One of our grandchildren is undergoing early-intervention sessions in speech therapy. Problematic are his initial “r’s” and “s’s” as well as final consonants like “d” and “t.” Based on what I understand, this is a common situation, especially with boys, and a therapist can help the child overcome these challenges fairly quickly.
But what interests me most about this whole situation is the methodology used to help the child. My favorite part so far involves a process for learning to produce the final hard consonants. You might call it the “smash-the-play-dough” method. The child makes little balls of play dough and when it’s time to sound the final hard consonant, bam, down comes the fist on the play dough, right as the sound comes out. Smash . . . “Tuh!” Smash . . . “Duh.” Smash . . . “Kaah.” It surely is fun, and it seems to work.
Several days after witnessing this process for the first time, it hit me. I hate to say it (and I certainly don’t advocate it), but that’s how I learn much of the time. Especially when I’m under pressure. Especially when multiple projects are on the line. The only thing missing is the play dough.
But I bang on other things, or even smash myself. I will not, or cannot, sit still and study in any normal way. Maybe it goes back to my childhood when I had to sit too long each day to practice the piano. Who knows? More likely, sigh, it’s how my brain is wired. (We used the word “restless” back then, but that’s a terribly old-fashioned descriptive now.)
Either way, I wiggle, I drift, I roam, and when I can, interject loud, crashing noises into quiet periods of concentration. I study, then I jump up and wildly unload the dishwasher. I write or read intensely for a while, but then I run up and down the steps to put in laundry or water the plants or grab hangers from one closet and transfer them to another place where they’re more needed. Oh, and vacuuming! My absolute favorite activity—vacuuming, set to the loudest motor setting available.
My husband Hank, on the other hand, as well as our kids Helen and Dennis, are quiet learners. They sit and work so quietly you’d never know they were in the same room. Hank, in particularly, can concentrate for so long you almost have to poke him to see if he is still breathing. That skill, of course, is useful if one is an attorney, a music theorist, a writer, a designer, an editor, or someone who grapples with ever-changing software—all of which Hank needs to do every day. When he’s not doing those things, he’s doing other activity like Sudoku and super-challenging word games that are timed to make them even harder. Sounds pretty noisy, doesn’t it?
I so want to be like that, but there’s not much hope at this point. Still I would like to be able to display a fraction of this quiet style of learning. Believe me, I was trained properly as a kid. The old-school methods of how to organize and probe academic material were taught to us thoroughly back then. Some classmates were virtuosi in this respect. I recall a gal named Valerie who wanted a future in the medical field. Not unusual for gals today, it was in my era. Only three girls in our large senior class had medical aspirations. The word “exceptional” was written all over their foreheads from fifth grade on.
Valerie’s methods of studies remain my (elusive) model. I can still see her at her meticulously organized desk, with her delicately penned notebooks open, everything laid out in elegant handwriting (you really do remember someone’s handwriting after 50+ years). Another super-achieving classmate who decided to go to medical school (while raising three young boys directly after getting her degree in German) also exhibited study habits anyone would envy. She would take reading assignments, which were hefty back then, divide up the days and hours available to do them, make complex charts, and follow them. (I have this memory right, don’t I, Ava?)
Phew. I wanted to be like these girls. But I couldn’t do it, not the concentrating part. Not the “staying still” part. Not the “physically focused” part. Instead, I’d sit-rise, drape myself over my bed, perch on the steps, lean against the doorway, hang over the picnic table, and do whatever else I could think of to shake it up. Once I got old enough to intersperse activities like opening the dog food cans or making exotic cups of hot tea with honey (discovered in 9th grade), my studying resembled more a choreography than an intellectual activity.
We know a lot more now about “learning styles.” (No one used the phrase back then.) Today, it can all be labeled and explained. But back then, it was just weird, and I worried about it. Overall, I managed fine, despite the fact that I still look back and see long trails of energy and focus wasted along the way.
Now, though, it’s okay. Despite apologizing (particularly to family) for how I do things, it is mostly fun for me. Okay, sometimes it is a little scary when I detach myself and watch myself work. But, thanks to these speech-therapy sessions, at least I have a new title for it. I’m calling it the “smash-and-learn” method of study.
And I’m doing it right now as I configure this post, reorder my lectures on Croatian culture, finish a new talk on Slovenia, run laundry, clean the kitchen, and crazily pack to leave this afternoon for Zagreb. I’m sure there are better ways to do it. I know there are better ways to do it. But unless the heavens open and a light beams down on me, splashing me to the ground, only to rise up a different person, change is not on the horizon.
It’s a good thing my husband and I work on different floors of the house. See you next week when I’ll be somewhere on the Dalmatian Coasts.
