Wide-Awakeness

On a midmorning in late September, I sit alone in the backyard, noticing what there is to be noticed:

Prickling on my cheeks and arms,

the sun warms my skin.

A lone cricket calls to another,

                 cree-cree, cree-cree, cree-cree.

In the distance a squirrel chatters angrily,

                 scra-a-a-aw, scritch scratch scritch.

A sudden whoosh of wind brings

                 rustling of leaves and a jingle-jangle chorus of chimes.

Freshly cut grass, I inhale deeply,

                 enjoying a few moments of tranquility.

We learn about the world through our senses, yet most of us ignore sensory awareness, often rushing through the present, paying little attention to what is happening in the moment.  Years ago as a classroom teacher conducting writing and poetry workshops, I noticed most students lacked the necessary sensory awareness needed for good writing – poetry or prose.  More important, they weren’t experiencing the wide-awakeness Maxine Greene talks about – they weren’t noticing what there was to be noticed, thereby perceiving little of the world around them. 

Schooling emphasizes the processes of recognition and classification; children are taught to categorize objects and experiences rather than to perceive and explore distinctive qualities.  For instance, this is a maple tree, an oak tree, an apple tree, etc.  Whilst categorizing (labeling) is crucial, it does not allow for exploration of the individuality of objects and events which, in turn, limits what can be known about them (1).  Through perception, we realize that no two maple trees (or oak trees, etc.) are the same.  As Dewey (2) explains, “ recognition is perception arrested before it has a chance to develop freely.  In recognition there is a beginning of an act of perception.  But this beginning is not allowed to serve the development of a full perception of the thing recognized.  It is arrested at the point where it will serve some other purpose, as we recognize a man on the street in order to greet or to avoid him, not so as to see him for the sake of seeing what is there.”  In short, perception ceases when recognition begins (3), thereby inhibiting further exploration of distinctive features and qualities.

Based on my observations, I concluded that my students needed guidance and explicit instruction in how to perceive, how to notice, how to become aware of the aesthetic qualities around them.  As Greene (4) urges, educators must offer “occasions for releasing as many young people as possible to see and to listen, to make and to play.  It remains important to work for wide-awakeness, to help our students focus their attention, to provoke them to greater perceptual acuity.”  As a result, sensory awareness became part of the curriculum in my classroom. 

Flynn Elementary had been built around a secluded, terraced courtyard – a wooded retreat within the inner-city.  It not only contained a variety of trees and shrubbery but also stone sculptures from a time when local artists had been artists-in-residence at the school.  Over the years, students and teachers had contributed assorted bulbs and perennials to the landscape.  I often took my class of fifth-graders to the courtyard during writing/poetry workshop time to develop sensory awareness.  Equipped with notebooks and pencils, we would wander in silence, noticing what there was to be noticed.  The activity would last approximately five to ten minutes and was always guided.  For instance, the focus might be:  Describe the snow.  Is it a crunchy, crusty snow that’s been around for a day or more?  Is it powdery, dry snow that falls apart when you try to form a snowball?  How does it feel and sound under your feet?  What does snow smell like before the first flakes fall?  Describe the scent of wet leaves on the ground in autumn, or the scent of a spring rain after a dry spell.  How does a leaf fall from a tree?  Sometimes we would spend the time quietly observing the movements of an insect, squirrel, or bird.  From an academic perspective, those experiences built background knowledge and rich vocabulary, which we then incorporated into our writing pieces.  From an artistic perspective, the experiences helped the children observe closely and discover the aesthetic qualities around them – in effect, to become wide-awake to the world.

Developing wide-awakeness takes time, quiet time to still the body and mind, and be open to phenomena without judging.  Maxine Greene “cannot stress often enough the importance of taking time and allowing for moments of stillness, of personal encounter, of coming to know” (5).  In the current educational climate, emphasis is placed on efficiency in teaching and learning, on finding “what works” and applying it to all, as though there were a single best, standardized way to educate.  This effort to standardize educational outcomes is based on the assumption that “efficient and effective systems can be designed that will take luck out of the educational process” (6).  The result, especially in urban districts, is highly prescriptive curricula that do not allow for in-depth exploration of subject matter or professional judgment in crafting lessons to fit the particular needs and interests of students.  Our students are forced to move from one activity to another rapidly, acquiring only superficial skills and a cursory understanding of concepts.  At the elementary level, the emphasis on efficiency and raising test scores has often led to the elimination of field trips, recess, and even bathroom breaks.  There is no time in the schedule to allow for “moments of stillness,” to notice what there is to be noticed, to become wide-awake to the world.

“When children are encouraged not simply to perform correctly, to demonstrate sets of skills or competencies, but to perceive and name dimensions of their lived worlds, they are far more likely to pose the questions in which authentic learning begins” (7).  In the race toward efficiency, standardization, and improvement of test scores, I believe we have lost sight of the children and of education itself.  What does that hold for the future? 

(1)  Eisner, E.W. (1998).  The kind of schools we need: Personal essays. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann.

(2)  Dewey, J. (1934).  Art as experience.  NY: Perigee Books (p. 52).

(3) Eisner, E.W. (1998).  The kind of schools we need: Personal essays. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann.

(4)  Greene, M. (2001).  Variations on a blue guitar:  The Lincoln Center Institute lectures on aesthetic education.  NY: Teachers College Press (p. 62).

(5)  Ibid. (p. 60).

(6)  Eisner, E.W. (1998).  The kind of schools we need: Personal essays. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann (p. 83).

(7) Greene, M. (2001).  Variations on a blue guitar:  The Lincoln Center Institute lectures on aesthetic education.  NY: Teachers College Press (p. 62).

You Never Know

Emmanuel brought urban culture into the classroom like no other student had ever done before (or since).  He was a tall, thin, handsome, black boy who entered the school late in September 2005.  The language of the street flowed effortlessly from his lips; ‘bling,’ ‘grille,’ and ‘Bentley’ were embedded in the discourse so naturally.   His glib manner belied his age of ten years.  And though he was new to the school, he fit in with the badass boys in his fifth-grade class – they idolized him, always vying for his attention.  Students at the elementary level often imitate an urban, ‘ghetto’ style of dress (e.g., loose, baggy trousers hanging past the hips, oversized tee shirts, do-rags hanging from pants pockets) and ‘gangsta’-like gestures (e.g., stylized movements of the head, arms, and hands with a distinctive swagger).  However, none has ever been able to keep up the persona continuously.   At times during the school day, the façade tends to crumble revealing a vulnerable child underneath.  Emmanuel, on the other hand, was always ‘cool.’   I never detected so much as a crack in Emmanuel’s smooth, street-wise façade – until December of that year.

