NEWSBYBRUCE SMITH

One of the first things you learn studying economics is that you can't have it all. Opportunity costs, they call it: given finite amounts of time and other resources, pursuing any course of action means doing without certain things. English classes typically find this concept in Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken"..."And sorry I could not travel both/And be one traveler."

Having worked in both conventional and Sudbury schools, I've noted that a key difference between the two seems to be their choosing the roads of content and character, respectively. Not that these paths are mutually exclusive; but it's interesting to observe how prioritizing each affects learning and growth.

Conventional schools devote vast amounts of time to content, to academic knowledge and skills. Everywhere you look, people are declaring what every Nth grader should know. Endless hours are spent drilling the state capitals and causes of the Civil War; multiplication tables and the Pythagorean theorem; the scientific method and taxonomy; and the differences between Shakespearean and Italian sonnets.

I suspect Mrs. Watts is rolling over in her grave these days.

My piano teacher for nine years growing up, Mrs. Watts wasn't exactly strict, but she did insist on things being done a certain way: fingers curled just so, tempo faithfully followed, learning each hand separately and not playing a piece any faster than control would allow. I can still hear her blasted metronome, and the way she had us students stand up and announce "I shall play such-and-such, by so-and-so" at recitals and competitions.

I never imagined, though, that I would come to teach piano myself one day. Yet I've played around enough at my current school, Alpine Valley, that occasionally students ask me to help them. So I do my intuitive best to accommodate their requests, giving each the sort of instruction that best suits their interests.

I've also taught creative writing at Alpine Valley for several years—although with the class set up as a workshop, I consider myself more an especially experienced participant than the gateway to writing excellence. As with piano instruction, when it comes to writing I'm first and foremost a practitioner sharing what he knows and does with other interested parties; more artist-in-residence than professional instructor.

Given these experiences, I've long been intrigued by the idea of teaching creativity. Granted, there's a host of technical aspects to cover in both piano and writing; yet how, I wonder, can creativity be conveyed in a pedagogical scope and sequence? After all, the technical side of capital-A Art is not where its magic lies. As the great Artur Rubenstein once remarked: "The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pauses between the notes—ah, that is where the art resides."

Just so, I have found that paying attention to the spaces within the structure is the most reliable path to genuine creativity. Working at a Sudbury school, I am happily reminded that people are inherently creative. There is something in each of us that must make art, and I am very lucky to be part of a school that acknowledges this. I watch students plunk out their own tunes on the piano; I see them spontaneously tell and write stories. Even those not especially predisposed or endowed eventually find their way to various art forms. It's what we humans do.

This has confirmed my longstanding belief that one can make art only to the extent that one is in touch with what it means to be alive. I recall attending a technically flawless recital several years ago. What stands out is my memory is how this young person's playing revealed a relative lack of life experience. As suggested above, getting the notes right isn't nearly enough. Fortunately, at Sudbury schools students are able to pour every ounce of their lives and selves into their pursuits. They "play" in the fullest sense of the word, at art and at life, working hard to master complex, even daunting, endeavors.

This sort of immersion is absolutely vital. If they are to plumb the depths of creativity, kids need to experience life directly and deeply. Because creativity occurs on its own timetable, vast amounts of time and flexibility must be available for this impulse to unfold. And because getting anywhere in a creative pursuit requires a great deal of practice, young people need an environment that encourages self-discipline. Specific curricula and methods are far less important than elemental encounters between individuals and their artistic nature.

As for the technical elements of music and writing, it's the same as with any discipline: students will pick up the basics when those things appear meaningful to them. They'll learn to read music and observe proper rhythm, dynamics, phrasing—or pay attention to conventions of spelling, grammar, and style—just as soon as they see why and how they're necessary, how these things help artists achieve their goals. By learning creativity in context, Sudbury students are allowed to become the artists nature meant them to be, rather than mimicking in a superficial way the creativity of others.

