choose to protect children rather than challenge children. Our words may say, “You can” while our hands may say “You can’t” as we help a child over an obstacle. Words become incredulous over time when our actions continue to contradict them. When the scarecrow asked the Wizard of Oz for a brain it wasn’t the diploma that stood as proof, rather it was the experiences along the yellow brick road that allowed the scarecrow to believe he truly had a brain.

During the break, it was impossible to stop the images of struggling students from flooding my mind. How have my actions contradicted my words? When have I said, “You can” yet my hands shown, “You can’t.” Young Brandon, we’ll call him, stood foremost in my mind. One, morning Brandon waltzed into the classroom brandishing a new pair of glasses and explaining that they were for reading. Without having heard a word from Brandon’s mother, I gently questioned him. Despite a convincing story about a doctor and “the glasses store,” I remained skeptical. To me, the glasses looked too much like adult reading glasses. Unable to reach his mother, we continued with our day. During math, I noticed that Brandon had taken off the glasses. When I inquired as to why he had taken off the glasses, he resolutely stated that they were for reading and not math. The glasses were to help him become a better reader. He was already good at math. Then of course I knew the glasses were not his. Completely devastated that after all the words of encouragement I had given him, he continued to see himself as unsuccessful. I now realize my words held no meaning for him when they were continually contradicted by my hands.

Unable to undo all the ways I have shown Brandon “You can’t,” I must charge forward with hands that show “You can.” With a clever brain, I must show Brandon the road he has followed and the successes he has experienced. No longer limiting the books he has access too or what centers he can attempt and not providing separate seatwork may be a few ways I can begin to communicate, “You can.” With a kind heart, I must understand his need to be loved and to belong rather than feeling separated. Brandishing courage, I must attempt new ways to show Brandon he is worthy. Perhaps mixing up guided reading groups rather than keeping the “low group” in lower levels will prove to Brandon he is worthy. Acting the wise and simple Wizard of Oz, I must charge him with saving Dorothy, a mission usually reserved for heroes, thus making him the hero. Perhaps then he will truly feel at home in the classroom, and when he goes looking for his heart’s desire, he won’t go further than his own backyard.