In December I described the next ensembles that I would be offering during the second semester:  West African Drumming/Dancing and the Javanese Gamelan/Wayang Kulit (‘wayang kulit’ are shadow puppets), explaining that students could apply for one job in either ensemble.  Emmanuel told me that he wanted to apply for the wayang kulit because he had a puppet at home he had made in his previous school.  His classmates snickered at his remark, which did not seem to outwardly bother him.  My initial thought was that he was simply being funny, trying to get attention in class.  However, during the second week of December, he brought a well-crafted stick puppet to music class to show me.  It had the head of a beagle dog made from papier mâché, painted white with a glossy sheen.  The ears were made of black cloth, which hung evenly on either side of the head.  The eyes and nose were painted black.  A miniature blue and white football jersey partially hid the wooden dowel attached to the base of the head.  I asked him how he had made it, and he described the process in great detail.  The only part of the puppet not made by Emmanuel was the football jersey – the teacher had given him that already made.  He reasoned that he would be good in the ensemble since he knew how to make puppets, albeit a different type puppet than those used in wayang kulit.  What struck me was the pride Emmanuel seemed to show in his hand-made puppet and how carefully he handled it.  His manner was out of character from his usual street-wise, ‘cool’ demeanor.  I was intrigued by the contradiction, the juxtaposition of two drastically discordant images embodied in this one child.  I knew then I had to choose him for participation in the ensemble – I was too curious not. 

Emmanuel applied for the position of composer/musician rather than puppeteer but I never questioned his decision.  As I got to know him, I observed a twist to his attention-getting behavior:  he showed off with ‘goofy’ behavior rather than with his ability.  For instance, during a video-recorded rehearsal in March, I told the students to choose an instrument/part they would like to play.  The following is a description of a segment from that rehearsal:

Emmanuel chooses the Noah bells (various sized metal cow bells hand forged in India).  Considering the fact that he is able to closely inspect his fingernails and look around the room whilst playing the piece, I surmise that the Noah bells part is much too easy for him.  I suggest he try learning the ‘gender’ (melody) part on one of the xylophones instead.  He agrees and begins to carry a chair to an alto xylophone already placed on the rug.  I tell him to sit on the rug like everyone else – sitting higher than the level of the instrument will not allow him to play in proper form and will eventually hurt his back leaning over the instrument.

“But my knees will get ashy,” he complains, still holding the chair in the air.  I suggest he sit cross-legged on the rug.  He slowly looks at the back of his legs.

“My thighs will get ashy.”

I remind him that he had just been sitting cross-legged on the rug to play the Noah bells, an ‘ashy’-free incident.  He approaches the instrument, crosses his ankles, and half squats behind the instrument.  Fifteen seconds pass by as he remains in that crouched position.  The other students look at him and giggle.  The musicians start to play the ‘gender’ line together with Emmanuel still in his crouched position.

Again, he interrupts, “Where are the notes, yo?”

He cannot locate the correct notes on the xylophone.  Another student shows him and Emmanuel replies, shaking his head,  “This instrument is messed up.”

He then moves to another xylophone, also on the rug, and poises over the instrument in a crouched position.  The musicians begin again.  Despite the interruptions and goofiness, he catches on quickly and is even able to play the doubling of the ‘saron peking’ part which is far more difficult than the plain ‘gender’ line.

McGuffey and Rich claim that a boy’s ability to attract attention to himself enables him to maintain his status in a group:  “The recognition a boy receives from his public performance of masculinity allows him to maintain his high status and/or increase his rank in the hierarchy” (p. 613).  Emmanuel’s attention-seeking behavior was geared toward the nonsense or ‘goofiness’ (e.g., playing in a crouched position for nearly five minutes so as not to get his legs ‘ashy’ on the rug), not in drawing attention to his ability (e.g., being able to quickly learn the new and more difficult ‘saron peking’ part).  Such attention-seeking silliness would be an immediate turn-off for most teachers – we want ‘serious’ students who can focus attention and work hard.  Underneath his frivolousness, though, was an ability to catch on quickly.  Later that same day during his regularly scheduled music class, Emmanuel was chosen to play a rather difficult blues pattern on the bass xylophone.  He worked on the piece, giving it his full attention and was the only student in the class able to play the part.  Not once did he draw attention to his accomplishment.   Putting foolishness aside and buckling down, that child could play!

The lesson learnt from this episode is that one never knows the hidden potential of each child.  Emmanuel’s badass manner and attention-seeking behaviors were a turn-off for me – I didn’t take him seriously when he expressed interest in being a puppeteer.  I am sure that, had he not shown me his puppet and treated it so carefully (which potentially could have damaged his status amongst his peers), I would not have accepted him into the ensemble.  What a loss that would have been, not only for him but also for me and the other students.  His musical ability (yes, even his goofy, time-consuming antics) contributed immensely to our experience in the Javanese Gamelan/Wayang Kulit that semester.  Which leads me to wonder about all the students over the years whom I did not choose for ensembles, or who were not allowed to participate by classroom teachers for various reasons.  How many missed possibilities have there been?  And how many missed possibilities will there continue to be due to limited resources and adults who cannot see the hidden potential in each child?

(1)  McGuffey, C.S. & Rich, B.L. (1999). Playing in the gender transgression zone: Race, class, and hegemonic masculinity in middle childhood.  Gender and Society, 13 (5), 608-627.

Eek! It's a Mouse!

It is an uncomfortably warm, humid morning in June.  My students are in the middle of their performance – a medieval musical play about the Unicorn Tapestries at the Cloisters.  As I stand in the miniscule orchestra pit, I can see the actors in front of me singing and dancing on stage.  I look to my right and see the instrumentalists kneeling on the floor of the auditorium as they accompany the singers on xylophones, metallophones, hand drums, and recorders.  Sara stands behind them waiting to play her violin solo in the next piece.  I am pleased to see total concentration and focus on each young face.  Though the house lights are off, I can tell the audience is enthralled by the performance due to the complete silence behind me.  I can feel the energy and excitement in the air.  My alto recorder sits resting on the music stand in front of me – I have to play a counter melody at the end of the song.  As I reach for the instrument, my eyes fixate on a small mouse teetering on the top of the music stand.  In a matter of seconds, numerous thoughts race through my head:  I’m sharing a small, semi-enclosed space with a rodent less than a foot away.  How long has he been with me?  Did he touch my recorder in his attempt to climb onto the top of the music stand?  I don’t want to put that instrument to my mouth now.  What should I do?  If I draw attention to the creature, it will distract the musicians, actors, and audience members which would be disastrous for the students.  On the other hand, do I have nerves of steel necessary to ignore the mouse until the end of the performance?...