Don't get me wrong: there's no substitute for learning the ropes of a discipline, and scheduling has its place. In the real world, rehearsals, performances, meetings, etc. happen at agreed-upon times and places—deadlines are still deadlines—and so it is in Sudbury schools. Yet what is creativity if not individual variations on given themes? Surely students can explore the world around them without their exploration always being coordinated along established paths. Far better, I would argue, is letting students follow the rhythms of their own hearts, as well as of their communities.

I can still hear Mrs. Watts' voice in my head, questioning my more relaxed, flexible approach. Yet I've come to believe that while we can teach technique, creativity itself cannot be taught. The path to true creativity lies rather in honoring its natural occurrence in people, giving them every opportunity to explore their world and do the hard work of creating their own life. Yes, we need to support students' creativity; but suprisingly often, this involves little more than giving them space and getting out of their way.

It's legendary in the Sudbury literature: the five-month math class. As Sudbury Valley co-founder Daniel Greenberg reports in the above article, it took twenty weeks—a mere twenty contact hours—for a group of twelve kids ages 9 to 12 to cover all six years of elementary-school math.

A miracle? Hardly.

Greenberg's friend Alan White, a longtime elementary school math specialist, wasn't surprised. "Everyone knows," he said, "that the subject matter itself isn't that hard. What's hard...is beating it into the heads of youngsters who hate every step. The only chance we have is to hammer away at the stuff bit by bit every day for years. Even then it does not work...Give me a kid who wants to learn the stuff—well, twenty hours or so makes sense."

This squares with my experience as well. I once taught math to three students who consistently showed up on time. One day, however, I waited and waited...but they never appeared. A bit puzzled, I wandered back to the main room, only to find these students hard at work on their own. They'd gotten too busy and distracted working on math to think about math class.

Another time, a student asked me out of the blue—not in class, just in the course of a normal day—what I knew about counting in base 2 (a.k.a. binary numbers, the basis for digital computers). A spontaneous quasi-class ensued, as she and I looked things up, using a chalkboard to piece together the mysteries, treating it like a puzzle or a grand game: When do you add another digit? When is a 1 replaced with a 0? and so forth.

The way math is taught tells us much about how an educational system works...or why it doesn't. Some of the most powerful arguments on this theme are made in a piece popularly known as "Lockhart's Lament." Paul Lockhart teaches at Saint Ann's School in Brooklyn. Written in 2002, "A Mathematician's Lament"  is a scathing critique of math education that has circulated widely, despite having never been published. The remainder of this post offers an overview of this unusually insightful and frank work.

There is surely no more reliable way to kill enthusiasm and interest in a subject than to make it a mandatory part of the school curriculum. Include it as a major component of standardized testing and you virtually guarantee that the education establishment will suck the life out of it.

Lockhart opens with nightmare scenarios of music education reduced to teaching notation, and art education that's mostly worksheets, memorization, and paint-by-numbers. Beyond being absurd, this approach spells death for creativity.

If I had to design a mechanism for the express purpose of destroying a child's natural curiosity and love of pattern-making, I couldn't possibly do as good a job as is currently being done—I simply wouldn't have the imagination to come up with the kind of senseless, soul-crushing ideas that constitute contemporary mathematics education.

To Lockhart, mathematics is "the purest of the arts...the music of reason. To do mathematics is to engage in an act of discovery and conjecture, intuition and inspiration." Mathematics touches on the very core of human meaning-making: patterns, imagination, and creativity. Yet in schools it is replaced by the sterile doppelganger of decontextualized facts and regurgitated formulas.

Students learn that mathematics is not something you do, but something that is done to you. Emphasis is placed on sitting still, filling out worksheets, and following directions...The main problem with school mathematics is that there are no problems...[only] "exercises." "Here is a type of problem. Here is how to solve it. Yes it will be on the test. Do exercises 1-35 odd for homework." What a sad way to learn mathematics: to be a trained chimpanzee.

Beyond decrying what schools have done to mathematics, Lockhart also delves into what teaching truly means. Rather than training students to perform, teaching is to him a matter of being authentic, making connections, and manifesting the delights of discovery.

