plā′wėrk′ings, n. Portions of play matters consideration; draft formations.

Call me playworker

There isn’t so much of an elephant in playwork’s room, it’s more of a whale. If play for play’s sake can be seen to have been somewhat subsumed by all manner of adult agendas, the natural and subsequent enquiry for a playworker might well then be: so what has become of playwork? There are two aspects to consider in this: (i) what is this thing called playwork, as understood by this playworker?; (ii) what is playwork perceived to be by others? In respect of the first aspect, in all honesty, I seem to waver between states of upholding the cause of playworker as specialist in the field of working with children and then, when I realise this could be a bit holier than thou or isolationist, I come back to the notion of ‘playworking’: by which I mean, in essence, an approach that can be applied to the wide smear of all of us who work in a particular way (or just simply ‘are’) in that multi-disciplined field.

In respect of the second aspect, however (the perception of what playwork is, to any given other in the analogy of that diverse field), the current concern is that playwork is greatly misunderstood. If adult agendas can be seen to have largely swamped children’s play for play’s sake, then the approach that is ‘playwork’ or the being that is ‘playworker’, might well similarly have been usurped. The suspicion is not a new one: it’s been bouncing around in the thinking for a while now. Just because adults work with children in contexts that potentially bring them close to the possibility of their play, it doesn’t necessarily make them playworkers. Worse yet, ‘play [space] worker’ [sic] should not be synonymous with ‘anyone who works with children in any capacity’. So we waver back to the isolationist stance of playworker as specialist.

Perhaps we can think about the two ideas at once (and not in a mutually exclusive way): the playworker (without the space between the two elements of the compound word) is a specialist at what he or she does; those who operate in any given manner within their work for and with children can, conceivably, approach this work in a ‘playworking’ way. This is a think-piece for a possible other time though.

Back to the assumption and the concern at hand: are the words ‘playwork’ and ‘playworker’ now at a point of having been taken over, subsumed into the agenda-driven homogeneity of the perspectives of all others in the field?

My direction of thinking and research was influenced in part by research undertaken in my previous post: the flotsam and jetsam of social media feeds throw up all manner of possible leads to follow, and I was starting to see various perceptions of playwork via childcare training organisations, early years practitioners, forest schools and other outdoor learning provisions and advocates, as well as from academics and other writers and people I already knew as ‘playworkers’. What, I thought, might a snapshot of ‘playwork’ look like? It seemed a fair place to start by spending a couple of hours in the research of job adverts for playwork positions.

This research is not, of course, comprehensive. I found a relatively useful search site that does the trawling of other sites for you (this one’s called Adzuna, though that’s no endorsement, and other sites are no doubt available). I don’t know if the site picked up all possible matches from all possible other sites regarding the search term ‘playworker’ but the final retrieval was 37 separate results. This figure came about after weeding out the duplicate adverts, counting as just one the same cut-and-paste adverts by organisations looking for positions to be filled in multiple sites, and only analysing positions that had ‘playworker’, or ‘play [space] worker’ [sic], or even ‘play-worker’ [sic] in the title, i.e. ignoring search results where ‘playwork’ is embedded in the advert text for a different job title. The search returned results for current positions UK-wide and was conducted on Friday, September 7, 2018. There was a wide range of types of advertising organisations: county and borough councils, childcare, Montessori and other early years organisations, sports-based organisations, schools, out of school clubs, prison-based organisations, recruitment agencies representing childcarers, and adventure playgrounds, to name a fair spread. Before conducting the search, I decided I’d match each advert with a simple ‘yes/no’ check with regards to a small set of criteria (in an effort to try to ascertain if each organisation claiming to want to employ a playworker could be seen to know or not know what a playworker actually was).

Knowing what a playworker is (or, defining the term, might well encompass a much larger set of criteria, and herein might well lie one of our basic problems, but that’s an aside). For the purposes of this simple research though, I decided to check against six main criteria (plus an additional one for curiosity). These criteria were as follows.

The case for playwork understanding:

(i) Is there mention of ‘play’ in the advert (other than adjoined in some fashion to the word or the idea of adult-structured activities/planning?);
(ii) Is there mention of the Playwork Principles?;
(ii) Can an understanding of play for play’s sake be extrapolated from the wording?

The case against playwork understanding:

(iv) Are there stated (or implicit) learning, development and social agendas built into the job role?;
(v) Is there a focus on activity planning of children’s time?;
(vi) Is there an ‘ensuring children’s safety at all times’ focus?

These criteria are, of course, open to critique, but I chose the first three because they seemed to me to be a fair reflection of what an advert for a playworker should include, and the second three because experience has shown me that these thinking processes are more or less what seem to come up time and again in a non-play for play’s sake approach. The bonus curiosity criterion was (astute readers might by now have fathomed): Is the word ‘playwork’ or ‘playworker’ written with a space or a hyphen in between? (Always a good indicator, in my experience, that finer nuances have been missed).

