From the moment almost 40 years ago when I heard Harry Chapin's "Flowers are Red," I’ve played it at window-rattling volume and sung it as loudly and defiantly as possible. As you can see from the video above, it tells the story of a free-spirited child who draws flowers in a rainbow of colors, only to be admonished by a teacher who scolds him:
Flowers are red young man
Green leaves are green
There's no need to see flowers any other way
Than the way they always have been seen
Eventually broken, the child falls into line and creates only red flowers with green leaves. When he moves to a new school, he finds a smiling teacher who says:
Painting should be fun
And there are so many colors in a flower
So let's use every one
But tragically, the little boy draws red flowers with green leaves in "neat" rows and tells the teacher:
Flowers are red, and green leaves are green
There's no need to see flowers any other way
Than the way they always have been seen
As one who never has fit into any traditional mold let alone a traditional classroom, I've always empathized with the little boy. And so it was when I traveled to Costa Rica recently as an English education volunteer.
Although the volunteer organization with which I had chosen to work promised volunteers would support teachers and others in the school by actively assisting them throughout the day and by helping to plan and develop lessons and activities, I had no such opportunities. I immediately learned I was flying solo, and my only parachute was decades of teaching and learning and common sense.
As the teacher to whom I was assigned and I walked in to her classroom, she said, "OK, Debra." "OK what?" I wondered.
No sooner had I wondered than I realized she expected me to teach the class. She barely had said "hello" to me, did not introduce me to the students, had given me no lesson plan, no materials, no roll, no guidelines. She had given me nothing.
From almost the beginning of each class and for the duration of each class, the students screamed and ran around as though it were recess, save for a few seconds as the teacher screamed even louder, "Uno! Dos! Tres!" while counting on extended fingers, alerting them that a consequence would befall them if they didn't stop.
When the counting failed, the teacher blew her referee whistle, which garnered about four seconds of silence only to be followed by more screaming and running around. There was never a consequence, nor was there ever another approach to classroom management.
Despondent, I wondered how to be culturally sensitive to my host while offering her and the students a productive approach to education.
On one particularly troubling day, I watched as the teacher distributed tests to every other student. Initially, I thought she was giving two versions of the test, A and B, but in fact, there was no alternate version.
Half the class — 14 students — sat at their desks and did nothing while the others took the test. The teacher had no activities for the children who were not taking the test, and once the test-takers were finished, the teacher planned to administer the test to the other students.
From my backpack, burgeoning with all kinds of goodies to teach English, I snatched the jumbo Ziploc bag holding 100 laminated photos and postcards showing life in my beloved home state of New Jersey and my adopted state of Colorado. I riffled through the photos and cards and found ones that seemed accessible for replicating.
To each of the students sitting idle, I gave a photo or card and a few crayons, and I asked each student to draw the picture. With each student, I chatted briefly about what the picture was and told them the English words for what was in each picture — owl, mountain, flag, seagull, eagle, crab, turkey, rainbow — and asked each student to tell me the equivalent Spanish word.
Once students finished taking the test, I repeated the exercise with them. Students sat intently — not screaming, not running around — focused on their artwork.
Here are two examples of drawings made from postcards and photos.
As students exuberantly presented me with their drawings, I imagined so many possibilities for using the exercise to teach English to the entire class, but sadly, it wasn't to be. It was clear the teacher wasn't interested in any suggestions or recommendations. No sooner had the activity begun than — along with the test — it was over.
At the end of my time at the school, I was left with unfulfilled possibilities, my bulging backpack and the artwork. But oh, the artwork!
A young girl who had been in the "art" class handed me a nearly wordless note that spoke louder than words ever could. It was a note of hearts, big and small, covering the page; the only words were her name and mine, "Kari y Debra."
When I think of my time in Costa Rica, I do so with the sadness of what could have been but also with the memory of the joy the students found in their art.