Teaching is not about information. It's about having an honest intellectual relationship with your students...You will never be a real teacher if you are unwilling to be a real person. Teaching means openness and honesty, an ability to share excitement, and a love of learning. Without these, all the education degrees in the world won't help you, and with them they are completely unnecessary.

Before I close, here are a few more of Lockhart's gems:

We learn things because they interest us now, not because they might be useful later. But this is exactly what we are asking children to do with math...Of course it can be done, but I think it ultimately does more harm than good. Much better to wait until their own natural curiosity about numbers kicks in.

Mental acuity of any kind comes from solving problems yourself, not from being told how to solve them.

How can schools guarantee that their students will all have the same basic knowledge? How will we accurately measure their relative worth? They can't, and we won't. Just like in real life.

The good news is that the frustrations of misguided education are more than matched by the delights of authentic learning. Whatever your take on math education or Sudbury schooling, all our schools—indeed, our culture in general—could benefit from a massive infusion of this kind of passion for common sense and reason.

In a Google Group discussion of Sudbury schooling, Change.org member Don Berg recently posted an interesting article from Teacher Magazine. Written by Anthony Cody, the article responds to Suze Orman's assertion that "students can't learn empowerment from people who aren't empowered." Cody admits,  "We can only teach what we actually embody."

One of the teachers I learned the most from...told me, "The subject your students are studying is you. They watch everything you do." He helped me understand that when I taught my students, I was showing them the way a man could behave in the world, the way he respected women, the way he dealt with conflict. All these things were part of teaching—way beyond how many protons there are in the nucleus of a carbon atom...

So Suze Orman is right in suggesting that we cannot teach empowerment unless we are empowered. But this got me thinking a bit more. Are we actually even trying to teach our students to exert power over their own lives?

It seems as if students are being taught the exact opposite. Learn what is on the test, because it is on the test, and doing well on this test will prepare you for the next set of tests, and at some point you will finally finish all the tests and be ready—for what? Certainly not for acting in a powerful way in relationship to the world or those around you!

Those who have read my bio know that prior to my move to Sudbury schooling, I taught in public schools. Today I'd like to consider the differences between these two models from a teacher's-eye view. I agree with Cody that our students study us, and that we teach them far more by example than we ever could in lessons. However, most of the time, in most schools, this sort of instruction is buried beneath an avalanche of mandates and an undemocratic power structure.

When I taught high school, I could never get past the feeling that it was all a performance. My character's name was Mr. Smith, and the most prominent feature of his costume was the necktie. In the classroom, Mr. Smith was a figure of some power: he made the rules, evaluated everyone's performance on tasks he set, and controlled students' freedom of movement. Yet when it came to the conditions of his workplace, Mr. Smith had little to no power. His daily schedule, the curriculum, and the hiring of personnel at his school—these things and more were decided somewhere else, by unknown others, and simply imposed on him and his colleagues.

What's more, relationships of any kind between teachers and students were frowned upon and/or made impossible. After all, one must get through lessons and prepare for tests, and you only have 50 minutes a day, 180 days a year, to do so; then new combinations of students and teachers must go through the same routine. In such a setting, it seems to me what students learn from their teachers is that it's okay to accept situations where you're disempowered, where you do things of questionable value and relevance because, well, that's just the way things are done: do what you're told, complain to the administration and school board if you want—and good luck with that.

With this kind of institutional dynamic, the need of students to learn who their teachers (and, I should add, their fellow students) really are is severely marginalized. There is little opportunity for teachers and students to know each other in any substantive way, no way for this deeper learning to occur. What's really going on in the world, as well as each other's lives, takes a back seat to an agenda dictated by people with no direct, personal stake in what's learned. I think a lot of my public-school students liked me, and got something out of my classes; but in retrospect, I fear the demands of that system sharply curtailed their most valuable learning opportunities.

What's the lesson here? Disempowerment diminishes learning. When teachers aren't free to teach, and when curricula and testing are valued over students' individual needs, everyone loses.