As I debate my options, the physical education teacher – who has been watching the performance from the back of the auditorium – suddenly runs down the centre aisle with a waste paper basket held high over his head.  In one swoop, he leans over the pit from behind me, knocks the unsuspecting animal to the floor of the pit, and covers it with the upside down container.   Of course, his actions draw the attention of the audience members, musicians, and actors who, until then, had been oblivious to the unfolding drama in the pit.  Not wanting to alarm the students, I wave them on to continue with the play, despite my shock and apprehension.  We all have a good laugh afterwards and the incident becomes part of school legend through the ensuing years.

Though humorous on the surface, the incident is emblematic of many urban schools.  Over the nineteen years I had taught at the school, the building had gradually been allowed to deteriorate and become grungy.  The grounds surrounding the school were not kept up – trash littered walkways and collected under bushes and throughout the play area in back.  At one point, we were told graffiti removal was too costly, so the markings of gangs remained for years on the brick façade where the children played.  Inside the building grime collected on every wall and floor and in every crevice, whilst mold grew behind walls and oozed through ceilings.  Candy and gum wrappers took up permanent residence in stairwells.   All the bathrooms (students’ and faculty’s) reeked of urine, contained broken toilets, and were utterly disgusting.  Toilet paper and paper towels were scarce commodities, and soap was simply nonexistent.  Mouse droppings in classrooms became a common occurrence, noticed upon first entering in the morning.  [I guess the bathrooms were even too deplorable for the mice to use.]  Rather than investing in repairs, the district continually applied “band aids” to problems.   Miss Carol had once been a secretary at the school.  She often reminisced about her first day at the school when a flood in the office greeted her.  Two repairmen removed the heating grille revealing a thick layer of accumulated filth inside.  After they hastily patched the leaking pipe, they began to return the grille.  Miss Carol told them they forgot to clean the dirt inside.  Both men laughed and informed her that they were hired to patch a leaking pipe, not clean the heating system.  She shook her head in disbelief as the two men walked away still chuckling.

Jonathan Kozol is known for documenting conditions of urban schools and children throughout the country.  He began teaching in a poor, segregated, overcrowded school in Boston in 1964, and was fired for teaching poetry by Langston Hughes (which the school board at the time regarded as “inflammatory”) before the school year was completed.  In his writings and lectures since then, he describes schools in more deplorable conditions than Flynn.  “Looking around some of these inner-city schools, where filth and disrepair were worse than anything I’d seen in 1964, I often wondered why we would agree to let our children go to school in places where no politician, school board president, or business CEO would dream of working” (1).  Why indeed?  And yet, Kozol points out that the problem transcends issues of bureaucracy and inefficient school administrations.  He notes, for example, that New York City manages and troubleshoots every conceivable problem and provides a well-oiled system in Manhattan to ensure that “Wall Street brokers get their orders placed, confirmed, and delivered at the moment they demand.  But leaking roofs cannot be fixed and books cannot be gotten into Morris High in time to meet the fall enrollment.  Efficiency in educational provision for low-income children, as in health care and most other elementals of existence, is secreted and doled out by our municipalities as if it were a scarce resource” (2).  Maybe it is idealistic and naïve thinking, but I wonder how inner-city schools would be if everyone were to treat all children the way they would want their own sons and daughters treated.  If the official mantra were “if it’s not good enough for my own children, it’s not good enough for any children,” would Jonathan Kozol still be writing and lecturing about urban schools?  Would Flynn Elementary have been allowed to deteriorate as it did?

Deplorable conditions in schools convey the message that our students are not worth the effort and cost of having a clean and safe environment.  And the children know this without ever expressing it explicitly – they notice and take it all in silently, seemingly accepting the implication of their unworthiness.  And, after being in that kind of environment for a long period of time, even the adults begin to acquiesce, to accept it as somehow normal, the way things are.  Despite numerous grievances over the years, conditions never really improved and we eventually lost ourselves in the daily struggle to raise test scores in the frantic hopes of making AYP with increasingly less resources and support. 

After being isolated at Flynn for so long, I grew accustomed to such dismal conditions.  It wasn’t until the school was closed that I realized how truly abnormal the conditions there had been; that an urban school did not have to be a place of filth and disrepair.  I was fortunate to be hired at another Providence public school (Veazie Street Elementary) which is clean, bright, and well maintained inside and outside the building.  It is an environment where the students are shown daily that they are worth the effort and cost of having a clean and safe environment.  It is a building led by a principal who acts on the premise that “if it’s not good enough for my own children, it’s not good enough for any children.” 

In the years to come, I am hopeful that I shall never have to share my music stand with another rodent – at least not at Veazie.

(1)  Kozol, J. (1991).  Savage inequalities: Children in America’s schools.  New York: HarperCollins Publishers (p. 5).

(2)  Ibid. (p. 114).

For further information on Jonathan Kozol including a bibliography:

http://www.learntoquestion.com/seevak/groups/2002/sites/kozol/Seevak02/ineedtogoHOMEPAGE/homepage.htm

Chinese Lion Dance

The ornate, yellow and white clad lions bobbed in time to the percussive rhythms of cymbals, gongs, and drums.  Flashes of red and gold glittered as they moved.  The audience cheered wildly as the lions performed athletic leaps upon tall poles, jumping effortlessly from one pedestal to another.  The dancers’ legs were perfectly synchronized not only with each other but also to the music provided by the percussionists playing on the side.  The Lion Dance is a traditional Chinese dance performed at the Chinese New Year, religious festivals, weddings, birthday celebrations, and business opening events.  It is believed to bring good luck and fortune to the spectators.  Unlike in the Dragon Dance, only two people manipulate the costume of the lion – one in the head and one in the body – both obscured from their waists up.  The dancers are usually members of martial arts schools and the dance movements are based on kung fu moves.  A luogu percussion ensemble, consisting of gongs, cymbals, and drums, accompanies the dancers.  The music performed by the luogu ensemble is typically loud and raucous, creating excitement and  playful interaction with the lion.

