Circle Time

You know you’re a bad mother when your son’s second-grade teacher asks, “Now, whose mother are you?” and it’s two months into the school year.

When my son Ethan was in kindergarten, I volunteered every week in the classroom. Sorting paper and artwork, helping kids work on projects or reading aloud were a few of the more glamorous tasks while often I simply made photocopies. Whatever the work, it was reassuring to watch my son and his classmates and teachers interact, developing friendships or resolving conflicts.

The year he went into second grade my career became overwhelming so I gave up classroom volunteering. But after his teacher’s comment, working mother guilt ate away at me, and I volunteered for Ethan’s class holiday party.

I arrived early that Friday afternoon in the classroom, latte in hand, prepared to hand out cookies and cups of juice. Class was still in session, and the volunteers were asked not to do anything until the kids finished “Circle Time” and went out to recess.

Maybe the good moms knew what Circle Time was, but I didn’t. When I first walked in the classroom door, the kids were seated in a circle on the floor and they looked as serious as if they were Barack Obama’s cabinet members discussing momentous changes to America’s health care system. Curious about what these seven-year-olds were discussing so intently, I grabbed a seat with another volunteer at the back of the room.

“Anyone else want to say thank-you to someone here?” said Ethan’s teacher, a tanned and pretty woman who wears outfits like she just breezed in from a beach vacation in Santa Barbara, rather than overseeing 20 active children. “Okay, if we are done with thank-you’s then let’s start with apologies. Anyone want to apologize to someone?”

The teacher then handed a small puppet of a frog to the first child to her left. The boy took it and put it on his hand for a moment, then passed it to the next child, a small girl who was equally mute on any apologies.

A blond smartly dressed boy took possession of the frog puppet with confidence and spoke up. “I want to apologize to Anthony.” He turned to another boy in the circle and looked him in the eye, unusually direct for a seven-year-old child. “Anthony, I’m sorry that I said I’m so much better at school than you are. I am a lot better at school, but I guess I shouldn’t have said that in front of everyone.”

I choked on my latte. That was his apology? I wondered what life was like at his house. Is that the way arguments went between his parents? Anthony who received this back-handed apology seems unfazed.

As my son took the puppet next, I held my breath. What wrong-doings had he committed in the school yard? Like most boys of any age, he had no interest in sharing feelings and couldn’t wait to pass the frog along to the next kid.

The puppet moved around the circle until it reached another boy. He was the kind of little boy you find many of in Marin County: self-assured, articulate, smart, and fluent in Mandarin.

“I apologize to Martin. Martin, it wasn’t right that you cheated at handball today at recess. Since everyone knows that you cheated, it wasn’t right for me to call you a jerk.”

Although I don’t think this is the direction the teacher wanted from the apologies, she didn‘t show it. Instead, she calmly proceeded like a veteran family therapist. As Martin continued to defend his honesty at handball play, the teacher told him that the format of “Circle Time” didn’t allow him to respond and, if he wanted, the three of them could discuss the issue at recess.

Who knew that there was arbitration in second grade? If so, I sided with Martin on this issue. Even “Robert’s Rules of Conduct” allow some rebuttal. In this format, the kids were allowed to take potshots at each other without discussion or intercession. It was the kid’s version of a boardroom power play, saving your issues and conflicts until you had an audience.

The teacher’s attempt at teaching empathy and responsibility to children is noble, but as a recent New York Times article asked, “Can you teach empathy to children?”

Ask me two years ago and I would have responded yes without hesitation. Now, I wonder. Is empathy innate? Or must we as parents or teachers demonstrate it?