Fortunately, Sudbury schooling extends to its teachers, as well as its students, real empowerment. In fact, the one job title at Sudbury schools is "staff member," since the work involves so much more than simply teaching. All staff members combine conventional functions of instruction, administration, and counseling; more fundamentally, we serve as mentors and role models. Staff work together, with no one person in charge, to do whatever they deem essential to the good of their school and its students. Consequently, everyone's strengths are maximized, and their needs met in the most effective way possible, with maximal flexibility.

Because the power structure at Sudbury schools is democratic, there is no need to maintain an aura of separateness about the staff, no need to prop up their authority. Staff members are addressed by their first names, same as anyone. And because students can attend one school over several years—as many as twelve or more—they get to know their "teachers" remarkably well. In fact, our schools feel less like institutions than extended families in which children benefit from growing up with multiple aunts, uncles and grandparents, as well as siblings.

When teachers are fully respected and given the power they deserve, they are in turn more capable of respecting and empowering their students. Ellen Berg, one of Anthony Cody's colleagues in the Teacher Leaders Network Forum, wrote to him her view that

If our children leave school with anything, they should leave with the sense that they have choices, and that they are in control of their lives. As people, we can't control what happens, but we can control how we react to situations and whether we learn from the horrible things in life.

I've sometimes described my Sudbury career as "everything I loved about teaching, with none of the b.s." I still believe that, but it now occurs to me that the correlation between empowered teachers and effective education is what really matters. It's past time we fully respect everyone involved in education, so that young people may enjoy lives where, as Ms. Berg says, "they have choices, and [know] they are in control."

image by BES Photos

Here at the end of the school year the caps of jubilant graduates, along with Spring, are in the air. As you might expect, the graduation process at Sudbury schools is strikingly and refreshingly unique. In this post, I'd like to share what a Sudbury diploma has to say about the purpose and possibilities of education.

First off, I should point out that there is considerable variation in how individual Sudbury schools graduate students. However, one near constant is a focus on the following thesis: diploma candidates must demonstrate that they have taken responsibility for preparing themselves to become effective adults in the larger community. A Sudbury diploma is not about accumulating academic credits; rather, it is about whether a student is truly ready to assume adult responsibilities.

Over several months, would-be Sudbury graduates must prepare a series of written and oral defenses of the above thesis. They work with advisers; they draft and revise; they receive feedback and answer challenging questions. Diploma candidates talk about skills they've mastered and lessons they've learned, about their next steps in life and the ways in which they've readied themselves for what lies ahead. Finally, some group of individuals—whether the entire school (including parents), or a smaller panel from a student's school or other schools—grills candidates and votes on whether the thesis defenses were successful. All in all, this is a far more demanding process than experienced by most students. Indeed, how many of us adults would enjoy defending our life choices in front of a critical panel?

Individual Sudbury schools are always tinkering with their diploma processes (constant innovation being one of the strengths of the model); indeed, controversy periodically erupts over whether even having a diploma process represents a sort of external assessment antithetical to the model. Yet nearly all Sudbury schools do have the sort of graduation requirement I'm describing, and I think it's because the importance of rites of passage persists even in modern times.

In traditional cultures, the rite of passage from adolescence to adulthood involves a period of separation, a time of physical and emotional trials. The youth who make it through these trials are then welcomed into the ranks of the adult members of the community. Sudbury schools put their diploma candidates through the trials of digging deep, tapping their reserves of courage, resourcefulness and persistence. As a result, our graduates possess integrity and strength of character; they know how to chart a course in life, how to get things done while being good to themselves and their community.

My current school had its sixth graduation ceremony last weekend; what a great opportunity it was to reflect on the kind of community you get when children are respected and trusted with both freedom and responsibility. More than mere communities, our schools are extended families, with all the benefits and general connectedness that come from having multiple siblings, aunts and uncles who know you very well (okay, sometimes too well) for many years.

The Sudbury diploma process underscores our balance as a demanding yet supportive environment that values both the needs of the individual and the welfare of the community. Thus our graduates end up teaching us valuable lessons about how to live deeply and authentically, face uncertainty with confidence, choose happiness and make dreams come true.

image by isabisa

(Note: If there's sufficient interest, I'll consider posting a follow-up with excerpts from actual thesis defenses. Approximately 1000 pages of thesis defenses are available for purchase here.)