Denzel and Augustus watched enthusiastically to the video clip, ooh-ing and ah-ing with every jump.  Both fifth-graders were eager to begin work on their own lion dance moves.  Augustus was African-American, his parents having emigrated from Liberia.  He was lean and lanky and constantly in motion (including his mouth, which often got him in trouble).  He reminded me of the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz – though not exactly graceful, there was a certain fluidity to his movements.  Additionally, under the argumentative bravado there was a sensitive boy with a very fine brain.  Denzel was also African-American with a step-father from Liberia. The child was skinny despite constantly noshing on food (and occasionally his clothing).  Like Augustus, he was always in motion with little self-control physically or verbally – and he was often in trouble because of it.  However, whereas Augustus moved somewhat smoothly, Denzel seemed to struggle with physical coordination and control over his limbs.  Since kindergarten when I first met him, Denzel showed difficulty executing simple moves (i.e., skipping, walking slowly in a straight line, jumping on one foot) without wobbling or colliding with objects and classmates. Over the years, Denzel’s coordination and self-control did not improve substantially.  Eventually, he grew into a gangly fifth-grader who could not stand or sit still for even a few minutes and who continued to bump into things and people.  It was as though Denzel had little awareness of what his body parts were doing at any particular time – and it took considerable conscious effort for him to become aware of his physicality.

Classroom teachers often remark how amazed they are to see students they consider to be rambunctious or disruptive performing on stage in my ensembles.   I see a side of the children that the classroom teachers sometimes do not see – what I see as a child’s strengths.  Of the varied forms of representation in which people think (i.e., visual, auditory, linguistic, kinesthetic, tactile, gestural, mathematical), schools exclusively emphasize two: the denotative use of language and the mathematical.  By emphasizing verbal and mathematical forms of representation, schools narrow the curriculum and, importantly, discriminate against those students whose preferred mode of thought may be otherwise.  In other words, a student whose ways of thinking or home experiences differ from what is taught and honored by the school may find it more difficult to succeed.  The music ensembles offer opportunities for all students to “play to their strengths,” “follow their bliss,” and “develop what they are good at” (1).   I had purposely chosen both fifth-grade boys to play the part of the lion because of their excess energy and exuberance.  In fact, it was that same high level of energy and unbridled activity – always unfocused and “all over the place” in music classes – which discouraged me from inviting them to participate in any of the ensembles in previous years.  However, the lion dance requires a great deal of movement and stamina, which both boys possessed in abundance.  Participating as the lion, the two would have an opportunity to channel their excess energy into positive behavior whilst learning to control their physical movements and work cooperatively with others in an ensemble.  As an added bonus, I thought they might tire themselves out during the hour-long rehearsals, possibly reducing chances for getting into trouble back in their classrooms.  It seemed a win-win situation for all involved.

From the beginning, Denzel wanted to be the leader (head of the lion).  The two boys were friends and Augustus never challenged Denzel’s claim to the leadership position. The boys had choreographed their own dances after watching a few video clips of lion dances by professional and amateur performers.   Denzel wanted to perform the daring jumps seen in the videos but had a difficult time remembering the dance steps, despite having written everything down.  Week after week, he struggled to remember which foot to start on, and became confused coordinating a simple left-right foot stepping pattern in time to the steady beat of the luogu ensemble.  Consequently, the boys kept simplifying until the dances consisted of rather uninteresting forward/backward stepping and two-foot hops.  Despite the struggles and frustration, though, neither boy waned in his enthusiasm and determination to create and successfully perform the dances.  They both attended weekly rehearsals on time and ready to work, indicating their commitment and responsibility to the ensemble.

After two months, Augustus suddenly did not show to rehearsal despite his attendance at school.  Denzel and the other ensemble students were quick to inform me that Augustus’ classroom teacher had pulled him from the ensemble for misbehavior in her class.  All the students bemoaned the fact, claiming it was unfair to Augustus and to them.  Though upset, I was not surprised.  The previous year the same teacher had pulled a soloist from the chorus two weeks prior to the final performance for misbehavior.  At the time, I begged the teacher to reconsider her decision, arguing it would negatively affect the entire ensemble.  She refused to renege, leaving us to scramble to replace the soloist prior to the concert.  Based on that experience, I knew she would not change her mind this time regarding Augustus. 

It is frustrating when classroom teachers use the ensembles as a reward then take participation away as punishment for behaviors that occur outside the music room. The child loses opportunity to excel in an area not offered in the classroom, and the rest of the ensemble suffers from his/her absence as well.  Additionally, it sends the message that what the children (and I) do in the ensembles is not important.  And yet, I must tread carefully, knowing that students can only participate in the ensembles with their classroom teacher’s consent.  I must be diplomatic to ensure students will be able to participate in future ensembles.  For this reason, I did not confront Augustus’ teacher.  Sometimes one must be pragmatic and play politics to achieve overall objectives. 

Conversely, there were many occasions when Denzel’s teacher might have wanted to pull him as punishment for his classroom behavior; however, she did not.  She recognized that, as infuriating as his behavior could often be, he needed the positive experience of the ensemble – and, too, the other ensemble members needed his continued participation.  Ultimately, we managed to find another student to replace Augustus in the Lion Dance.  Though Augustus remained upset that he had been pulled from the ensemble, he supported the other students enthusiastically when they eventually performed for the entire school in January.  And though the dancing was not the most artistically inspiring, it brought about exhilarating applause from the student body – something Denzel had never before experienced and probably will never forget.

(1)  Eisner, E.W. (1998).  The kind of schools we need:  Personal essays.  Heinemann: Portsmouth, 

              NH.

The Arts and Social Justice

Recently, I have been rewriting a journal article that was previously rejected.  The theme of the special issue for the journal was the relationship between the arts and social justice.  In making connections between the arts and social justice, I thought it might be helpful to share my ideas here in this posting and solicit feedback via the “leave comments” capability of the blog.  My hope is to generate dialogue amongst readers, which in turn may clarify my own thinking.

Social justice is concerned with issues of equity, human rights, civil liberties, diversity, social agency and responsibility toward others.  Applying social justice to education means preparing all students for active and full participation in a democracy; creating a space where students exercise their agency to question and assert their views, where they learn to “temper any reverence for authority with a sense of critical awareness” (1, p.1).  It is based on the belief that what we do in the classroom is linked to the wider society.  In this way, education is connected to the possibility of a better world. 

Envisioning a better world is only possible through imagination. By releasing imagination, we can bring into being the “as if” worlds, the “possibilities.”   Through imagination, we can move from accepting the world as is toward imagining what could be otherwise, which may be the first step in bringing about change.  As Maxine Greene (2) and John Dewey (3) remind us, the arts are purposely made to release imagination, to heighten awareness, and envision multiple perspectives for those willing to move out toward them.   Though I agree that the real potential in the arts is to bring about visions of possibilities, which can lead to social change, I do not think it is an automatic process.   I argue that the transformative potential can only be realized when the arts are approached and taught in a critical, reflective, democratic way.

