Sometimes we have to try things more than once to get it right.
In the last few days of school before the winter holiday break, the kindergarten children’s gym time was cut short twice by the gathering of a school-wide assembly. Our class was joined by other kindergarten classes, and grades 1 to 6 students to sing holiday tunes – tunes we often hear through shopping mall speakers, on the radio and on Spotify at this time of the year. A gifted teacher who plays guitar and sings led us as an impromptu choir while a helpful grade 6 student projected the words onto a large screen for all to read.
Except, even magnified, the font was too small for those of us at a distance to read. And our youngest students simply didn’t yet know how to read.
But though the lyrics and tunes were difficult for our kindergarten students to sing, the awe of seeing students from all over the school filing into the gym and sensing their exuberance at being released from their normal classroom routines and expectations was spellbinding. The kindergarten children’s eyes widened and focused attentively on the movement and changing dynamics of the gym. One of the students in our class who struggles with transitions, unpredictability, and loud sounds snuggled closer to me on the gym floor. Other students, suddenly seeing an older sibling enter the gym, called out their sibling’s name, waving arms and hands vigorously.
When the singing began, adults and older children joined in with the words of tunes we could remember. Our kindergarten children did not. School-wide we had dozens of different cultures, backgrounds and faiths among the students. In our class alone there were at least half a dozen children who were new immigrants to Canada and depended heavily on body language, pointing, gestures and single words to communicate.
Even the song story of Frosty the Snowman fell flat on the ears of some of our children who were only beginning to understand what snow was, who had not yet made a snowman or experienced the effect of warm sun on snow. What did a red-nose reindeer mean to the children from Syria? Would ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’ have made more sense to our Chinese students if we had sung about ‘Sheng Dan Lao ren’ instead of Santa?
But still, something transformational had taken place during these two assemblies. The children saw they were part of something bigger than their individual selves, bigger than their class, and their family. How could we build on these experiences and help our kindergarten children use their voice?
What happened next was more intuitive than well-planned. Just three days before the holiday break my teaching partner messaged me to say she was sick. A substitute teacher would be filling in for her. I already knew the same would be true of the planning time teacher, and our large class of children – including those with special rights, those just beginning to learn English as a second language, and many others with unique social and emotional needs – were already feeling the excitement and strain of the holiday season. Without the steadying influence of two of their regular teachers who knew them well, we were going to need something novel, I thought, something that would focus their attention and draw them together as a group. I grabbed my flute and a piece of sheet music and headed off to school.
It was during our afternoon meeting that I introduced the children to my flute. We looked at the flute case and wondered what might be inside. None of the children had seen a flute before, though a couple of them, once the case was opened, thought it might be some sort of whistle. I assembled the three parts of my flute into one instrument and wondered aloud how they thought it worked.
We discovered that, by using the candle breathing technique we had learned in class to calm our bodies, the flute made sounds. We then played a few listening games to identify high and low sounds, raising or lowering their hands or bodies as I played single notes to identify high and low pitches.
I showed them my piece of sheet music. (We noticed how it looked completely different from the ABCs we used in our classroom. We thought about how music is a type of language similar to English, Arabic, Ukrainian, and Mandarin. And then I asked the children to listen to my flute as I read the language of music. The children’s bodies stilled as I began to play. Within a few bars of music, they knew it as a familiar tune.
Their eyes widened and their bodies began to sway. When we got to the verse, there was a burst of singing, “Jingle bells. Jingle bells. Jingle all the way!” All the other words of the song were mute. The flute bridged the gap between those mystifying words of old-world experiences until they recognized words they could understand and sing. They had already experienced jingle bells the week before – jingle bells that had been attached to their jackets when they went on a jingle bell walk around their school and neighbourhood. Jingle bells were part of their repertoire. They meant something to them.
And so, they sang these words with wonderful pitch and rhythm… and asked me to play the tune again…. and again… and again.
I could see that something magical had happened, but it was later that I reflected on why it was this musical experience in which the children’s voices rang out so confidently and purposefully. And as I reflected, I began to recognize the subtle yet powerful difference between being included and being inclusive.
Children want to express their understanding of the world. They want to feel the synergy of being part of a community that truly listens, and that recognizes and values their unique meaning-making.
Our jingle bells may have been tucked away for the season but, regardless of season or context, I will continue to ask myself: Am I seeing, understanding, and trying hard enough to sing the most important song children will ever hear – the song of inclusion?