For some time now, my posts have prompted a line of feedback that doesn't directly relate to the Sudbury school philosophy, but instead wonders how broadly applicable this model is. Can it work on a large scale? Is it accessible to diverse ethnicities and classes? In other words, does Sudbury have the potential to be more than a fringe phenomenon, to exert a substantial influence on education reform?

I'll confess upfront, I haven't spent a tremendous amount of time contemplating these questions. For many of us, simply starting and maintaining Sudbury schools is quite demanding, not to say distracting. But these are important issues, so this post will step away from the Sudbury trees to take a preliminary, speculative look at the larger forest.

From a brick-and-mortar perspective, scalability appears to be a real strength of the Sudbury model. I've long been amazed at how few students it takes to generate an atmosphere of passionate learning. Even with twenty or fewer students, Sudbury schools are alive with curiosity and exuberance. As for an upper limit, the original Sudbury Valley School has maintained enrollments in the vicinity of 200 for several years. Democratically run schools may find this an ideal size: enough students for a wealth of interests and activities, yet a small enough community that the democratic process retains a personal face.

That's not to say a Sudbury school couldn't or shouldn't grow larger; the point is, a wide range of enrollment is possible, with only a modest outlay of resources. By minimizing overhead—for example, fewer textbooks and support personnel are needed when students pursue their own interests on their own schedule—Sudbury schools remain a model of institutional efficiency. Even with a student-to-staff ratio as small as 15:1, a school of 150 students requires a staff of only ten.

But efficiency alone doesn't make an alternative accessible. The tax-dollar monopoly of public schooling poses a significant financial barrier for those seeking real change. (Lawyers and doctors don't enjoy government-sanctioned monopolies, but education is apparently too critical to be left in the hands of mere families and teachers.) While Sudbury schools work hard to support those wishing to enroll, without intensive fundraising the number and size of our schools will likely fall short of their potential. Indeed, we will never know what kinds of schools people want, much less what schools work best, so long as people are forced to choose between those that do and do not have to charge tuition.

As for whether Sudbury schools could ‘go public,' I have to say I highly doubt such a groundbreaking model would ever receive government funding on a large scale—nor would most of us want to. Governments are in the business of regulation, and their support comes with heavy strings; Sudbury schools, meanwhile, cherish their autonomy and flexibility. Yet the issue goes beyond political considerations. Too much of our culture clings to outdated, industrial-era thinking. Too many of us believe that learning can (and ought to) be standardized: scientifically designed and prescribed, quantitatively measured. Worse still, instead of simply having government-guaranteed access to education (something it would be hard to argue against), we're stuck with government-run schools.

Consequently, far too many parents are economically unable to choose how their own children are to be educated. For these reasons, I do not believe that even charter schools will ever be allowed to effect truly fundamental change. In my view, public choice schools straddle a broad fence separating innovation and control; in this tug-of-war, given our industrial-minded culture, control will always win. Besides, what school districts give with one hand they can too easily take back with the other. (Just ask Blue Mountain, a Sudbury charter school in Oregon.)

What we need scalability in is common sense. Rather than bending and stretching an outmoded system to fit 21st-century reality, we should embrace altogether new forms of education. Sudbury schools believe in trusting children, extending to them the full measure of human and civil rights that form the birthright of democratic citizens. Not only do children deserve this; it also creates the best learning environment.

But for schools like Sudbury to be truly scalable, people will first have to know they exist. Secondly, means will have to be found for making them affordable for all who desire to enroll. All families deserve their choice not only of schools, but educational philosophies. Only when this comes to pass will we enjoy meaningful alternatives; only then will we see effective learning on a large scale.

photo by don_brubeck

In previous installments I've talked about Sudbury schooling from the perspective of educational philosophy and policy. I've argued that the best learning occurs when students are given a controlling voice in their education.

Today I want to go one step further and say that not only is learning better when students are in charge, but discipline as well. The judicial system at Sudbury schools provides a vivid example of just how empowering schools can be.