How does the theory translate into teaching practice?  What does critical, reflective, democratic teaching/learning look like in arts education?  To explore this question, I use examples from my own classes and ensembles.

When I think of democracy in education I immediately turn to John Dewey.  He defines democracy as being more than a form of government: “it is primarily a mode of associated living, of conjoint communicated experience” (4, p.93).  In this way, a democratic community is always in the making, always evolving.  Additionally, democracy and learning come together in the classroom only through participation (5).  Therefore, there must be evidence of active learning in order for a teaching practice to be considered democratic.  Only through active learning can students develop democratic habits rather than waiting passively to be told what things mean and what to do (6). My students actively participate in music classes through musicking, movement, drama, listening, evaluating, and discussing.  Through ensemble work, students engage with each other cooperatively – each independent player is responsible for her/himself and also for others in the group, which fosters a sense of social responsibility and interdependence.  In these ways, students learn to participate actively in their learning, developing artistic skills and experiencing democratic practice.

In addition to active learning, I think multiculturalism is another aspect of a critical, reflective, democratic practice in the arts.  MENC (Music Educators National Conference) emphasizes the importance of addressing diversity and multiculturalism in classrooms: “The music studied should reflect the multimusical diversity of America’s pluralistic culture” (7, p. 3).  But multiculturalism goes beyond teaching music of diverse genres, styles, and cultures.  I see multiculturalism as being more related to pedagogy than curriculum.   In other words, it’s not the content I present but how I present it – in a culturally responsive way, presenting instruction from the students’ perspective and life experiences as a basis for conceptual understanding and academic knowledge.  Shor suggests that when students’ diverse cultures are built into the subject content, “studying is no longer submitting to a dull imposition of an alien culture.  Based in the diversity of students, including gender diversity, the multicultural class challenges the subordination of some groups in school and society and orients the curriculum to equality” (8, p. 48).  Students come to school with strengths and knowledge they have gained outside school – by honoring and valuing that knowledge, we are in a better position to learn from each other in a reciprocal, mutually respected, democratic way.  I also think it is critical in studying culturally diverse musics to avoid presenting them in an oppressive way, that is, as decontextualized, as “exotic” or as “Other.”   In addition to socially and culturally contextualizing the musics studied, I encourage students to find commonalities across musical cultures instead of solely highlighting differences. “Nothing promotes border crossing or tolerance more than helping students to arrive at an implicit understanding of what they share in common with those they have been taught to perceive as different” (9, p. 186).

An equally important component of teaching the arts in a democratic way includes critical reflection.  For this I look to the discourse of the classroom.  Does it reflect a mutual respect which allows students and teacher to engage in dialogue?  Do students feel safe to question and assert their views, even when questioning authority?  I want my students to develop critical literacy; that is, I want them to look at “texts” (musics, art works, dance, poetry, prose) critically, question why things are the way they are, and how they might be different.  For instance, questioning how society privileges some musics and composers over others.  I think such critical consciousness leads to an empowering sense of agency for students, enabling them to imagine “possibilities.”

In contrast, what does it look like to approach and teach the arts in an uncritical, unreflective, undemocratic way?  I have seen that as well, most specifically with pre-service graduate students working with my students.   I have seen firsthand how directive pedagogy can effectively silence student voices in arts education.  Directive pedagogy is what Freire (10) called a “banking” pedagogy.  It is an authoritarian model of teaching whereby students’ minds are viewed as empty “accounts” into which the teacher “deposits” knowledge. In this model, knowledge is seen as a one-way transmission from teacher to students; students are told what to do and what things mean; the teacher teaches and the students are taught. This form of education stifles creativity and curiosity – two vital components in the arts. The graduate students who worked with my students one semester exhibited a directive or banking method of education. For example, in a collective story-generating session one graduate student chose which student ideas to promote and which to ignore, effectively shaping the final product into her own story.   In effect, she took ownership of the project away from the students.  Another graduate student was told to facilitate a Javanese gamelan ensemble rehearsal.  The student musicians were working together to learn the music and I instructed the graduate student to monitor their progress and facilitate when needed.  Instead, he turned the rehearsal into a teacher-directed session, telling the students what sections of the piece to play and choosing individual students to play it, one-by-one.  I could see students in the video-taped session quickly become bored and antsy, losing interest in their work.  Yet another graduate student offered her own dance movement to a traditional West African dance I had taught the dancers during a previous rehearsal.  It was not based on an authentic West African dance move – an example of teaching multicultural music in an oppressive, Eurocentric way – and it offended a few of the Liberian and Nigerian dancers in the ensemble.  In each example, the graduate students imposed their own ideas on the students.  One of the effects of the use of directive, banking pedagogy exhibited by the graduate students was a silencing of the students’ voices.  Additionally, by viewing the students as passive learners having to be told what to do and how to do it, the graduate students took responsibility for learning away from the students.  Fortunately, a later analysis of the data indicated that the students had a strong sense of their own agency as seen through small acts of resistance.   The silencing and creative stifling imposed by the graduate students was only temporary as the students subtly pushed back, resisting the graduate students’ attempts at authoritarian control.  Additionally, I suggest the students’ strong notion of agency came about from years of experiencing critical, reflective, democratic arts instruction in my classes and ensembles.

In formulating ideas for the above discussion, I initially had to reflect on the purpose for teaching the arts in schools.  A superficial answer (and one which my students readily offer when asked) is for students to gain content knowledge and skills in the various artistic disciplines.  More fundamentally important, though, I want my students to have a voice and to see themselves as social agents of change, to imagine a better world for all and to work toward it – in effect, to know what it is to be fully human.  As Freire (11) asserts, the purpose of education is the pursuit of a fuller humanity, and I believe the arts are the perfect vehicle for achieving that.

(1) Giroux, H. A. (2007).  Introduction: Democracy, education, and the politics of critical

pedagogy.  In P. McLaren & J.L. Kincheloe (Eds.), Critical pedagogy: Where are we now?  (pp. 1-5).  NY: Peter Lang Publishing.

(2) Greene, M. (2001).  Variations on a blue guitar: The Lincoln Center Institute lectures

 on aesthetic education.  NY: Teachers College Press.

(3) Dewey, J. (1934).  Art as experience.  NY: Perigee Books.

