Classroom Walls

I think one of the things that bothers me most about the classroom is the walls.
They’re so final, so solid, so…well, wall like.

They shelter the children from the rain and thunder, yet in doing so, they shut them off from the world.
Sheltering them from the wind, from the trees, from the birds and the bees.
Here, children spend most of their childhood, closed off from the forest, unable to watch the clouds drift by.

Chastised if they stare too long—into the world, into the outside.
Why is there an outside? What does it mean to be inside?
Could we not bring the outside in, or the inside out?

Surely our children would benefit from mud.
Surely they would benefit from trees.
Surely they would benefit from the world.

Surely they should walk barefoot in the sand, learn to conquer the creek, find food, build fires.

What exactly are we afraid of? That they might fall? Yes, they might—but they may not.
Scared they’ll trip if they run too fast? Yes, they might—but they may not.
Do we fear they’ll break bones and get bloody? Yes, they might—but so what?

Have we not all scraped our knees, fallen over, broken bones—and survived?
Is risk not part of being alive? Is it not the price of freedom, the cost of confidence?

I say scrap the classroom entirely. Boycott it. Don’t send them there.
Bring the outside in. Bring the inside out. Raise your children in a reality where the world is their classroom and the birds are their teachers.

Shelf your fears, and your children will grow stronger and more capable because of it.

Stop saying, “Be careful!” and instead ask, “What’s your plan?”