While the exact steps vary, one thing is universal: the adults do not lay down the law; there is no principal to whom students are referred. Alleged rule violations are instead handled by groups in which students form the majority.

JC Clerk: Okay, our first case: Greg wrote up Barry for A3.1. This happened yesterday, in the Main Room, around 3pm. The brief description: "Barry called me a doofus. When I told Barry to stop, he asked, ‘What's the matter, doofus? Can't handle the truth, doofus?'" Is there any discussion on hearing this case? All in favor?
JC members: Aye.

The standard process goes something like this: when disagreements can't be handled informally, or when the violator is unknown, anyone can fill out a written complaint—a simple form asking for essential details like the time and place, the people involved, and a brief description of the incident.

The Judicial Committee (JC) clerks—usually students—file the complaint form and bring it before a committee whose meetings they chair. JC consists of a number of students of varying ages and one staff member. It's a lot like jury duty, in that when it's your turn to serve, you're obligated to do so; and when you're called to testify, the same holds true (though like the system on which it's patterned, you don't have to testify against yourself). JC is one of the few aspects of Sudbury schools where participation is not optional.

JC Clerk: Barry, do you agree with Greg's version of what happened?
Barry: Hmm...mostly. Okay, so I was in the Main Room, eating lunch, when Greg and Josh and Alex came over and sat near me. They were being all loud and stupid. I told them to pipe down, but Greg said, "I'll pipe you down." So then I said "doofus" kind of under my breath. Greg asked, "What did you say?" and, I don't know, I just got pissed. So I said...you know, what I said.

Once the JC votes to hear a case, it questions the complainant, the alleged violator, and witnesses. Weighing ‘he said' versus ‘she said,' members come up with an official version of what happened; they then either drop the case or vote to charge one or more people with violating a rule. Those charged enter a plea: ‘not guilty' means a trial before a new set of jurors, while ‘guilty' pleas result in a sentence voted on by the JC.

JC member #1: I think we should charge both Greg and Barry.
JC member #2: Why?
JC member #1: Well, Barry's obvious. But Greg was disrespectful when he said "I'll pipe you down." Come to think of it, Greg, Josh, and Alex were all being loud.
JC member #3: But they stopped being loud right away. So I don't think that's part of the case. It's about disrespect, and yeah, I agree: both Barry and Greg should be charged.

Staff can be ‘written up' as well as students: everyone is expected to abide by the democratically-passed rules. More fascinating still is seeing children of all ages engaged in the sometimes painstaking work of fact-finding and judging whether a given action amounts to rule-breaking—and if so, how it should be handled. The creativity of even the youngest in cutting through the clutter of what happened and what ought to be done is frequently inspiring.

JC Clerk: Okay, sentencing...
JC member #4: How many priors do they have?
JC Clerk: Barry only has one A3.1; Greg has four.
JC member #1: I move that Barry and Greg can't have verbal or physical contact with each other for the rest of the day and all of tomorrow, and that Greg has to do Barry's chore today.
JC Clerk: Is there any more discussion? All in favor say ‘aye.'
JC members: Aye.
JC Clerk: Motion carries, 4-0. Greg, do you understand and accept your sentence?
Greg: It's not fair! Why I do have to do his chore?
JC Clerk: Well, you have four priors. Do you want to appeal your sentence to School Meeting?
Greg: No.

Most of the rule violations that make it to JC are of the ‘everything I needed to know I learned in kindergarten' variety: leaving messes, name-calling, being too loud, running in the building. Common sentences include staying out of a room or away from a person, doing someone's cleaning chore, or paying a small fine. Sentencing often aims at having the guilty party make restitution, and reducing the probability of the incident being repeated. Occasionally an individual case will be serious enough, or someone's record long enough, to warrant referral to School Meeting for a more serious consequence, such as suspension.

But again, what has impressed me most over the past twelve years has been students' capacity for dispensing thoughtful, fair justice. They take this responsibility seriously, and they do an outstanding job. Rather than being given lectures and abstract exercises, these students grapple with things like ethics, problem-solving, and civics in context. With all the complaints you hear about the breakdown in order in many schools, I consider myself incredibly fortunate to work in a place where respect is the order of the day, ably enforced by the students themselves.

