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The Little Boy


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A short while ago someone posted a poem about a little boy who liked drawing, painting and his teacher stopped him and made him do things her way until he didnt do things his own way any longer.

 

I am trying to locate it for a staff meeting - can anyone help?

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Sorry Michaella, i do remember it being posted here but couldnt find it. I found a copy of the 100 languages of children - Reggio Emilia, yesterday, might be of use. :D

 

The Hundred Languages

 

 

NO way. The hundred is there.

 

The child is made of one hundred.

The child has a hundred languages

A hundred hands

A hundred thoughts

A hundred ways of thinking,

Of playing, of speaking.

A hundred, always a hundred

Ways of listening,

Of marvelling, of loving

a hundred joys

For singing and understanding,

A hundred worlds

To discover,

A hundred worlds to invent

A hundred worlds

To dream.

The child has

A hundred languages

(and a hundred, hundred more)

But they steal ninety-nine.

The school and the culture

Separate the head from the body.

They tell the child:

To think without hands

To do without head

To listen and not to speak

To understand without joy

To love and to marvel

Only at Easter and Christmas.

They tell the child:

To discover the world already there

And of the hundred they steal ninety-nine.

They tell the child:

That work and play,

Reality and fantasy,

Science and imagination,

Sky and earth,

Reason and dream,

Are things

That do not belong together.

 

And thus they tell the child

That the hundred is not there.

The child says:

No way. The hundred is there.

 

Loris Malaguzzi, founder of the Reggio Emilia approach

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i think this is the one you were after;

 

The Little Boy

by Helen E. Buckley

 

Once a little boy went to school.

He was quite a little boy

And it was quite a big school.

 

One morning,

When the little boy had been in school a while

The teacher said:

"Today we are going to make a picture"

"Good" thought the little boy,

He liked to make pictures.

He could make all kinds;

Lions and tigers,

Chickens and cows,

Trains and boats.

And he took out his box of crayons

And he began to draw.

 

But the teacher said: "Wait

It is not time to begin"

And she waited until everyone looked ready.

 

"Now" said the teacher,

"We are going to make flowers"

"Good" thought the little boy,

He liked to make flowers.

And he began to make beautiful ones

With his pink and orange and blue crayons.

 

But the teacher said "Wait,

And I will show you how."

And she drew a flower on the board.

It was red, with a green stem.

"There," said the teacher

"Now you may begin."

 

The little boy looked at the teacher's flower,

Then he looked at his own flower.

He liked his flower better than the teacher's.

But he did not say this.

He just turned his paper over

And made a flower like the teacher's.

It was red with a green stem.

 

On another day

The teacher said,

"Today we are going to make something with clay."

"Good" thought the little boy,

He liked clay.

He could make all kinds of things with clay:

Snakes and snowmen,

Elephants and mice,

Cars and trucks -

And he began to pull and pinch

His ball of clay.

 

But the teacher said

"Wait, it is not time to begin"

And she waited until everyone looked ready.

"Now," said the teacher,

"We are going to make a dish"

"Good," thought the boy,

"He liked to make dishes,

And he began to make some

That were all shapes and sizes.

 

But the teacher said

"Wait and I will show you how"

And she showed everyone how to make one deep dish.

"There," said the teacher,

"Now you may begin."

 

The little boy looked at the teacher's dish.

Then he looked at his own dish.

He liked his better than the teacher's.

But he did not say this.

He just rolled his clay into a big ball again,

And made a dish like the teacher's.

It was a deep dish.

And pretty soon

The little boy learned to wait,

And to watch,

And to make things just like the teacher.

 

And pretty soon

He didn't make things of his own any more.

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I heard the story again on a recent early years course, but it had a further part to the story. I don't know it word for word but it was basically this:

 

Then one day the little boy and his family moved to a different area and the little boy had to start at a different school. On his first morning at the school his teacher said

"Today we are going to make a picture"

"Good" thought the little boy,

He liked to make pictures.

He sat and he waited whilst his teacher walked around the classroom. When she came to the little boy's desk the teacher said

"What are you going to draw?"

"What would you like me to draw?" replied the little boy.

"Whatever you'd like to draw" laughed the teacher.

"What are the other children drawing?" asked the little boy.

"All sorts of things" said the teacher

"Don't you want me to draw the same as them?" asked the little boy.

The teacher said "Why on Earth would I want you to do that? If everybody drew the same picture it wouldn't be very interesting would it?" and she carried on around the classroom.

The little boy picked up his pencil and began.

He drew a flower. It was red, with a green stem.

