The Power of Positive Thinking (Work Edition)

Montessorians approach children in a unique way. We believe in positive discipline, encouragement instead of praise, and utilizing power collaboratively instead of imposing our will upon the children we work with. Though it may sound normal, it is actually one of the most counter-intuitive pieces of learning Montessori – for most people, it requires unlearning a lifetime of socialization about how we should deal with children.

The basics of the approach look something like this:

  • Provide limits, structure, and routines
  • Give love unconditionally and avoid rewards and punishments
  • Model appropriate behavior (especially social etiquette)
  • Limit intermediate devices (like cell phones) when interacting with children*
  • Minimize time spent with poorly regulated influences (i.e. television)*
  • Offer encouragement instead of praise
  • Find ways to share power with a child instead of wielding power over the child
    (*Not applicable within the Montessori classroom)

Observing these guidelines goes a long way in creating a peaceful classroom and building student-teacher relationships and this approach is one of the things that draws me to Montessori. In short, we aim to treat children like people instead of children, a distinction that aims to respect their humanity and development and is often missed elsewhere.

In practice, this makes our classrooms incredibly positive places. There are any number of guidelines that children must follow, but any failure to do so is met with kind words and a gentle reminder. For example, if a child fails to push in their chair after leaving it, we simply say, “Oh, I think you forgot to push in your chair.” in a calm, kind voice. The most typical response is some sort of gasp and smile as the realization that they did indeed forget washes over them followed by quick replacement of the chair under the table. While we try to avoid praise (things like: good job, I am so proud of you, you are the best ________), encouragement abounds. We acknowledge hard work, focus, concentration, teamwork, and other positive behaviors with observation (i.e. our classroom looks neater now that you helped put things away).

These tactics teach children that it’s okay to make mistakes and to fail. Plus, they go a long way in showing them positive ways to deal with other people. Instead of assuming the worst of a friend who has done something wrong, the children have hours of examples of adults assuming the best to pull from. Perhaps most importantly, this approach helps children to develop internal motivation and a sense of responsibility to the community at large. By observing the impact of their action (positive or negative) instead of framing their work in relation to ourselves (i.e. “I like…”) they learn to work for their own fulfillment rather than merely to please someone else.

I have known this approach to be wonderful for children for a couple of decades, but I never considered what a difference it would make in my  day. Instead of coming home feeling drained and negative about all the little things that had gone wrong (even on generally good days), last week, I had a hard time coming up with anything negative to say at all. For the first time in a long time, I left work feeling good about myself, my work, and the students in my care multiple days in a row. I know the novelty of this work will likely wear off, but it seems almost impossible to leave feeling miserable when you’ve spent the entire day looking for the good in and assuming the best of others.

**Views expressed in this post are my own and not necessarily shared by Millhopper Montessori School.

Role Modeling

One of my most frequently used activities while working with college students (borrowed from Beverly Tatum) asks students to spend sixty seconds finishing the lead-in “I Am…”. Tatum designed the activity to highlight the invisibility of privileged identities (few students write “I am white”, but many write “I am black/latino/etc.”), but my favorite use is to help students consider what qualities they would like to model for the younger kids they mentored. Students analyze their list to see which they would like to share with their mentees and then develop actionable steps they could take to do so.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the power of role modeling lately, spurred by both my volleyball team and my students at school. Through these roles I can easily see how powerful modeling can be for children, whether intentional or not.

My spring volleyball team (the Pink Panthers) is full of focused, talented young women. They are quite good for their level, but the level doesn’t challenge them much. They win the majority of their points on serves, and doing more than returning a ball directly back over the net isn’t on our radar. Many of the core volleyball skills, like moving to the ball, getting set for passes, and sending the ball to teammates are rarely tested during a game. It is difficult to even explain these concepts as many of my girls have never seen high-level volleyball. So I model them instead. There’s rarely a day when my co-coach and I don’t leave the gym sweatier than the girls; we run laps with them, play scrimmages with them, and work hard to send them excellent passes and serves during drills. Our energy and drive to get to the ball or jog from one end of the court to the other during a drill encourages the Panthers to do the same. And it pays off each game as they continue to handily beat their opponents, and become better volleyball players to boot.

But not all modeling is so positive. The most glaring example comes from a third-grade parent on a recent field trip. Hearing the children’s desire to experience an earthquake simulator, this mom glanced around, unhooked the canvas barrier to the exhibit, and led eight kiddos into an obviously closed exhibit. Safety concerns aside, I was aghast at the example she set for these youngsters about entitlement and following rules. While I like to think I would never do something quite as bold, I’ve been struggling with the potential impacts of what I’m modeling when I interact with my class each day.

Reading How to Stop Yelling at Your Students reminded me of my disdain for the “discipline” my school expects me to impose upon my students. I rarely actually yell (aside from encouragement to the Pink Panthers in their noisy gym) but I imagine my frustration-laced scolding must feel like yelling to most of my third graders, just as it often does to me. I strive to contain my frustration, often taking several moments of silence before responding to a triggering situation, but the model of high expectation, low reward, low punishment schooling doesn’t leave many options for instructors. My school has few-to-no consequences for misbehavior — but what’s worse, there aren’t sufficient opportunities for students to truly engage in their work. Given that I discourage inappropriate outbursts from my students, I worry that my own spates of discipline send mixed messages.