Smart Kids, Tired Museum Educator

I've recovered from the field trip, well, from the bus ride, which despite a well-behaved group of children, and a teacher who closely attends them, that bus was noisy. And bumpy, even though the driver stayed off our well-known, Belgian-bricked thoroughfare, it seems that every road between our little school, through North Philadelphia and into downtown is pothole laden. The baby fared well in the sling. If the kids weren't so darn funny--they really are a walking comedy troupe waiting to be discovered--the day would have been quite awful.

It wasn't the best of field trips. Things got off to a bad start when the tour guide, a handsome, late 20-something man who seemed also to be a curator and specialist, announced to the children, "I'll be your teacher today." One of the children, in all innocence, panicked, clearly, at the loss of their beloved Kia, but still thinking logically, responded in a plaintive voice, "But we already have a teacher." Ross covered quickly. "I mean, I'll be your teacher while you're here." But it was all over, almost, from that moment. I teach, and I know, you've really got to go dramatic when that's your start.

The kids were there to learn about William Penn, founder of our dear city, and Quaker leader. The problem was, they'd already learned about William Penn, and in a richer, more textured way.

Their teacher had figured out how to teach both about what Penn did that was good. They learned about his vision of religious freedom, which in a nutshell, meant that one had to be religious, but should be able to pick which congregation to worship with. It was radical for his time. Their teacher--their all-the-time teacher had also talked about the underside of the founding of the city, that this was Indian land, Lenape/Delaware land to be exact, and a certain shadiness marked the boundary making. Some would call it the colonists’ cleverness, others would call it cheating. In either case, adding in the story of the walking purchase adds to the story, and other local history sites the kids have visited were able to include this and other texture in the usual tale of colonial Philadelphia.

So when the children were asked what they knew about Penn, among their other offerings was the fact that there was some conflict to the story, and that even though Penn was a Quaker and they go to Quaker school, the Lenape matter too. They raised their hands, and one after another, mentioned the walking purchase story, said there was tension between Penn and the Lenape.

This didn't go over so well with Ross. He let the children speak, obviously frustrated when the third child raised the issue again. And he continually downplayed the story, which surprised me, since so many museums have changed their interpretations in recent years. It was odd to see this one maintain such an old-fashioned and exclusive stance.

Have you ever been in a class or lecture that starts coming apart at the seams, where audience and lecturer are at cross purposes, and no one can get the tracks to connect? Well that's this field trip. Teacher-for-an-hour Ross couldn't quite reach the kids, and the kids' curiosities were tangling up the official presentation. I won't even try to describe the reaction when the whole group trekked upstairs for a visit to a gallery and raised questions about why there was a traffic light inside the building, at the entrance to the exhibit. Sample questions: Why is that here? Don't they need it outside with the cars? Is it heavy? Why is it so low down? How many people does it take to carry a traffic light inside? to which Ross finally responded, first patiently, then tersely: it's here. I carried it up. Maybe someone helped. Let's move inside the gallery, look kids: here's the wampum that describes the pact between Penn and the Lenape....." (to which one of the children asked, "How do we know it's real?" which in my book makes her a junior historian if there ever was one.)

Samira declared it the worst field trip ever. Bet she was glad her mom was there. We all had a big headache, and grumbling tummies, by the time we piled off the school bus later that afternoon.