Image by sunface13

While visiting family over Spring Break, I had a brief yet stimulating exchange with my eight-year-old niece.

We were talking about my school, and when I said the students don't have to take classes, her reaction was, "So they could be dumb." My off-the-cuff response? "Well, I suppose—if the only way you could learn things was from classes."

How disconcerting to see even young children swallow the myth that learning requires classrooms where knowledge is chopped up and delivered in prepackaged lessons...as if civilization couldn't have emerged without mass, compulsory schooling; as if babies need classes like Introduction to Walking; as if, faced with something new, adults must either return to the classroom or hope they somehow learned enough in school.

Despite strong evidence to the contrary, the assumption persists that children won't learn anything (or not the right things, anyway) unless taught by adults in classes. Decades of Sudbury schooling are living proof that the most effective learning happens as naturally as breathing. After just twelve years, I can attest to some powerful examples:

• Our younger students combine the best of youth and maturity, while our teenagers relate easily and pleasantly to people of all ages.
• Withdrawn students emerge from their shells, and the socially awkward become socially adept.
• Apathetic and rebellious students discover their passions and become leaders in the school community.
• Our graduates go out into the world so well-adjusted that they essentially have a fifteen- to twenty-year head start on those of us who needed our 20s and 30s to learn how to be adults.

How do people learn what they need, and avoid having to do a lot of unlearning later? Not by conventional methods, that's for sure. If we want young people to become responsible, self-aware, and thoughtful, a very different approach is required—one that may initially seem counterintuitive.

Sudbury schooling has shown that rather than predetermined curricula, what students really need are extensive opportunities to engage directly with life. Allowing children to be who and where they are, giving them enough time and space to sort things out their own way—in supportive, mixed-age communities in which they are full members—this is the way to develop strong personal character and all-around competence.

In other words, kids need above all to confront the issues we adults face all the time: what to make of our lives, how to deal with unsatisfactory situations, difficult people, etc. They need to start, as early as possible, asking the questions empowered people ask: What do I want? How do I get that? What do I want to change, and how do I go about doing so? Is this or that activity a good use of my time? Sadly, most students get little to no practice with these critical questions, as their days are crowded with classes throughout their years of schooling.

It's true that learning at a Sudbury school takes unusual forms. Given the freedom to direct their own learning, we find that students play and talk endlessly; certainly the majority of their school careers will not be spent in the classroom. Yet somehow this approach enables students to become the most superlative young adults. How does that happen?

Surrounded by passionate people and free of the baggage and stigmas often haunting conventional learning, Sudbury students tap into the inestimable power of free-range curiosity. Enthusiastically exploring the world, they encounter its delights and demands in ways that work wonders for them. By constantly asking What do I want to do now? they lay the foundation for lives of critical thinking, assessment, and planning; lives in which they think for themselves, considering past, present, and future; lives in which they are active, not passive; lives of taking responsibility rather than placing blame.

The second reason freedom enables the best learning draws on the old cliché that appearances can be deceiving. Indeed, assessing someone's learning on the basis of their current activities is at best problematic. Consider books and video games: how many of us would say the first is educational, and the second a waste of time? Yet books can be "TV in print," while video games can involve considerable mental effort. The fact is, what appears to be "doing nothing" can actually entail intense learning. Even wasted time, if it results from one's own choices, can teach the value of making better choices in the future.

All Sudbury students master the basics; they just do it differently, in their own ways and their own time frames. With free access to various communities, a wealth of knowledge, experience, and perspectives lies at their fingertips. Immersed in decision-making and problem-solving situations, they learn in myriad ways. In addition to play and conversation, students opt for such things as reading, school management, internships and, yes, classes—classes they choose, classes that tend to be very small and customized to fit their needs. Classes do have their place, of course; they just have no place dominating students' schedules.

