School as a system of spaces

Recently, I had my Grade 11 Social Studies students examine the "human experience" at our school, D.P. Todd Secondary in Prince George. 

We thought about all the ways in which we create "affective ties with the material environment” (a reference to Topophilia by Yi Fu Tuan). These are the bonds that people form with the places they visit and inhabit, and can be characterized as positive or negative and everything in between, or neither for that matter. We began our thinking with some history of the school and ideas around why it was built the way it was back in 1976.

We schemed out the patterns, the categories of interaction that take place. In no particular order: safety features & processes, natural light vs artificial light, meetings places, high traffic areas, places to eat, food service, programs in operation, sound and music, state of technology, use of tables and seating, state of repair & equipment, accessibility (e.g. inclusive of disabilities), private vs public places, connection to nature, doorway & entrance experience, noise levels & places to make noise, evidence of celebration, temperature or climate control, communication systems, fun/happy vs sad/depressing, evidence of history/tradition, student-centered creations.

The students set out to take photos as evidence of these patterns. See below for some of the examples -- notably absent are the images that show students "doing their thing" at school -- we did not publish these due to privacy.  Our conclusion was that a school is not just one place, but many spaces that are collected together to meet different expectations.  We had near-consensus that our school building is tired, in need of repair and renovation, and fails to meet certain expectations.  Four of the top concerns were: lack of natural light (most classrooms do not have windows, same for the hallways and open spaces), lack of nature-connection specifically trees on the school grounds, no place to sit and eat lunch (many kids sit on the floor with their backs against their lockers), and a dingy unwelcoming front entrance. As one student put it, when you put our school under the microscope it doesn't look good. For the positive, the students mentioned that student generally feel welcomed and have a positive experience of being together despite the deficits in the school and on the grounds, perhaps due to the school's smaller size and population. Mind you, one student likened this to Stockholm Syndrome. There was also agreement that the library or "learning commons" functioned as a positive space and had good hits on our checklist.

As a teacher doing this work with students, I have a short-term wishlist for D.P. Todd, realizing that a the promised full-scale renovation may never come:

1. Our school has undifferentiated expanses of hallway and an entrance area that is too small and crowded -- at present these are the only public spaces where student can gather. We need some spaces for students to "retreat" and see themselves reflected in the school experiences -- take out some lockers and put in benches and display cases to form small alcoves. Finish the table replacement cycle by bringing in a few more of the red & blue oval tables and getting rid of the cafeteria style tables in the main hallway.
2. Have a few areas, even wallspace, that the students control or can manipulate from week to week and year to year. Include digital spaces and outdoor spaces in which students have a sense of participation and choice. Our school should represent the "present" of it's student body, not just the past.  
3. More trees -- almost all of the "historic" trees at our school were Pinus Contorta and fell victim to the pine beetle epidemic in the early 2000s.  We have a handful of scraggly trees left, including some "accidental" cottonwood saplings coming up between a sidewalk and a fence. Kids deserve communion with trees on a daily basis, and we have the room for single specimens, rows, and small groves of trees, not to mention flowers, plants, shrubbery, or sculpting of small hummocks. The established and repeated rationale for denying past efforts to replant trees -- that it is easier and cheaper to mow lawn that it is to maintain trees -- is unacceptable.
4. Offer an incentive for teachers to declutter, get some feng shui, and make their classrooms more welcoming -- a new coat of paint or a bit of new furniture can go a long way. Swap desks for small tables where requested, and replace the terrible chairs that snag kids' hair and clothing on the rivets.

 

The Crying Tree

A gnarled tolkien-like box elder (or manitoba maple) used to live on our front lawn right beside the curb. It was a delight to our children - the perfect climbing tree, filled with dozens of burls and natural places to sit or stand, half sheltered from the street below. When one of our kids was really upset or angry, and we had used up our meagre bag of parenting tricks, we would take them out to sit up in the tree until they had calmed down. As they got older, we could sometimes just send them out to the Crying Tree when they needed a break from whatever was brewing inside the house.

Lu was just a baby when we first used the tree for Comfort. I set her down, wrapped in a blanket and screaming, on the first burl-ledge and stood there thinking about why I got so upset she got upset. The twilight and fresh air, the play of fall leaves above her, seemed to work almost instantly, and when we came inside we had a name for the tree.

The last formal visit to the tree belonged to Kate and Finn, who climbed up to the big fork to have a deep conversation about something, now forgotten, that was very important at the time. In between these mileposts, it was a fort, hiding spot, guardpost, cat-perch, and tower in a castle. In addition to children, it was host to many woodpeckers, especially in the last few years, and was part of the squirrel highway that allowed safe passage along the street, out of reach by cats.

The tree has been dying for few years, a victim of whatever had caused the teeming burls, and it became clear that we had to do something with it before the rot set in. The City of Prince George made our decision for us, and came with chainsaws and a woodchipper to take it down last summer. We salvaged as many burls as we could, and handed them over to a local woodturner (Greg Clarke) to dry the wood and work them into something we could keep. He fashioned 20 or more objects from the tree, most of which we received today.

The Crying Tree bore witness to our laughter and tears, to our street barbecues, to our comings and goings, and our attempts to make a Hobbit-home out of our house. It had the power to calm, and was a source of fascination for neighbours and strangers alike. They gave it names like the Booby Tree, the Gnarly Tree, and the Schmoo Tree. On account of the low growths and step-like architecture, many of the kids nearby had their first solo tree-climbing experience here. I can remember at least three conversations when we were all talking out on the street and some kid asks a parent "can I climb this tree?" and the parent looks at it for a bit and says "yeah, of course, why wouldn't you."