So, to the results.

(i) Mention of play: 14% (5 out of 37 adverts)
(ii) Mention of Playwork Principles: 3% (1 out of 37 adverts)
(iii) Understanding of play for play’s sake: 3% (1 out of 37 adverts)

(iv) Learning, development, social agendas: 65% (24 out of 37 adverts)
(v) Focus on activity planning of children’s time: 65% (24 out of 37 adverts)
(vi) Ensuring children’s safety at all times focus: 43% (16 out 37 adverts)

(vii) Play [space] work: 30% (11 out of 37 adverts)

Addenda to the above results are that: the one advert to mention the Playwork Principles regarding a playworker position didn’t actually understand what the Principles were, based on the rest of the advert (so, in effect then, mention of the Playwork Principles in terms of understanding them can be counted as 0%); the one advert that gave the impression that those who placed it understood the idea of play for play’s sake was an adventure playground; one other advert did mention the Playwork Principles but this was in regards to a managerial position, so not within the scope of the above data. That said, I note it because the words caught my eye in the scanning and perusal of the advert contributed to a list of questionable material (see below).

What can we make of the results then? Perhaps this simple research can be said to be tainted by some researcher bias (though the effort was made to counter this in the choice of criteria and the stage it was devised at). Perhaps I was really looking to ‘prove’ what I knew all along. That said, this isn’t a PhD but rather a back of the envelope scribbling. You be the judge here.

For me, it’s lamentable statistics insofar as the mention of play (in terms of how a playworker might know play to be) is concerned: just 5 out of 37 adverts see it as important to make note of. That only one of the 37 even mentions the Playwork Principles (and none of them, I suggest, understand them) is not surprising but it is worrying. That only one (not surprisingly an adventure playground, though other types of provisions of good quality are available) can be readily seen to understand the idea of play for play’s sake is, well, sobering. Compare these figures with the much higher (adult in-) control and development agendas that return 65%, 65% and 43% and we can see which way the wind seems to have blown. The small surprise is that there weren’t more of the ‘play [space] work’ [sic] adverts out there. It’s a personal irritation that the words are routinely split, and words mean things after all. That said, the opposite spin on this is that what does this all say for the appropriation of the compound word ‘playworker’?

Notes were made on some wordings within the adverts (wordings that troubled somewhat). Below are a selection of critiqued offerings from the adverts, without attribution because they could easily be mixed and matched anyway, because the data isn’t identifiable in my notes and, even if that were the case, I’m also not minded to enter into those finger-pointing waters as yet (suffice is to say that the prevalence of, for example, [enter brand name here] Childcare/Sports and Fitness Multi-Franchise Operators with their photocopied policy files, staff uniforms and one size fits all fits-allness leaves me cold):

Enforce and implement all Club [sic] policies and procedures, the implementation of playwork principles [sic] and general childcare requirements

[My emphasis in italics: is the implementation of the Playwork Principles also by enforcement?]

To lead and develop quality play and activity opportunities ensuring engagement of all children specific to their individual needs

[My emphasis in italics: I’m not sure I know how to ensure all children’s engagement]

The role of Playworker [sic] involves supervising the children, ensuring their safety at all times, engaging with them in aspects of play and conversation, setting up activities for children to optionally take part in . . .

[Or, perhaps, getting in the way of children and taking over, not letting them do anything remotely disconcerting, getting in their way more, controlling their play, oh, but only if they want to take part]

Knowledge of a range of principals [sic] underpinning play work [sic]/childcare/youth support provision

[I refer m’learned colleague to the above contention that words mean things after all]

Supporting events and activities which deliver objectives and targets identified by the Play Service

[It does make me wonder what these objectives and targets are]

Taking control of a group of children ensuring their welfare, safety and enjoyment at all times.

[My emphasis in italics: taking control, no less, whilst also ensuring enjoyment, at all times]

Has ‘playworker’, and so ‘playwork’, or its perception at least, become irreversibly appropriated, swallowed up by the proponents of other agendas? There is, perhaps, a whale in playwork’s room.
 
 

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Poor play: this magical, ineffable, sublime and often highly personal affair has been infested by an instrumentalist rot. Once such a thing’s set in, it’s prone to acceleration. The message is clear from this writer and playworker: play is for play’s sake; however, this essential message about play is weighed by all manner of adult agendas swilling around at the periphery, and some individuals and organisations of nominally playwork flavour may have forgotten what play is. That is an aside. The purpose of this writing is to shine a light on the general swill out there: a swill that sees play in ways often very different to the way that children (and playworkers) do.

