Let Them Diverge
January 12th, 2010
Divergence is instrumental to learning. But too often we seek to get rid of divergence at its first stirring–shunning it as a body might reject a transplanted organ.
Throughout history divergent souls have been met with scorn and rejection. Igor Stravinsky was one such Divergent. When he debuted The Rite of Spring a riot ensued. People attending the premiere expected to hear music that was familiar and comfortable. Stravinsky delivered something of another sort. The audience took offense and began to boo, scream, yell, fight with one another. Police arrived and were unable to subdue the crowd. Stravinsky was rumored to have escaped through a bathroom window.
The source of the conflict was not Stravinsky. The riot was fueled by the audience members’ internal expectations and assumptions. Interestingly, critics and audience members lauded subsequent performances. There were no additional riots. Why? Because the audience changed. “The Song Remains the Same.” Once the audience members adjusted their expectations they could appreciate and enjoy what Stravinsky was doing. It all made sense. It was so profound.
We have classrooms full of Divergents. They, like Stravinsky, want to explore and understand and articulate their perceptions. Stravinsky was inspired by West African rhythms, which he incorporated into The Rite of Spring. Imagine if Stravinsky had cowered in fear at the outrage shown toward his masterpiece. Imagine if he had never written The Rite of Spring for fear it wasn’t the answer the world wanted. I can’t imagine life without my favorite Divergents:
Jesus of Nazareth
Soren Kierkegaard
Bob Dylan
Vincent Van Gogh
Pablo Picasso
Thomas Edison
Alexander Fleming
Mother Theresa
Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi
Galileo Galilei
Aristotle
Make your own list and ask if your life wouldn’t rap hollow if these people had buckled or been made to acquiesce if they didn’t stop diverging. Their divergence made them brilliant. It made their life worth living. How dare we strip students of this gift?
You are very likely going to be in a classroom or other learning arena in which a youth will ask a question or make a comment that is off topic. He may challenge what you say or introduce a comment that seems oblique. Here’s your opportunity to give a gift that could change this teen’s life. Stop! Ask the student to say more. Do you remember the Donahue Show? Do a Donahue. Bow your white-haired head, stretch the mic out, and just listen. That’s it. Something is happening within that student. Water has finally reached that little seed with a message, “Hey little buddy. It’s time to wake up.” Life is in the works and you get to be a part of letting it happen. So resist the urge to kill the seed with a piece of plywood. Give it warmth and more water, and let it grow.
Teens are watching what we’re doing and saying. They have a deep sense that, “I know you’re saying this is how things are, but in order to understand what you mean I must explore certain questions whose end may or may not be yours.”
To effectively teach and mentor teens we need to permit, even encourage divergence–a central element to becoming fully human.
To Build a Fire
January 5th, 2010
“But this Wrangell camp-fire, my first in Alaska, I shall always remember for its triumphant storm-defying grandeur, and the wondrous beauty of the psalm-singing, lichen-painted trees which it brought to light.”
–John Muir, Travels in Alaska
In 1879 John Muir, the famous naturalist, writer, and founder of the Sierra Club, traveled to Alaska for the first time. Late one night, while in Wrangell, Alaska, he ventured out into a storm to build a fire, “to see how the Alaska trees behave in storms and hear the songs they sing.” Muir took only a box of matches and a candle. After a long, patient search he found a small dry piece of tinder. He collected twigs and bark which he dried and used to build a conical hut. With his body he shielded the hut from the driving rain. He lit his candle, placed it into the hut and began to feed the fire with wood shavings. As the light from the fire grew he was able to see larger dead branches and bark to add to the flame. As the light increased Muir found even larger pieces of dry wood to add to the flame, until the fire had “a strong hot heart and sent up a pillar of flame thirty or forty feet high, illuminating a wide circle in spite of the rain.”
No one saw Muir build it, though a band of Indians spotted the fire around midnight. Unable to explain its origin they were sure it was an omen. The rushed to the town missionaries, hoping they would intercede on their behalf. White men in town chalked it up to St. Elmo’s Fire or spontaneous combustion.
Next time you venture into the teen wilderness–whether to relate, teach or counsel–I encourage you to go forth in the spirit of Muir. Don’t take so much with you. With a candle, a match, and a vision of something beautiful, you can kindle a fire that inspires awe and wonder. As the fire builds and sheds light on greater insights, grab them! Add them to the fire. Everything you need to grow the fire is around you, in the hearts and minds of teens.
Gotta Gogh
December 29th, 2009
Last week my wife and I took our three young children to the Portland Art Musem. Through rooms of ancient Chinese, American Indian, romantic, and modern art they stuck by our side, and showed interest in many pieces. As parents we were gratified and surprised.
We crested the top of a stairway and came upon one of Monet’s enormous Water Lilies, a brilliant masterpiece in purples, greens and blues. We entered the room, nodding to the security guard. He swiveled like a dour weathervane, pointing always in the direction of our family. Under the guard’s watchful eye we discovered many well-known artists’ works I would expect to find in such world-class institutes as the Smithsonian and Metropolitan Museum of Art.
My wife and I sensed from our little ones’ sagging composure that they were running near empty. They needed a change of scenery. They needed food. They needed to leave. We neared the elevator when we passed Vincent Van Gogh’s The Ox-Cart. Van Gogh composed this work before discovering the brilliant colors of southern France that would distinguish him as one of the world’s great masters. His palette in The Ox-Cart is dismal–browns, grays, black and greens. Van Gogh emphasized the painting’s disconsolate mood by depicting cow dung as the cart’s contents. The painting stopped me in my steps. Van Gogh’s works are, in my mind, of incomparable beauty and emotional power. Being near one of his paintings was a gift to me. I imagined Van Gogh, some 125 years prior, standing before this canvas crafting his creation.
“They have a Van Gogh!” I said to my wife. She was preoccupied as child-shepherdess and unable to join in my wonderment.
I saw she needed a second shepherd. Navigating an art museum is a two-shepherd job, especially when the sheep are uneasy. The doors to an elevator opened. My family entered. So much of me wanted to stay with The Ox-Cart. It then occurred to me that my children are young, Van Gogh is dead, and his painting will be here when I return. My children will not always be children. These thoughts surfaced not as clear gems, but through much struggle.
What we choose reveals what we truly hold dear. I don’t mean to sound like I’ve figured out life or parenting. I haven’t. My point is that good choices, those choices that contribute to the lives of those we love most, are almost always preceded by struggle. Entering into this struggle is our project as we seek to serve those we care about.
When my wife and I return to the Portland Art Museum we’ll not bring our children, or if we do they’ll no longer be little. The guard can again be at ease. But I’ll be grateful then, as I am now, that I left Van Gogh this year to return to the painstaking work of building a family–my masterpiece.
Tags: good choices, parenting, priorities