The Crying Tree was a staging area for many games and role-plays that I was never privy to, a source of secrets and schemes, but it was the Comfort it gave to my kids when they were sad that makes me most thankful. The tree will have to continue this important work now as the Crying Bowls; maybe there is still some role they will play in the emotional health of our family.

Ancient Forest

A couple Fridays ago I took my Language & Landscape group out on a bus to the Ancient Forest, a local hiking trail about 110 km east of Prince George. The paths lead through a unique ecosystem found almost nowhere else on earth -- an inland temperate rainforest. This particular patch is the most northern expression of this wetbelt ecosystem, part old-growth cedar forest but also part of the great boreal forest that stretches across most of Canada. Adding to the ecological story is the fact that the forest has "antique" qualities; very old trees with snags, openings, and diverse structure. Some of the enormous Western Redcedars (Thuja Plicata) are as old as 2000 years and may be one of the first to inhabit the region -- pollen samples from local lake bottoms reveal that Thuja only comes on the scene about 2500 years ago. There are also species of lichens in the canopy that are found in only a few locations in the world, none of which are even close to the northern interior of British Columbia. The Ancient Forest is a biodiversity capsule that holds stories from the time of Alexander the Great.

With a few students absent, it was a merry gang of 20 that climbed out of the bus into a dense fog that filled the entire valley of the Upper Fraser. I had a few questions in my head, learning intentions that I hoped could be fulfilled in the 2 or 3 hours we had in this place, but I also had enough experience to know that whatever happened would probably be fine, for there were 19 others that had their own ideas about fun and field trips. Here is what I wondered, and here is how it turned out:

1. What is the nature of this place? What themes or thoughts or actions make sense in this place?

• Traditional Ecological Knowledge - the cedars are foundational to Aboriginal culture in BC (building material, ceremonial purposes etc.); the dominant understory shrub here is Devil's Club (Oplopanax horribilis), also an important plant for First Peoples, primarily  for powerful medicine as I understand it. There is a lot of potential for both the study and, with some respectful protocol, the practice of ethobotany.  We saw wild ginger on our walk (delicacy), but we also saw a highly poisonous hellabore.
• Ecosystem Relationships - as mentioned above this place is unique and it is possible to see variety of biogeoclimatic processes at work.  For example, understanding soil moisture on this slope position anf within the local subclimate is key to understanding why these forests contain giant redcedars instead of the usual spruce, pine, and fir.  This forest offers many opportunities to examine the nurtrient cycle and the stages of forest renewal.  Beneath the rootwheels thrown up by trees blown over in winter storms there are natural soil pits that allowed us to see and touch the "till" (parent material) and clay loam (surface soil). We also happened across Dave King, a famous hiker and trail-maker in our region who was repairing a section of board walk.  He gave our group short talk and lent me his shovel and pulaski so I could did a little soil pit to show why these soils were part of the reason why the redcedars thrived. Digging through the first bit of humus was the opening to talk about biodiversity. Boreal and sub-boreal forests (like this rainforest) owe much of their vitality to biological action in the soil, whereas in tropical rainforests most of the action is in the canopy.

2. How much can or should I wrangle students; is it important for me to convey what I find valuable about this forest?

• In the end, I think it is important to throw out some "teacher wisdom" when the scene is right, but there is only so much control that can be expected when you have teens running around in a forest. 
• Maybe the key is to have a few places to stop with something specific in mind, rather than trying to create running commentary. This feels much more like being "present" which in the case of the Ancient Forest is not hard. Lots of "presence" in there to attend to.

3. What does nature/place-based learning look like? What can we learn about ourselves from this specific place?

• For me this came down to senses. The sweet forest debris, the wash of scented needles born down on the mist, the noise of water (trickles here and there, a substantial waterfall at the top), the sounds of twigs breaking and students calling out and laughing. There was a warm and cool about the day, a chance to get dirt on one's hands and to feel something sharp in the form of a rock or branch stub. This simply does not happen in a classroom.
• I tried to do two things to get students out of their urban armour. First, I led about half of them off the path into some blowdown and brush -- by led I mean I simply ran off towards a fallen tree and half of them followed me. Second, I egged almost all of them to climb up to the base of Treebeard Falls and play around in the rocks and water for a while. In the closed-in space (rock walls on three sides, clothed in moss and ferns, glittering stones about our feet), I asked them to close their eyes and listen for 30 seconds, just breath and listen. I have no idea what they got out of that but I sense it was a little magic moment. I felt that way, anyways.
• Some students stuck in a big pack, others wandered around in 2s or 3s, and some were anxious to move on (e.g. pitstops to talk about lichens did not appeal) or did not want to catch up (having fund taking photos or looking at stuff). Learning in nature takes on intense differentiation -- I'm realizing that unusual settings can amplify the identity-rich markers that are often difficult to see when the kids are stuck in the melting pot of a high school. For example, it was easier to see who was a leader, who was a helper, who needed affirmation, who wanted to share stories, and who wanted to experience the perceived learning intentions on their own terms.  This concept was pointed out to me many times by an early mentor, Norm Booth -- we never really know what students learn. We assess student output using our up-to-date tools, and they sometimes tell us what they've learned, but the actual stuff that takes place in their brains is not easily defined; it is abstract and profound, perhaps even sacred.

4. What should I do next time, next semester when I take a group of Grade 12s out here?

• I think a bit more pre-reading is in order, so that the forest denizens (the trees, the devil's club, the valley itself) have more a of backstory for the students.
• I loved that we brought sandwich fixings and made our own lunch. Repeat that.

Thanks to my student DB for the pics... here's three more: