Our brains are wired for grammar.
We use it to make sense of the world: this is round, that is square; my
shoes are blue and made of suede, your slacks are beige and don’t reach down to
your sandals; I cried yesterday, I’m smiling now and I’ll be laughing my head
off tomorrow; you are not me, it is not them, and we are not her or him; my
views are sensible and rational, your prejudices are irrational. And so on.
Words and their arrangements describe, delineate and order experience and,
importantly, give you distance and more control over your situation. Understanding an experience by giving it
words makes you less of a slave to it, though other encumbrances, such as poverty
and low status may still bar the way. Even then, the words will help you pinpoint
the problem.
Discussions of grammar and creativity are dragged into the usual Platonic
stramash between traditionalists and progressives, the prosaic and the passionate,
the precise and the unpredictable. Such
extreme positions, however, are like wallflowers on opposite sides of the dance
floor. On the ground, in the classroom,
it is not one or the other. It’s more a
case of starting with some sort of plan then adding improvisation: a combining
of knowledge of the structures plus a willingness and desire to explore new
pathways. It has to be this way because,
as a teacher, you’re dealing on the spot with children’s different levels of understanding
and needs. Those distant authorities –
academic or political – who would like to keep tabs on things either for
well-meaning educational or dodgy ideological reasons, may have something to
contribute but they are not dealing with a child’s needs on a Monday
morning. Whatever strictures are placed
on the content of the classroom and however much it is monitored by Ofsted (or
your country’s school inspectors), it will always be more like jazz than either
a pianola roll or a cat strolling along the piano keys.
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