The Gift of Snow

Boston has had record snowfall this year. At this point, we’ve already had 6 snow days (and now 2 more for this week!), the city is running out of places to put all of the snow, and people fight over parking spots. I haven’t had a full of week of teaching in weeks and I feel worried about how this inconsistency has impacted my teaching and the learning of my students.

There is a gift that snow brings.

After indoor recess and lunch, my students come back to the classroom and start their independent reading. It is magical to watch young, new readers get invested in their books. Some of my kids are reading aloud and I have to remind them to make their voices quieter. Some of my kids are reading with an adult, talking about what they see in the pictures of the book. Some of my kids are enthralled in their chapter books that they don’t even look up when another kid tips off of his chair. Some kids are making letters with play dough. We are all reading. 

It is evident that my students are all different. Sometimes the differences seem to be screaming out. There are interruptions in teaching. Things get thrown. Pauses in speech seem to be everlasting. Bodies run out of the classroom. Learning seems to be forgotten. Unkind words are exchanged.

I have an inclusive classroom. I have students with and without disabilities in the same classroom. I have students who represent the economic, racial, and linguistic diversity of Boston. It is a practice I believe in and feel committed to. It is also something that can stress me out, make me feel inadequate, and make me worry about the learning of all of my kids.

I’m all about honoring differences and helping children (and adults) learn how to talk about what they notice and how to support each other given our differences.

And there are moments where sameness is beautiful too.

After independent reading, we have outside time. I believe that kids need many opportunities to play, especially outside. Our district and school has policies about what the temperature has to be in order for kids to go outside. There is no policy for the amount of snowfall, though. Even with indoor recess, I took my kids outside. It was warm enough.

They all pile outside of the classroom. Putting on snow boots. Borrowing gloves from the lost and found. Zipping up snow pants and coats. Soon the kids say, “I’m hot!” while they wait in line for their classmates to join them. I even change my shoes to boots. Our playground has practically 3 feet of snow on it.

We walk down the stairs and as I open the door, the kids start running out. Smiles consume their faces. All of them.

I hold one kid’s hand who says, “Emma help!” as she puts one hand on the railing to walk down additional stairs to the playground.  Our feet and legs slide deep down into the snow. We laugh. Soon she starts running and slipping deep into the snow. Just like her classmates.

All of them slip deep into the snow and laugh. All of them. Right now, no one is different for how they walk or the speed of their bodies.

I look across the playground and they are crawling on their knees. Eating snow and licking icicles. I tell them, “It’s dirty!” They keep eating snow. That’s what kids do. All of them. Right now, no one is different for putting something in their mouths.

The slides are a hit. Jumping is exciting. There is a safety snow seems to give my kids. If they fall, they fall into snow.

The kids take turns sliding down. I hear, “excuse me” and “watch out below” before they zoom down the slide. All of them. Right now, no one is working on their social skills in isolation.

They laugh as they land into the snow face first. All of them. Right now, no one is crying.

The differences in my students make me a better teacher, a better person. But right now when all my kids dive into the deep snow, and smile with satisfaction, I am loving their sameness. 

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