For anyone in education, differentiation is a buzz word that has been around for decades but is, in reality, minimally used in the classroom. What does it mean? Just like it sounds: you make different things for each student: different ways for a student to complete a test, different methods to teach each student, different modalities for each student to learn. But it’s so hard. Every kid is different, I know. But with all of the standards, meetings, grades, duties, and everything else piled up on our plates, how do we have time for differentiation?
When I come home each day from a long day of teaching and visiting classrooms, from dealing with the needs of all of my students, I have three needy, loving little girls dying for my attention. And during the past six years, they have taught me more about differentiation than I would ever learn in the classroom.
Today for example. I was in a meeting all day today. Sitting on my butt. Not that I didn’t learn anything (check out this site, in particular–www.thisibelieve.org), but sitting around all day in front of the computer is, well, more than draining. Gotta hand it to all you office folks who do that daily. That’s why I’m a teacher. I need the neediness. I need the human interaction!
So back to my story. I got home and decided, it being close to 70 degrees on the 20th of January (for those of you who haven’t considered moving to Colorado, after watching the frigid inauguration today, maybe the blue, sunny skies of our beautiful state will appeal to you), that I should take the girls on a nice, long walk. Riona, who’d missed her nap already, was sleeping in the car in the garage. So, I was left with Isabella and Mythili. And when I say I wanted to go on a walk, I really meant a run. I’ve been trying to run three miles a day, so I figured two miles pushing a stroller with 90 pounds worth of little girls would be equivalent. But Isabella didn’t want to ride in the stroller–she wanted to ride her bike. I could have been the adamant teacher that I sometimes am and that I see almost every day when I visit other classrooms and said, “No, we’re doing what I say,” but why not? I knew that her riding her bike would mean I would only get to run part of the way, that we would have to stop every time we came to even a slope of a hill, that I would have to push her up some and comfort her when she fell. But the light in her eyes, the excitement about getting to ride–I knew it would surpass any of the usual dull moans.
And Mythili? Her needs are a bit different. At first, she just wanted to push the stroller. Again, I could have insisted that she couldn’t keep up, but I let her give it a try. And before we had reached the edge of the cul-de-sac, she was begging for a ride, where she immediately took on her role of Captain Mythili, commanding me to run, to stop, to help Isabella.
Despite the pauses, Isabella directed us all the way to Meadowood (1.5 miles away), so they could play on the playground. Again, the differentiation occurred: Isabella, as usual, busied herself with her innate abilities to socialize with every young child on the monkey bars, and Mythili relished me following her every move like a younger sister, as we were playing family and she was the mom.
When just past dark and more than an hour later we arrived home, I could hear Riona screaming from the house. She stood next to the couch, an untouched bowl of Cheerios that Daddy had attempted to placate her with sitting on the table, and no one could say a word to her without another acute outburst, until I suggested, “Do you want to sit in my lap?” That was all she needed: a good 30-minute curl-up on the couch, thumb in mouth, as she reluctantly released her cries into groans and then whimpers, and finally, just moody responses.
I needed to spend time with my girls today. I needed to get exercise. They needed me, each in their own way. And if I could differentiate for them, couldn’t I do it for everyone? Isn’t that what teaching is all about? I have learned more from them than anyone in my life so far. Isn’t that amazing?
