A lesson in giving lessons
"Alright, guys," my co-leader yelled. "You all are now on the animal tour!" Cheers erupted from the group of 14 preteens standing before us. The girls towered over the guys, the guys acted nonchalant when the girls brushed by with feathers in their hair and smirks on their young faces. We tramped over dirt and straw and circled up between the duck and chicken shade-cloth covered pens. "So, these are the chickens," I said, " and these are the ducks."
"Um, is that one dead?"
I turned to look into the end of the structure. A mass of gray downy feathers and two web footed legs lay still in the grass. Wings flopped open, beaked head turned towards the side it was pretty clear that the duck wasn't snoozing in the late morning sun. Dammit. On the first day? I looked at my colleague and motioned that I would go get the farm manager. "He knows," she mouthed back. Um, alright. What now?
There was no section on "death of an animal on fieldtrip day" in the leader's manual. How many of these kids have seen a dead animal before? How many can link that with a family member? Is it now my place to explain death to these 11 year olds? I mean, I think I have a fairly healthy relationship with the subject but I'm not sure if telling them we're all going to die one day, yes even your parents and your brothers and sisters and even that girl you like standing next to you. I'm just not sure if that would go over well with the teachers and parents.
"Yes, he's dead." I finally replied as the kids pressed against the shadecloth, pressed towards the tabooed subject inside.
"That's part of the farm, isn't it?" I say in my best teacherly voice. "We take care of the animals as best we can but some die and sometimes we don't know why." I don't tell them (in my best teacherly voice) about the duckling I found squashed under a plywood board that fell over during the night or about the chicks that didn't make it or about the rooster that disappeared from a hoophouse through a feather strewn hole in the shade cloth just that morning (fox?). I don't ask them why this seems sadder than a Turducken meal at Thanksgiving. I do ask them to step away from the shadecloth so we can go look at the Jungle fowl.
"I just saw him breathing!" one of the boys yelled.
A girl whipped her blond ponytail as she spun around and looked up at me. "You're not even going to try to save him?" She furrowed her brow and gave me the stinkeye.
I looked into the pen, breathed in deep when no other breathing was noticeable, and said, "No, it's too late for that. If he's not dead quite yet he's in the process of dying. Sometimes we can't save the animals. Sometimes they're sick or old and we can just make sure they die comfortably. It's all part of the natural progression, the circle of life, right?"
A boy with big brown eyes turns and looks up at me. "Like the Lion King?" he says seriously.
"Exactly. Like the Lion King."
I don't tell them that that should go for humans too: that people shouldn't waste away on cases of medicines and the pumping of ventilators. I don't tell them how people survive for years without brain function because families can't let go of the idea of what once resided in a now withered body or grasp the notion that everything must die.
I do tell them that we are moving on to the goats. The very alive, happy, alfalfa munching goats.
Two steps away and a switch is flipped. They are all talking with outside voices and pushing each other and picking up straw before tossing it on their neighbors. The dead duck seems to be forgotten as they pet Kaia the goat and Boots the chicken. We talk about poop and fertilizing the fields with the stuff. We talk about waddling tails and chicken tractors and Silkie babies.
They don't mention the death again but back between the duck and chicken pens on our way to the hand washing area they stare at the silenced duck and I know that that image will probably stay with them on the bus ride home. Maybe the week. Maybe longer.
Not that I wish for a dead duck on every field trip, not at all, but I actually feel pretty lucky to have been able to explain a little more than corn and beans and chickens to a mass of kids just starting to understand living.
It's all about receiving and giving lessons.
It's all about tramping through the straw while you can.
"Um, is that one dead?"
I turned to look into the end of the structure. A mass of gray downy feathers and two web footed legs lay still in the grass. Wings flopped open, beaked head turned towards the side it was pretty clear that the duck wasn't snoozing in the late morning sun. Dammit. On the first day? I looked at my colleague and motioned that I would go get the farm manager. "He knows," she mouthed back. Um, alright. What now?
There was no section on "death of an animal on fieldtrip day" in the leader's manual. How many of these kids have seen a dead animal before? How many can link that with a family member? Is it now my place to explain death to these 11 year olds? I mean, I think I have a fairly healthy relationship with the subject but I'm not sure if telling them we're all going to die one day, yes even your parents and your brothers and sisters and even that girl you like standing next to you. I'm just not sure if that would go over well with the teachers and parents.
"Yes, he's dead." I finally replied as the kids pressed against the shadecloth, pressed towards the tabooed subject inside.
"That's part of the farm, isn't it?" I say in my best teacherly voice. "We take care of the animals as best we can but some die and sometimes we don't know why." I don't tell them (in my best teacherly voice) about the duckling I found squashed under a plywood board that fell over during the night or about the chicks that didn't make it or about the rooster that disappeared from a hoophouse through a feather strewn hole in the shade cloth just that morning (fox?). I don't ask them why this seems sadder than a Turducken meal at Thanksgiving. I do ask them to step away from the shadecloth so we can go look at the Jungle fowl.
"I just saw him breathing!" one of the boys yelled.
A girl whipped her blond ponytail as she spun around and looked up at me. "You're not even going to try to save him?" She furrowed her brow and gave me the stinkeye.
I looked into the pen, breathed in deep when no other breathing was noticeable, and said, "No, it's too late for that. If he's not dead quite yet he's in the process of dying. Sometimes we can't save the animals. Sometimes they're sick or old and we can just make sure they die comfortably. It's all part of the natural progression, the circle of life, right?"
A boy with big brown eyes turns and looks up at me. "Like the Lion King?" he says seriously.
"Exactly. Like the Lion King."
I don't tell them that that should go for humans too: that people shouldn't waste away on cases of medicines and the pumping of ventilators. I don't tell them how people survive for years without brain function because families can't let go of the idea of what once resided in a now withered body or grasp the notion that everything must die.
I do tell them that we are moving on to the goats. The very alive, happy, alfalfa munching goats.
Two steps away and a switch is flipped. They are all talking with outside voices and pushing each other and picking up straw before tossing it on their neighbors. The dead duck seems to be forgotten as they pet Kaia the goat and Boots the chicken. We talk about poop and fertilizing the fields with the stuff. We talk about waddling tails and chicken tractors and Silkie babies.
They don't mention the death again but back between the duck and chicken pens on our way to the hand washing area they stare at the silenced duck and I know that that image will probably stay with them on the bus ride home. Maybe the week. Maybe longer.
Not that I wish for a dead duck on every field trip, not at all, but I actually feel pretty lucky to have been able to explain a little more than corn and beans and chickens to a mass of kids just starting to understand living.
It's all about receiving and giving lessons.
It's all about tramping through the straw while you can.
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