(4) Dewey, J. (1985).  Democracy and education. Carbondale: Southern Illinois

 University Press (Original work published 1916).

(5) Dewey, J. (1997).  Experience and education.  NY: Touchstone Publishing (Original

 work published 1938).

(6) Shor, I. (1992).  Empowering education: Critical teaching for social change.

  Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

(7) Music Educators National Conference (MENC). (1994)  National standards for arts

education: What every young American should know and be able to do in the arts. Reston, VA: MENC.

(8) Shor, I. (1992).  Empowering education: Critical teaching for social change.

  Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

(9) Duncan-Andrade, J. M. R. & Morrell, E. (2008).  The art of critical pedagogy:

Possibilities for moving from theory to practice in urban schools. NY: Peter Lang Publishing.

(10) Freire, P. (2002).  Pedagogy of the oppressed. NY: Continuum International

 Publishing Group, Inc. (Original work published 1970).

(11)  Ibid.

Selenna's Discovery

Selenna was a shy, quiet, reserved Cambodian girl whom I had known since first-grade.  For four years at the school, she refused to participate in music classes, preferring to watch in silence, huddled in her winter jacket even in warm weather.  During the first music class of fifth-grade, however, she accepted my invitation to participate in mirror movement.  In this particular activity, students pair up and face each other – one is the mirror of the other, moving as the mirror image of the leader.  When partners are very good at it, observers cannot tell who is the leader and who is the mirror.  To facilitate movement, I play music with a slow tempo and smooth, legato lines.  Selenna removed her jacket and stood facing her partner on the rug in the center of the room.  The music started and the two began to slowly move together.  For the first time I saw how gracefully Selenna moved, her hands turning elegantly, fingers curved expressively.  This was a girl I had never before seen.

After that music class, I asked Selenna to be a dancer in the West African Drumming and Dancing Ensemble and she accepted the invitation.  Ensembles consist of multi-aged groups of students (usually third-, fourth-, and fifth-graders) that rehearse weekly during the school day.  The work is an outgrowth or extension of the work I do during regularly scheduled music classes.  The various ensembles afford students opportunities to develop the skills learnt in class and to explore a particular genre more deeply.  Because they are multi-aged, the less experienced students learn from the more experienced ones similar to an apprenticeship. 

An additional component of ensemble work is journaling.  Each participant writes to me during the initial few minutes of rehearsal.  I then write back prior to the next week’s rehearsal.  In effect, the journals are written conversations between the children and me.  The following are a couple of excerpts from Selenna’s journal during the semester she participated in the West African ensemble:

[my entry]

I enjoy watching you dance – you’re very graceful, especially with  your hands.  Have you danced before?  Outside school somewhere?

[Selenna’s response]

Thank you.  I never danced before.  I never like to dance.  I just started dancing when I started dancing with these people [the West African ensemble dancers].

[my response]

Hmm, I guess that means you feel comfortable enough with the people in the group that you can relax and dance with them?  That’s good.  It’s also wonderful to see you come out of your shell this year.  You’re a beautiful girl with lots to offer – I’m glad you’re letting yourself shine!

[Selenna’s response]

Yes I do feel very comfortable with my group.  I know that last year I always refused [to participate] but this year I feel like I want to come out of my shell and shine.  This is very fun because I get to learn how to dance in different ways and enjoy myself because I feel very relaxed.  Today was fun.  I like it here.

What prompted Selenna to finally participate in music class and in the West African ensemble I cannot say.  So many factors could have contributed to the change in Selenna –  transformation (just like the arts themselves) is not measurable or predictable.   However, I feel her experience with the arts encouraged the change because the arts make discovery possible:  “Discovery occurs as students learn through adventures in the arts something of the possibilities of human experience” (1).  I suggest that music class and the West African ensemble afforded Selenna the space and opportunity to take the risk to try on a different identity – in effect, to help shape her own life story.

It was wonderful to see Selenna shine and grow in confidence during rehearsals – a child who previously was not willing to take the risk of performing and who eventually participated in a public performance in front of the entire school.  I continued to watch her participate fully in all her music classes throughout the rest of the year, as well.  Though she remained shy and very quiet, she smiled a lot more – and the jacket never again entered the music room.

(1)  Eisner, E. (1998).  The kind of schools we need: Personal essays.  Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann. (p. 85).

The White Teacher

My undergraduate teacher training studies prepared me in areas of subject matter, theory and pedagogy, and various classroom management techniques.  What I lacked was preparation in cultural diversity.

My first teaching position was in the barrios of East Los Angeles, CA.   My third-grade class consisted of twenty-nine students:  three blacks, one Vietnamese, and twenty-five Latinos.  At the time, I was not familiar with the term “Latino” or “Hispanic” – I could see that the three black students and one Vietnamese student in my class looked different from me, but I could not discern a difference between the Latino students and myself outside their accents.  Ladson-Billings (1) suggests that teachers who claim to be color-blind (i.e., by claiming to not notice racial difference) are actually dismissing an important part of a child’s identity.  Similarly, Delpit (2) suggests that well-intentioned teachers render their students “invisible” by claiming to not see color.  She asserts that, by stating, “I don’t see color, I only see children,” these educators send the message that “there is something wrong with being black or brown, that it should not be noticed” (p. 177).  I don’t know if I was being “color-blind” or simply ignorant in not seeing a racial difference between my Latino students and myself.  Whatever the reason, the fact was I saw 95% of the school population as just having beautiful Californian tans.

In October of that year the students were reading aloud sentences they had written for homework.  David stood up, paper in hand, and read a sentence he had composed which mentioned “the white teacher.”  Immediately, the other students audibly gasped and Victor quickly admonished his friend for saying “the white teacher.”  Shamefaced, David hung his head, mumbled an apology, and sat down at his desk.  Naïve and ignorant, I asked what the problem was.  Victor explained that David shouldn’t have said “the white teacher” in front of me.  Still confused, I asked why.  The students looked at me incredulously.  Ana Luz then reluctantly said that David’s words were an insult to me, that such words would only “hurt your feelings, Maestra.”  It was only then that I understood what was so clear to the students – I was “the white teacher” in David’s sentence.  I wasn’t offended; certainly I was well aware that I was white.  What hurt, though, was the sudden realization that the students saw me as different from them – as the “Other.”

