conflict irresolution

How much can children solve their disagreements?

Eileen was a particularly emotional fourth grader. She was highly sensitive to perceived insults or to being left out of a game. She could swing from laughter to sobbing at the drop of a leaf, and she could draw other children into her emotions, sometimes causing a general uproar among the students in the school.

This school made a pronounced commitment to conflict resolution processes among children. By giving children the opportunity to speak for themselves and listen to each other, the teachers hoped to get children to recognize each other’s needs and respond in caring ways. The process basically consisted of each student having the chance to state her or his feelings about something that had occurred, and making agreements about what course of action to take.

For Eileen the process became an opportunity to give full expression to all her frustrations and disappointments. She regularly asked for meetings with other children, and even began conducting them on her own, without a teacher present. She had a hard time distinguishing between having another child listen to her respectfully and getting another child to do what she wanted. Rather than solving her conflicts, this process seemed to fan the flames of them and make them far more disturbing.

What I did initially in the face of all this was to stop having conflict meetings entirely for a while. I explained to the students that this wonderful tool was not simply a way to have more arguments or force other people to listen. I said that if a meeting was really necessary, a teacher would call for it. Later over the course of the year, I did initiate many talks between students, and I carefully guided them to keep either child from manipulating the situation.

I think poor Eileen really needed some clear, unemotional responses to her turbulent feelings. Putting her in control of a conflict resolution process only seemed to feed her weaknesses, not her strengths. I think people also sometimes mistake such a process as a way of giving children control and “allowing them to work it out.” Children, in my experience, do not have the cognitive tools or the emotional maturity to resolve conflict in a reasonable way. Left to themselves, they tend to create hierarchical power structures in favor of the biggest, strongest, or most ruthless. They desperately need the guidance and perspective of adults to bring out the qualities that will make them more harmonious and more caring.

When an adult is present to create a level playing field, conflict resolution can be a powerful learning experience for both the strong and the weak. By looking attentively at the human face before them, children discover that we all experience feelings of doubt, loss, and hurt. They can feel compassion, even for a moment. They can learn that even our enemies have some deep bond with us.

: : : Insist that children listen to each other, and see humanity there.

the meaningful echo

How does the child want you to respond?

Aimée often tells me things, especially things she did. “Look, papa, at what I made!” Or she tells me about other people, or about how to act. “I can’t have a cookie today because I’m still a little sick.” Sometimes she has a running dialogue going, as if she really wants to have a conversation with me.

I have conversations with Aimée, but not in the way I do with adults or teenagers. The truth is, I don’t feel that she really wants to know my opinion or my observation. She wants to share her own discoveries. If I were to tell her what I know all the time, with all my longer experience and better critical thinking, she would stop wanting to tell me anything. Why should she speak, if I always know better?

So I often don’t correct her when she says ridiculous things, or even just slightly inaccurate things. I repeat what she said. “Yes, you made that, all by yourself,” I say. “Are you still a little sick?” I sometimes judge the success of my listening and responding by whether she continues to talk. I genuinely want to hear what she has to say because it is her contribution to life right now. I also want her to keep the natural feeling that she can think and choose and act for herself, even if her thinking and choosing is mostly a pretense.

That’s not to say I repeat things mindlessly. I notice the meaningful part of what she said. I say it in a neutral way, so that she can change her mind if she wants. By bringing her thoughts into conversation, we are shining a light on them, so that she has a chance to examine them and refine them. We are practicing out loud an attitude of reflection and patience and self-analysis.

: : : Give importance to the child’s point of view.

making a sandbox castle

Does a child really have purpose?

Aimée, who is four, was playing in the sandbox. I stood at the door and watched her for a while. She was filling a plant pot with sand and talking to herself about making a castle. She carefully turned the pot upside down and pulled it away. The sand, which was too dry to hold its shape, fell into a shapeless mound.

I, as an adult, imagined that she would try to “fix” this problem and achieve the castle shape she was looking for. She didn’t seem interested in that. She just started pushing the sand around some other way, making a road or a river.

Purpose is a fairly mature concept. The process of having an idea, laying out a plan, and carrying it through several steps to completion is something that even ten-year-olds struggle to do. The child’s mind simply doesn’t have the stamina, or sequential organization, or global perspective necessary to do such a thing.

The purposes of a child are therefore much less fixed. They waver very quickly according to unexpected difficulties or barriers. The process of moving toward one goal may suggest other goals. Why strive for a castle if a road is presenting itself? Children seem to live in that kind of dialogue with the environment. In a way Aimée was letting her own inner purpose be guided by the sand’s purpose.

What that means for us is that we should not imagine that children’s purposes are like adult ones. I certainly don’t mean we should ignore them or thwart them. But we can, with well chosen words, help children redirect their actions in more suitable ways. We can also watch children’s real feelings, instead of imagining their disappointment or satisfaction at the outcome of their efforts.

: : : Take children seriously, but only as much as they do themselves.

listening

Eric had some difficulty with rest time in kindergarten afterschool. Instead of lying down, he tended to run in a circle around the room. I had tried explaining the routine ahead of time, moving through a series of preparation activities, giving him physical activity before; but this boy just really didn’t want to rest. I waylaid him on his next pass around the room and moved him to the couch, lying on his back.

I said, “Eric, this is your spot for rest time; stay right in this spot.” I wasn’t holding him anymore, but he kept squirming as if trying to escape from a web of ropes. I was nearly at the end of mine. I looked straight into his eyes and said quietly and forcefully, “Eric, you are being so still!” To my eternal astonishment, his arms and legs went stiff. His wide eyes fixed on me, and he did not get up.

The suggestibility of young children is hard to overestimate. They act out exactly what is going on in their minds, and often the source of their behavior is a direct impulse from their environment. So why didn’t Eric listen to me more? I think he listened more closely than I realized, and possibly more closely than I really wanted.

Children interpret tone, facial expressions, body language, and literal meaning. They do not always recognize the adult’s thought process or social expectations, but they certainly know when adults are displeased. That negative focus can actually increase the behavior we think we are trying to stop. The words “stop touching the curtains” immediately strengthen the thought of touching the curtains. It takes great discipline to cultivate the habits of thought and speech that are always encouraging, but then see what the children do in response!

aimée’s little cry

Aimée is my four-year-old daughter. She is very self-disciplined most of the time, and has rarely demanded the kind of parental “surveillance” that I often see going on in families. I don’t think she ever deliberately threw food on the floor, for example. (I consider myself mainly lucky for this, but perhaps clever enough to recognize when I can leave her alone.) Tonight she was with me for dinner at a friend’s house and for some reason decided she needed to scoop spaghetti up with her hands and stuff it into her mouth like a banana.

I objected as soon as I saw it, and told her she needed to keep it in the bowl. She didn’t cooperate, so I moved the bowl away from her and said she could have the spaghetti if she ate it properly. She just burst into tears and wailed about wanting to eat it that way. (Here’s what I didn’t do: argue, raise my voice, repeat myself, or appeal to reason. All of those reactions are more likely to escalate her feelings.) I reached over and rubbed her back a little, thinking that she must be so tired after such an active day with friends. I may even have said that out loud. A few moments later she stopped crying and seemed ready to try again, so I gave her the bowl.

Children usually have pretty compelling reasons for doing what they do. As it turned out, Aimée thought she could avoid spilling spaghetti everywhere by holding it with both hands. I showed her that biting it and letting the rest fall in the bowl would accomplish the same purpose. Could we have reached that understanding without her little crying episode? I don’t know. Sometimes I need to be very uncompromising before she even wants to negotiate. A four-year-old child knows what power is and wants as much as possible. If she doesn’t get it, how can she grow up? That little moment of crying is a plea for the distant time when I will no longer interfere with her eating habits!