Those tables. It was the first thing I remember seeing in the Open Classroom. Year of our Lord 1975. Imagine squat, angular, modernist mushrooms. Seen from above they were like stop signs, except instead of equilateral octagons, every other side was triple the length of the preceding side. Short, long; short, long; short, long; short, long. They were solid, so heavy, clearly handmade, clearly excellent. And they made for great hiding places. I must have hidden underneath one for the first week of Kindergarten. Sandy finally coaxed me out—somehow. Most likely simply by being Sandy.
She led me to Judy and I started to integrate into the school. Circle. I loved Circle. Really didn’t like sharing that much, and I almost never made a “comment” (started by raising your hand midway in someone else’s story), but it was very comforting just all being together and hearing what needed saying. There was also the attendant physical behavior of my classmates. Some could sit perfectly still, like me, cross-legged. Some couldn’t hold the same pose for more than 5 seconds. One boy came to the conclusion that if he closed his eyes, the rest of the class couldn’t see him. Thus rendered invisible, he would proceed to pick his nose, heroically. Somehow we all got it, that if anyone said anything, the spell (and his show) would be over. We all enjoyed it too much to comment, and then end the performance.
Those tables. We did crafts at them. I remember their equators featured a booger-like coating of white glue around them from past creations. And they hosted the science projects. And the inexplicable geography projects, which, rather than proffering knowledge of all the states of the US, or countries of Africa, or other useful geographic features, we seem to have spent three years on the county seats of Georgia and Virginia. But how I loved those tables.
Those tables also hosted the mother-of-all clay projects: the making of a Mansion. Pool tables, porticos, bunk beds, 12 burner stoves, inelegant topiary, all of it was there, sculpted by our little hands and imaginations. I remember being particularly scandalized by some insisting that there be little turds in the toilet of one room. And then further shocked by Mario’s insistence that this was a good idea.
Those tables also afforded a gang of five or so thrill-seekers an activity that was en vogue for about a week. It being Marin, and the 70’s, and well, just the DIY, sink-or-swim waters we swam in, some enterprising kids would scoot around on their backs under the tables hoping for a view of underwear-less dress wearers, with a reportedly high level of success. Even in our very permissive era, this activity was closed down not long after it started.
Part of being in the Open Classroom was the intoxicating system of designing one’s own schedule. That didn’t mean that it was a Randian Free-For-All class schedule. There were a number of prerequisites that needed completing every week. Reading, Science, Art, Math, Music, Educational Games, and the aforementioned Geography were all must-do items. I can’t remember the rest, but there were many. And mixed in on an ever-changing, irregular timetable were projects that parents brought in. Chuck would bring in math and logic riddles and offer the first successful solver $1.00—cash money. Paulette would make crepes. Bucky’s mom did things regularly. I think they had to do with cooking, too. At any rate, and this was one of the really genius aspects of the school—we, the children, got to decide when and how to complete these projects. My group of friends, or one of my groups of friends, fell IN LOVE with Dungeons and Dragons. We couldn’t get enough. Demian, Ethan, sometimes Levi, and always Tim, our dungeon master. We fit perfectly around those tables and would play our little hearts out. It didn’t take too long for us to sync up our self-designed schedules to get everything possible done in the first two days in the week. That left for us—save lunch—three uninterrupted days for D&D. It also brought some serious focus from our schedule-approvers on our activities. But much to their credit—our minders, our teachers—did not put an end to our ingenious scheduling masterpieces. We simply had to do each project really well—and perhaps better—than anyone else in order to keep our prelapsarian ecosystem intact. And for full immersion in our fantasy worlds, the only thing that could easily break us away from our campaigns, was the promise of Amy reading the Fellowship of the Ring out loud to us kids, sprawled like some human yard sale all over the carpets, couches and, yes, tables, that were the landscape of our classroom.
We learned so much from this activity (and the orbiting ones). We learned to figure out how to game the system. We learned, once everyone cottoned onto our system, to advocate for ourselves in order to keep it. And in attempting to keep it, we all learned to up our game and turn in really excellent work. We learned that you had to pay to play, but that both sides of the equation could be fun. We learned to bargain, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, with our teachers. We learned that if we made serious arguments, we were taken seriously as 9-,10- and 11-year olds. It gave us confidence for future dealings with those in control. I think it was the whole point of the self-designated learning schedule that the school put in place. And none of it was done in a “lesson” format. All of it was real, situation-based learning. I feel like that trust given to us so young, while maybe rarely abused—or at least its boundaries stretched—we valued so very much.
I mean, we still sharpened our “Classmate” brand pencils in such a way to have them feature the word “Assmate” on them, but, I mean—we were kids, after all. But by and large, that trust given felt like gold, made us feel more than just kids, all the time while being gracefully tended by those in charge.
Amy, Mario, Judy, Sandy, Molly, Zoila, Sue, Jane and, yes, Jessie the terrifying—thank you!