When my oldest child was ready for kindergarten, I visited
a number of schools in our neighborhood to see where he might
fit the best. I didn't go to kindergarten myself, and I didn't
know much about what to expect, so I went to find out.
I got the tours of each place and the public relations
descriptions of how each school strove for excellence, but
sitting in each classroom gave me the best sense of the
climate there. I saw calm teachers and harried ones; I saw
teachers who yelled to keep control and some who had already
lost it to five year olds; I saw children who were attentive
and engaged and those whose heads were some other place.
How does one make this decision, I wondered; maybe it's not
the greatest thing to have all these choices instead of doing
it the old way, when every child in a neighborhood was herded
to the same school, for better or worse. How would I know the
right place for my son when I saw it?
I was about ready to throw a dart to choose, when I decided
to make one more visit, to a school that I'd seen many times
but knew nothing about. The kindergarten classroom I walked
into was not promising. It seemed small, cluttered, and the
children seemed to be doing ten different activities around
the room. I sighed inside, thinking maybe my expectations were
naive, maybe the place I wanted to find did not exist and I
needed to wise up. But I was there, they'd been kind enough to
let me visit, so I began to try to get the feel of the place.
Within a few minutes, it dawned on me that these children
were indeed in ten different places, and that there probably
were too many of them in this smallish room, but that they
seemed happy. The teacher spoke calmly and warmly to them as
she moved quietly from group to group; she didn't seem
hassled, the room didn't feel chaotic, and everyone got her
attention when they needed it. When she called them to come
sit in a circle on the floor, the children left their easels
and math boxes and wooden blocks and came together.
Jobs were to be assigned this morning for the following
week, and this is when the moment I'd been waiting for
occurred. One child volunteered to write the day and date on
the board each day. Another would draw a picture about the
weather each morning. The plant-watering was assigned, the
snack distribution was spoken for, and then the teacher asked,
"Who wants to be the encourager next week?"
I immediately felt a catch in my throat, as several hands
shot up. The job of the encourager was to move around the room
and notice who might be having a hard time or who might seem
sad; the encourager would ask how things were going and offer
words of comfort or understanding. I know that's a hard
puzzle, don't give up; you're doing a good job, that block
design took me a long time, too.
Well, that's all I needed. The decision was made. This was
not the most impressive classroom I'd seen in terms of
physical layout or resources, but a kindergarten class that
had a job for an encourager was a place I wanted my child. It
turned out to be just as good an experience as it looked that
day; all my children were lucky enough to spend kindergarten
with that wonderful teacher.
I've thought a lot since that day about the job of
encourager. That's what psychologists sometimes are; that's
what parents often are and that's what all of us need at
times. Our pace of life and the very nature of our
institutions, though, do not often make a place for such an
experience. I spent a lot of time in nursing homes as my
parents grew old, and oh, could those facilities have used an
encourager! I've worked in a daycare center and consulted in a
Headstart program and was struck by how great it would be if
someone's only job was to notice who could use a kind word,
and say it.
When my children are launched and don't need my financial
support, that's what I want to do. I want to be the encourager
in a place that needs it but can't pay for it. I know
firsthand, we all do, how a sympathetic word, an understanding
response, even an unexpected smile can turn a day around. I
think that would be a great job and I hope I get to do it.
Meanwhile, there are plenty of moments in our family lives,
at our jobs and in our communities where taking the time to
offer encouragement would mean more than we know. There's a
lot we can't control and affect in this busy, noisy life, but
this one's in our power. This is a job we can choose.
--------------------------------------------------
Mary Schuele, Ph.D. is a psychologist in private practice
in Kansas City, MO. She teaches in the masters program at
Avila University.
