A little ways to the left of the dock above is a deep channel dug years ago for irrigation purposes. Whoever was digging it gave up and now it’s just a deep, muddy ditch. This wouldn’t be a big deal if it weren’t for the fact that the program I work for regularly brings students into that marsh. Which isn’t actually a big deal: typically, our students listen to us when we tell them not to go into the mud because they’ll sink in up to their waists. Typically they hear these instructions and heed our advice. Typically.
Last week, the final week of our program for the school year, we had a school from the Boston inner city area. With urban schools, my main objective is to get the kids out into nature, to try to get them to connect with something, anything, in the outdoors. Now Boston isn’t New York in terms of nature, but my goal remains the same. This is mud, those are trees, bug spray goes on you not the insects.
Regardless of where a school is from my rules are simple: we stay together, we have fun and learn something, don’t get hurt. This last school had a little trouble with the rules. None of the students got hurt, but half were having trouble with the “have fun and learn something” rule (“it’s so cold!”, “there are so many bugs!”, “I’m gonna get wet!”), while the other half was disregarding the “stay together” rule.
Tuesday, we’re in the marsh, about four girls have informed me they have to pee (these muffins are not prepared to go in the trees), I am attempting to get us as close to an actual bathroom as possible. This is proving difficult as the kids not into the exploration are dragging their feet, and the kids who are into finding animals in the marsh keep finding really cool crabs and asking questions about the various species, and I’m really pumped to stop and examine and answer their questions. However, slowly, but surely, we are getting closer and closer to the dock above (which is a short walk to the dining hall and, therefore, toilets) but we are still on the far side of the channel.
And I don’t realize that I’m not going to be able to get up ahead of them to warn them about the mud.
There I am, standing in the marsh, looking around to make sure all students are moving with the group, while staying away from the osprey nest on the point, when I turn back around to see, up ahead, K—-, a small, fifth grade boy in a clear plastic poncho, jump off the marsh, into the channel, and run/crawl up the far bank back onto the marsh. I yell to them to stay where they are as the rest of the students and I make our way to the channel. Miraculously all the students come gather around. Mostly due to other kids yelling “K—- LOST HIS SHOE! K—- LOST HIS SHOE! MISS BECKA, K—- LOST HIS SHOE!”
K—- had, indeed, lost one of his shoes.
Very calmly, to the gathered students, I tell them that I am now going to tell them the story of the girl who jumped in the channel. She didn’t listen to me, got ahead of me, much like K—- did, jumped in the channel and sank up to her waist in the mud. She was lucky, however, I told my students. Unlike another student who lost his boot in the mud. When his teacher reached in to get it out, she pulled out a boot, sure; but not that kid’s boot. A different boot. K—-‘s shoe is gone. K—-‘s shoe is no more. There is no shoe. It’s gone, baby; gone.
And I couldn’t be mad at him. Couldn’t yell at him. I couldn’t give him a warning or a strike for running ahead. The boy lost his shoe in the mud. Forever. I wasn’t about to jump in there and try to retrieve it, especially after the kid told me he had another pair in the cabin. I did tell his teacher when we got back, however. He agreed with me: Natural Consequences. Now the kid knows if he jumps in the mud again: he might lose his shoes.
This child is destined to lose shoes, though; I’m convinced. The next day, that same student almost lost his sandal to the ocean. Another kid fished it out with a crabbing net.