Learning is organic, found not in abstract lessons cut off from life but in the midst of life itself. To the extent that students' lives are constrained by others' choices, their learning will be constrained as well. On the other hand, when learning is contextual and empowering—the result of individual choices made in a community — it is deeper and longer-lasting, and leads to the most amazing results. Indeed, the Sudbury formula of freedom-with-responsibility has for over four decades produced exactly the sort of young adults our society as a whole aspires—and frequently fails—to foster.

Bruce L. Smith is a Denver-based educator and freelance writer. After starting his career in the public schools of Columbia, Missouri, he went on to work at schools following the Sudbury model of education. On staff at Alpine Valley School since late 1998, he became the founding director of the Center for Advancing Sudbury Education (www.sudburyschooling.com) in 2006. CASE promotes awareness of the Sudbury model and provides support to Sudbury schools around the world.

See all of Bruce's posts here.

Image by Terrapin Flyer

[Sudbury Schools advocate Bruce Smith continues his series. See earlier posts here.]

My previous post launched a two-part overview of Sudbury schools, the most compelling model I've encountered in nearly twenty years as an educator. In this second half of my Sudbury primer, the emphasis will shift from basic features to an inventory closer to the title of these posts: why these schools work.

For work they most certainly do. With a track record of 40 years (and counting), the success of Sudbury schools in transforming lives is indisputable. A fuller account will have to wait for future installments, but for now I can at least hint at the outlines. Sudbury alumni thrive in college (80 percent pursue higher education, including every student who has sought this path), as well as in business (over 60 percent become entrepreneurs). As the pioneer of this model, Sudbury Valley School has done a number of in-depth alumni studies that I cannot recommend highly enough (see https://sudval.powweb.com/bookstore/02_book_06.html and http://www.sudval.org/05_alumni.html for starters).

To explore why Sudbury schools work, let's first consider the context. In the name of nurturing children, most schools treat them as immature, not to be trusted with the big decisions. That may sound harsh, but honestly, aren't students' days pretty much stuffed and controlled by adults for years? Schedules and agendas, rules and grading - virtually everything of import is decided by adults, leaving students only the option of figuring out how (and whether) to play along. Instead of letting children practice life, we rationalize our control by saying they aren't ready to do so, or need to get used to a world where they don't call the shots. The problem is, children live up or down to our expectations; they imprint on our vision. Consequently, society reaps the passivity and immaturity that its schools sow. Good intentions notwithstanding, education that is laced with disrespect and disempowerment creates young adults inexperienced at making their way in life.  (Click "Read more" below for the rest...)

[This is the third post of Bruce Smith, founding director of the Center for Advancing Sudbury Education (www.sudburyschooling.com). CASE promotes awareness of the Sudbury model and provides support to Sudbury schools around the world. Bruce's first post is here, his second here. The video below is from a Sudbury documentary, Voices from the New American Schoolhouse. You can view the whole film here.]

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My initial posts for this site offered broad arguments for why we must radically overhaul education and enable the widest possible range of experimentation. Yet education reform is already drowning in verbiage, and what's sorely needed is not more rhetoric, but more concrete, innovative proposals. Substantive change depends on our remembering the old writing adage, "show, don't tell."

With this in mind, I want to start showing you the educational model near and dear to my heart: Sudbury schooling. One short essay couldn't possibly do justice to this rich world, so for now I'll limit myself to what you'd see if you set foot in a Sudbury school. Next time I'll address why this model works; from there, my plan is to illustrate these principles in action. (If you'd like more background now, www.sudburyschooling.com and www.sudval.org are good places to start.)

At Sudbury schools, students ages 5 to 18 (roughly) direct their own learning - all day, every day - in democratic communities where students and staff (blending the roles of teacher, administrator, and counselor) have an equal voice. Sudbury students decide for themselves how to spend their time, limited only by considerations of safety, respect, and responsibility. These general expectations are interpreted privately, in countless meetings and conversations, and by elected clerks, several of whom are students. Thus, the Sudbury model is grounded in bedrock American principles like the rule of law, consent of the governed, and due process; Sudbury students enjoy "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

(Click "read more" for the rest....)