 

It's not quite like that, but you get the idea, & someone out there must have the proper version.

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About School

 

He always wanted to say things. But no-one understood. He always wanted to explain things. But no-one cared.

So he drew.

 

Sometimes he would just draw and it wasn’t anything.

He wanted to carve it in stone or write it in the sky.

He would lie out on the grass and look up in the sky and it would only be him and the sky and things inside that needed saying.

 

And it was after that, that he drew the picture.

It was a beautiful picture. He kept it under the pillow and would let no-one see it.

And he would look at it every night and think about it.

And when it was dark, and his eyes were closed, he could still see it.

And it was all of him. And he loved it.

 

When he started school he brought it with him.

Not to show anyone, but just to have it with him like a friend.

 

It was funny about school.

He sat in a square, brown desk like all the other square, brown desks and he thought it should be red.

And his room was a square, brown room. Like all the other rooms.

And it was tight and close. And stiff.

 

He hated to hold the pencil and the chalk, with his arm stiff and his feet flat on the floor, with the teacher watching and watching.

And then he had to write numbers. And they weren’t anything.

They were worse than the letters that could be something if you put them together.

And the numbers were tight and square and he hated the whole thing.

 

The teacher came and spoke to him. She told him to wear a tie like all the other boys. He said he didn’t like them and she said it didn’t matter.

 

After that they drew. And he drew all yellow and it was the way he felt about morning. And it was beautiful.

 

The teacher came and smiled at him ‘What’s this?’ she said. ‘Why don’t you draw something like Ken’s drawing? Isn’t that beautiful?’

It was all questions.

 

After that his mother bought him a tie and he always drew airplanes and rocket ships like everyone else.

And he threw the old picture away.

And when he lay out alone looking at the sky, it was big and blue and all of everything, but he wasn’t anymore.

 

He was square inside and brown, and his hands were stiff, and was like anyone else. And the thing inside him that needed saying didn’t need saying anymore.

 

It had stopped pushing. It was crushed. Stiff. Like everything else.

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This one is called 'About School'

 

About School

 

He always wanted to say things. But no-one understood. He always wanted to explain things. But no-one cared.

So he drew.

 

Sometimes he would just draw and it wasn’t anything.

He wanted to carve it in stone or write it in the sky.

He would lie out on the grass and look up in the sky and it would only be him and the sky and things inside that needed saying.

 

And it was after that, that he drew the picture.

It was a beautiful picture. He kept it under the pillow and would let no-one see it.

And he would look at it every night and think about it.

And when it was dark, and his eyes were closed, he could still see it.

And it was all of him. And he loved it.

 

When he started school he brought it with him.

Not to show anyone, but just to have it with him like a friend.

 

It was funny about school.

He sat in a square, brown desk like all the other square, brown desks and he thought it should be red.

And his room was a square, brown room. Like all the other rooms.

And it was tight and close. And stiff.

 

He hated to hold the pencil and the chalk, with his arm stiff and his feet flat on the floor, with the teacher watching and watching.

And then he had to write numbers. And they weren’t anything.

They were worse than the letters that could be something if you put them together.

And the numbers were tight and square and he hated the whole thing.

 

The teacher came and spoke to him. She told him to wear a tie like all the other boys. He said he didn’t like them and she said it didn’t matter.

 

After that they drew. And he drew all yellow and it was the way he felt about morning. And it was beautiful.

 

The teacher came and smiled at him ‘What’s this?’ she said. ‘Why don’t you draw something like Ken’s drawing? Isn’t that beautiful?’

It was all questions.

 

After that his mother bought him a tie and he always drew airplanes and rocket ships like everyone else.

And he threw the old picture away.

And when he lay out alone looking at the sky, it was big and blue and all of everything, but he wasn’t anymore.

 

He was square inside and brown, and his hands were stiff, and was like anyone else. And the thing inside him that needed saying didn’t need saying anymore.

 

It had stopped pushing. It was crushed. Stiff. Like everything else.

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Hi there everyone!!

 

I've been just too busy to breathe just lately - I see I haven't been on since October 27th!!! xD:o

 

I'm back now, catching up before I dive in on other stuff, some for Steve - more of which elsewhere :( - some for work, but I must just say, it's lovely to come back to a thread like this. Reminds me why I love it here so much and pretty much reflects how I've felt just lately, being shoe-horned, pushed and pulled around till I hardly knew myself!!!

 

I've read them before, but they're worth repeating!!

 

Well, off I pop, but thanks again you lot

 

Sue :D

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