Gotta Love Kindergarten!

Last week I wrote about the amazing amount of knowledge we all possess (I Really Do Know A Lot!).  It made me think about how we learn and acquire all of that wisdom and I was quickly reminded of this poem by Robert Folghum, written in 1988.  I think it’s a poem worth reviewing, and the lessons in it worth taking to heart once again.

(Robert Fulghum not only wrote this as a poem, but also put it into book form. See his web site at http://www.robertfulghum.com/)

ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW I LEARNED IN KINDERGARTEN

By Robert Fulghum (excerpt taken from Chicken Soup for the Soul)

Most of what I really need to know about how to live and what to do and how to be, I learned in kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate mountain, but there in the sandbox at the nursery school.

These are the things I learned:

Share everything.

Play fair.

Don’t hit people.

Put things back where you found them.

Clean up your own mess.

Don’t take things that aren’t yours.

Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody.

Wash your hands before you eat.

Flush.

Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.

Live a balanced life – learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some.

Take a nap every afternoon.

When you go out in the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together.

Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: the roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that.

Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup – they all die. So do we.

And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned – the biggest word of all – LOOK.

I started kindergarten in the fall of 1969 – almost a lifetime ago when the Vietnam War was a hot topic and my parents were afraid of ‘hippies’. Both topics I didn’t understand, but I did understand the excitement of going to school.

The neighbor boy and I would walk the half mile or so to the building and I felt terribly grown up. I remember the kids who didn’t want to share. I remember those who didn’t want to say they were sorry and the children who wouldn’t play fair. I remember bell bottom pants and lying on my mat refusing to nap. I remember cookies and milk and playing and holding hands and circle time and show and tell and the clean up song. I remember hanging my coat up in the long coat closet and I remember the wonder and power I felt as I discovered how to make letters turn into words.

Mr. Folghum hit the nail right on the head. For most of us kindergarten provided us with our first real exposure to academics and hard social lessons and politics and the environment and personal responsibility. And for me, those lessons really ought to be refreshed every once in a while, because as I said last week – just because I know, doesn’t mean I apply.

Remember The Passion of Youth

Memory can be a bit goofy. There are times when the past gets fuzzy inside of my head and I have a hard time recollecting specific events. At other times I simply don’t recall anything about some past incident or conversation or other such occurrence, whereas my husband will remember it perfectly. And then there are those instances when my memory can be clear as day. Like the time I hit a golf ball through our neighbor’s bedroom window.  The warmth of the sun on my little eight year old shoulders, the excitement of running around our yard chipping away at that tiny white ball, the smell of my mom’s roses, the sickening crash as the ball hit the window, and the sinking feeling in my gut when I realized what I’d done.  I remember it all, especially the emotions I experienced. And I think maybe that’s the catch – memory and the attached emotional response are closely tied together. For example, although I don’t remember every detail, I still remember feeling like I had all of the time in the world when I was a little kid. I remember feeling insecure and terribly self-conscious as a young teenager, and I remember the feelings of power and pride when I got my first job. And I most definitely remember feeling so sure of myself and so invincible during my late teens and on into my twenties. Those memories are strong, and in some ways all of those feelings and emotions haven’t completely gone away, but fortunately they have matured.

My girls are at the 18 to 20 year old age.  And so far their behavior is right on cue. When they are as old as me, my guess is that they too will remember feeling terribly independent and a bit self-important during this period of their lives.  A few years back they were in the midst of that awkward stage of adolescence and the dramas that play out in middle school and high school. During that time they butted heads with us and pushed at the walls of discipline. Both girls attempted various displays of self-expression and independence, and I know that they have strong memories of those times.

All of these stages of life bring about a real mixed bag of emotions for me as a parent. Some days I’m thrilled out of my mind for them.  They are happy and free and full of a passion for life that for most of us only exists during those almost twenty and twenty-something years. They believe in some kind of new-found knowledge that only young adults of those ages possess, and with that they believe they can change the world.  Deep down they have fears and worries and uncertainties, but they strive to push those concerns as far away as possible and assure us, their ‘meddling’ parents, that they know exactly what they are doing and why. And for all of the above reasons, I am also sometimes filled with fear and worry and an occasional bout of anger, because I’ve been there, and I remember.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the 1960’s and 70’s, more specifically the civil rights movement and the protests against the Vietnam War. I grew up primarily in the 70’s so I did not experience those events in person, but I do recall very vividly many of the images I saw in classes I took in high school and college. What strikes me is the passion of the youth at the time.  Those who protested the war and stood up for the rights of our African American neighbors were most often young adults fresh out of high school and on into their mid-twenties.  They were invincible, they believed they had all of the answers, and they struck out to make a difference.

It’s an exciting time, that ten or so year period right after high school. In some ways I envy that time in my own life, the way I felt, the strength of my own convictions, the assuredness I had that I could bring value to the world.  But I’m not sure I saw life in real terms. Five years still felt like an eternity, the struggles of third world nations seemed easily resolved if people would just ‘listen’ and ‘do the right thing’, and in many respects the world still revolved around me.

Now I’m older, hopefully a bit wiser, and I’m still a believer and a dreamer, just a bit more realistic about both.  As I stated before, my passions and my enthusiasm have matured. And I know my kids are diving into this segment of their lives with similar passion and courage and enthusiasm that I did at their age.  They will set out to make a difference and to leave their mark on the world. And like many of us older folks they will achieve at least a portion of those goals and will hopefully remember and carry some of that youthful fervor with them on into their thirties and forties and beyond. That is my wish for all kids of that age – make sure you remember.  And if my own girls are reading this – I sure do love you guys.