I have taught students of culturally diverse backgrounds since that “white teacher” revelation so many years ago, and still I am the “Other.”  In The Poisonwood Bible (3), Leah Price (daughter of a white missionary in former Zaire) struggles with being the “Other.”  Over time, she identifies herself as Congolese – she marries a Congolese activist, raises three Congolese sons, speaks fluent Lingala, lives one with the people sharing their customs, way of life, extreme poverty, and political struggles.  And yet she cannot escape her “whiteness” – she will never be truly accepted by the people she has adopted as her own, they will always regard her with reserved deference.   She will always be the “Other.”   I have studied African-American culture and music; West African drumming and dancing; Javanese gamelan and wayang kulit (shadow puppets); Khmer pin peat and sbek nang (Cambodian orchestra and shadow puppets).  I teach these multicultural art forms to my students not only because musics and cultures of the world interest me but also because these are my students’ cultures and art forms.  Unlike David so many years ago, my music students have never made my “otherness” explicit or questioned the credibility of  “the white teacher” teaching multicultural art forms.  However, like Leah Price, I cannot escape my “whiteness.”  I remain the “Other.”

Students in my West African drumming/dancing ensemble raised money one semester to have a workshop with Abigail Ifatola Jefferson, a local black storyteller and dancer.  I had attended a few West African drumming/dancing workshops taught by Abigail.  Having studied cultural traditions and dance in Ghana, Nigeria, Niger, and Cuba, Abigail is mesmerizing in her storytelling and expressive in her dancing.  I wanted my students to have the pleasure of studying with her.   The students were enthralled and completely engaged as Abigail demonstrated various West African dance movements, explaining the meanings behind each move.  At one point a child commented how some of the dance moves looked like “Michael Jackson moves” which sent everyone squealing with laughter.  Abigail explained that the dance moves and rhythms of black culture have their origin in African traditions.  “Africa is our ancestral birthplace, our roots, where we come from as a people.”  She spoke with such dignity and pride, and the students (all black and Hispanic) responded with renewed energy and focus to their dancing.  I envied Abigail’s position to speak as an insider, as one who culturally identified with the students.  I could teach them the West African dances and rhythms I had studied, but I could never speak as an insider.   Once again, I could not escape my “whiteness.”

Several years later, I had five West African girls in my West African drumming/dancing ensemble – four Liberians and one Nigerian.   The irony of the situation (i.e., white Westerner teaching African dance to African girls) had been bothering me and I needed to know how the girls viewed it.  When I asked them privately, immediately they answered that they felt fine about the situation.   “You teach us dances and rhythms we don’t know and we teach you dances and rhythms you don’t know,” summed up Virginia, her arms gesturing between us.  Their responses helped me accept my “otherness” and legitimized my position as “the white teacher” teaching multicultural art forms to multicultural students.

Though I will never be able to speak as an insider, the love and respect I have for my students and their cultures – coupled with a genuine sense of reciprocity in learning (i.e., we learn from each other) – speak through me.  Because of this, my students accept me for who I am. 

I am “the white teacher.”

(1)  Ladson-Billings, G. (1994).  The dreamkeepers: Successful teachers of African-

American children. CA: Jossey-Bass.

(2)  Delpit, L. (1995).  Other people’s children: Cultural conflict in the classroom. NY:

The New Press.

(3)  Kingsolver, B. (1998).  The poisonwood bible. New York: HarperCollins Publishers.

            

Risk-taking and Imagining "As If" Worlds

Ali was too cool for music class.  Too cool for school.  Too cool for life.  At only eleven years old, she was 5’ 7”, had the body of a sixteen year old, and the blasé attitude of an adult.  Her jeans were tight and her necklines low.  The boys loved to be close to her.

I had known Ali since she was in kindergarten.  Back then she was quiet and shy, rarely participating in music activities.  Sometimes children begin kindergarten reserved and reluctant but gradually grow to trust me and their surroundings, eventually enjoying their participation in music lessons.  Ali never did.  By third-grade she was not only quiet but also sullen – having perfected the fine art of eye-rolling, teeth-sucking, and huffy-sighing.  The girl was formidable in her body language – she would look you in the eye defiantly, and then slowly look away.  Johnstone contends that status is not established by staring itself but rather in the reaction to staring (1).  Citing various studies examining eye contact between strangers, he finds that the person who looks away first is actually the dominant one.  In Johnstone’s view, “breaking eye contact can be high status so long as you don’t immediately glance back for a fraction of a second.  If you ignore someone, your status rises; if you feel impelled to look back then it falls” (p. 42).  Based on Johnstone’s findings, Ali certainly exhibited high status in social interactions at school.  She began fifth-grade in the classroom of a male teacher.  By early November, the teacher had requested Ali be transferred into another classroom claiming her attitude and cleavage made him too uncomfortable.  Amazingly, this was not a young, inexperienced male teacher but a highly regimented, somewhat bullish, veteran teacher in his late fifties, used to dealing with the toughest students.

In January, another teacher and I began work on an after-school opera project.  Besides being a dynamic teacher, Tom is also a professional photographer and amateur actor.  He has a guileless manner and a phenomenal knack for getting students to open up and act without inhibition.  Students in grades 3, 4, and 5 were invited to apply for positions in the opera company:  writers/public relations; composers/musicians; set designers/stage crew; and actors (in the past, we had offered positions of electricians and carpenters but this time we did not have the resources to purchase the supplies necessary for those jobs).  The application consisted of a questionnaire, teacher recommendation, and parental consent.    Additionally, Tom and I scheduled after-school auditions for those applying for acting positions.

The first student application we received was from Ali, applying for the job of actor.  She handed it to me the day after we gave application forms to the classroom teachers to disburse.  I was surprised and intrigued by Ali’s interest.  The afternoon of auditions, the principal approached me and said that Ali had told her she had “butterflies” anticipating the after-school audition.   It seemed inconceivable that Ali would share such information especially with an authority figure.  My interest was piqued and I grew more curious about Ali’s upcoming audition.

The audition lasted one and one half hours.  Tom and I had chosen various improvisation exercises that would reveal students’ skills in imagination, pretend play, vocal production, etc.  We kept the students actively engaged in the fast-paced exercises for the entire time.  Ali performed surprisingly well.  More important, it was as though the child locked inside her came out to play.  One cannot be “too cool” whilst pretending to be a gorilla or a whiney three-year old in a supermarket.  Ali exhibited natural ability portraying different characters using body and facial expressions, and she was able to stay in character through an improvised scene.  Surprisingly, she giggled and laughed and her face lit up when she smiled.  It was pure delight to watch her.

Ali was “hired” as an actor in the opera company.   During weekly rehearsals she was an eleven-year old girl seemingly enjoying herself whilst working hard at the craft of acting.  Additionally, Ali became more willing to participate during music classes – she even asked to be a drummer in the West African drumming/dancing ensemble (an ensemble that rehearsed weekly during the school day).  Tom also noticed a change in her attitude when he encountered her mornings during his before-school duty – the eye-rolling, teeth-sucking, and huffy-sighing had all but disappeared.

I suggest that the opera project (and subsequently the drumming/dancing ensemble) gave Ali the opportunity to take the risk of dropping her “too cool” façade.  In her studies of authors, artists, scientists, and mathematicians, John-Steiner (2) found that the most successful individuals were those willing to take risks and make mistakes.  Such willingness to take risks leads to innovation in any field.  Greene (3) urges educators to encourage positive risk-taking and self-reflection in learning – to take the risk to break through the “cotton wool of daily life.”  Performing in front of others is a risk.  Putting yourself and your ideas out for public scrutiny takes a lot of courage.  Tom and I had created a safe space that allowed Ali and the other students in the opera project to take those risks and make mistakes without experiencing humiliation.

Unfortunately, by April Ali could no longer participate in the project.  For an unexplained reason her mother could no longer commit to picking her up after rehearsals.  (Fortunately, she was able to continue drumming in the West African ensemble.)  I think the space of the arts allowed Ali to try on different roles and imagine “as if” worlds and “possibilities” where she could find her niche.  And, as Greene suggests, imagining things being otherwise may be the first step toward acting on the belief that they can be changed (4).  I hope Ali continues to “release imagination” in middle school and beyond.

(1)  Johnstone, K. (1981).  Impro: Improvisation and the theatre. New York: Routledge.

(2)  John-Steiner, V. (1997).  Notebooks of the mind: Explorations of thinking.  Oxford:

              Oxford University Press.

(3)  Greene, M. (2001).  Variations on a blue guitar: The Lincoln Center Institute

            lectures on aesthetic education. New York: Teachers College Press.

(4)  Greene, M. (1995).  Releasing the imagination: Essays on education, the arts, and

social change.  San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, Inc.

That Was Beautiful

As part of a guided listening lesson, a class of second-graders first had to describe with rich language the music of Rachmaninoff’s “Vocalise” (1).  They employed musical terms describing tempo, dynamics, mood, and instrumentation.  A few students depicted colorful images that the music evoked for them.  Vocalise, Op. 34, No. 14 is a piece originally written in 1912 for accompanied voice.  It is a song without text – it contains no words, just one vowel sound of the singer’s choosing.  In the recording that I used, Yo-Yo Ma accompanies Bobby McFerrin on cello.  The music is expressively slow and mournful – even haunting.

After approximately ten minutes of critical listening and analysis, the students then had to interpret the piece with movement.  I draped a white bed sheet over an old coat rack placed between the students and an overhead projector.  For this particular activity, the students volunteer to perform their interpretive movement behind the sheet.  The class can only see the shadow of the performer cast by the light of the projector.  Having a screen enables the observers to focus attention on the movement rather than on the actual body and face of the performer.  Likewise, it offers a “protective barrier” for the performer – not seeing his/her classmates helps focus attention on listening and moving to the music.  Of course, there are always the children who volunteer then become quite silly behind the screen, leading to uproarious laughter by classmates.  Or the children who, despite being obscured by the screen, suddenly become shy and petrified.  Sometimes, though, a child stands behind the screen and is so focused on the music and his/her movements that the act is transformed into a work of art – a magical, ephemeral moment that temporarily captivates the viewers.  Such an experience happened during this second-grade lesson.

After several silly performers, I was ready to end the activity and move on with the lesson.  Sometimes the best plans fail and you have to know when to scrap or save them for another day.  Then one child raised his hand in earnest, wanting to volunteer.  My initial reaction was to deny him the opportunity, figuring he would be just as silly as the previous students.  However, there was something in his expression that made me acquiesce, stating his would be the last performance.  Once everyone had quieted, I turned on the music and the child began to slowly move behind the screen.  Within seconds, the shadow we were watching began to move gracefully with the music.  As the melody rose and fell, so did the movements of the child.  When the dynamic level increased, the movements grew larger.  I was amazed at how his movements reflected not only the mood and dynamics of the piece but also the phrasing.  He seemed intuitively one with the music.  Additionally, the other students seemed in awe as well, sitting spellbound until the end.  The performer concluded his improvised dance by “melting” into the floor.  There was a hushed moment before the students applauded.  The little girl sitting next to me, still staring at the screen, sighed deeply and softly uttered, “That was beautiful.”  It was beautiful and this young child (seven or eight years old) next to me was completely moved by the aesthetic experience – which was a beautiful moment in itself.   I marveled at the depth of her perception, especially considering her young age. 

Aesthetics is a branch of philosophy that deals with perception, sensation, and imagination as they relate to our understanding and ability to make sense of the world.  In her work with the Lincoln Center Institute, Maxine Greene argues that aesthetic education must be more than exposure to the arts.  We as educators must develop a deep awareness in students so that they can “feel from the inside what the arts are like and how they mean” (2).  To engage with a work of art, one must go beyond passive observing and participate imaginatively with the object (ie., the dance, the music, the poem, etc.).  Works of art exist in their own space, apart from the ordinary, everyday routine.  As such, works of art “can be achieved and made meaningful only when those who attend are willing to leap out of the ordinary and be present, as authentic and incomplete beings, to the works at hand” (3).  Based on my student’s reaction to the improvised shadow dance, I suggest that she had actively perceived the aesthetic qualities inherent in the music and movement; that she had removed herself from the ordinary and become present and wide-awake to the work before her; that she had felt from the inside what the dance was like.

That works of art exist apart from the ordinary, everyday reality does not mean they are simply fantasy or fanciful.  Encounters with the arts heighten our perception, imagination, and sense of meaning-making, enabling us to become more wide-awake in the world; to break through the “cotton wool” of daily life and imagine possibilities.

I will never know the full effect that particular aesthetic experience had on my young students – the performer or the observers.  But I am certain that in the transitory moment of that improvised performance, a shift in perception and imagination occurred and we were all, in varying degrees, transformed by it.  “That was beautiful.”

(1)  Ma, Y. & McFerrin, B. (1992).  Vocalise.  On Hush [CD]. New York: Sony Music.

(2)  Greene, M. (2001).   Variations on a blue guitar:  The Lincoln Center Institute

                  lectures on aesthetic education.  New York: Teachers College Press (p. 8).

(3)  Ibid. (p. 10).