First the lament (or, as Arthur Battram puts it in the comments below, the ‘play wails’) and then down to the nitty-gritty of the research:

Play has its benefits. This much is accepted. However, if you were to ask a child (hypothetically, because the actuality of such an endeavour could be seen as unethical) what the benefits of their play were, I’m confident that (supposing they weren’t playing the whole ‘just tell the adult what they want to hear’ game) what they’d say would be markedly different to what an agenda-driven adult would say. Benefits, to the majority of (albeit sometimes well-meaning) adults, can turn into aims and targets. Play becomes a tool, an instrument, towards reaching a certain aim. It is this instrumental rot, this mindset (‘set’ being entirely appropriate here), that I rally against.

Not everyone who interacts with children, or who has a vested consideration for them, is a playworker. This I appreciate. However, the adult agendas wrapped up in such areas as education, politics, health (and even brand awareness), to name just a few, with regards to the consideration and treatment of play, begin to weigh heavily: they’re making me nauseous. Poor play: I’m sick of the agendas.

The Playwork Principles (PPSG, 2005) aren’t perfect by any means, and they’ve been subjected to critique by various authors over the years, but one of the eight statements therein does strike a chord here: ‘For playworkers,’ declares Playwork Principle 4, ‘the play process takes precedence and playworkers act as advocates for play when engaging with adult led agendas.’ This is a rallying call to those out there reading this who know full well what this means. These are difficult times in terms of funding for play provisions and for playwork: this is readily understood. The coalition government couldn’t sweep away the previous Labour Party Play Strategy quickly enough in 2010. Austerity has bitten hard, the bottom line of Tory policy is money; more potently, however, austerity, the Tories, the neo-liberal machine are all wrapped up with an inability to comprehend the idea and the actuality of play. If play doesn’t ‘produce’ anything, then play is seen as pointless. Enter the instrumentalist agenda: if play is purposeful, it can be funded.

It shouldn’t be this way. Regular readers of these pages will know my disdain for the current (money- not people- obsessed) obesity agenda linked to children and their day to days. To this I can add an uneasiness at the usurping of play by education, future fixers, and in some ways therapists too. All ‘use’ play for instrumentalist ends. Some wrap up their (sometimes well-meaning) concern for the children in their scope of consideration with an inability to perceive what play is, for those children. Play is what play is in the moment; its benefits are what benefits the child or children at that time (yes, I am also aware of the deferred benefits argument); the instrumentalist rot of adult agendas should not be allowed to set in.

Herein ends the preamble. The meat of this post is concerned with research undertaken in order to substantiate my previous claims. This research is, of course, not exhaustive. However, of the recent national and international articles posted to various publications (and a couple of older ones for good measure too), I can as yet find no out-and-out example of promotion of play for play’s sake. One comes close, but still there are issues: in Which is the only country to protect in law the child’s right to play? (The Guardian), Aditya Chakrabortty reports on the Welsh government’s positive regard towards children’s play but the reporter still adds that ‘Yet play teaches children to resolve differences.’

Why does play have to be ‘for’ something other than itself in the writing and thinking offered up by others? (By ‘others’ I mean ‘not those of a playworking persuasion’). Play, if it has to be ‘for’ something, is ‘for’ its own ends.

The Children’s Commissioner for England, Anne Longfield, has just had her office publish a report titled Playing Out: a Children’s Commissioner’s report on the importance to children of play and physical activity. Whilst play has been thrown into the spotlight by this report, it is unfortunately chock-full of instrumentalism, often blurred through the lens of ‘benefit’. Yes, children’s play is important (because of an implicit respect for children and their ways of being, their rights, them, perhaps?), but here in this offering we have a litany of skills development, concerns on obesity, future fixing, social engineering, and so on. Some quotes:

By playing, children try out new things, test themselves and learn new skills. Play is also a way of developing social and emotional skills: by playing with others children learn to share, take turns, negotiate and make friends.

Far from being an inconsequential time filler, it is clear that play helps children grow into the rounded, sociable and skilled people we all want them to be.

There is so much to be gained by enabling children to play and be active. It’s time for a joined-up approach to supporting children’s health and wellbeing and a recognition that only by working together will we deliver the changes necessary to protect the health of future generations.

Play teaches children to use language effectively and solve problems . . . Through play and physical activity, children learn how to negotiate, cooperate and see things from other people’s points of view.

Children’s social skills are also honed through play. Equipping children with the skills to negotiate and draw boundaries, e.g. through role play, may help prevent unhelpful peer relationships from forming, such as those in gangs.

Recommendations to help children become more active: Increasing children’s play and physical activity would have a range of physical and emotional benefits . . . Put out of school activity at the heart of the plan to reduce obesity.

Where, in all this, is a recognition of play in non-instrumental terms? Play is a political football, kicked around: goals are scored. The real players, in this analogy, are sat on the bench, watching on.

The instrumentalists are in the ascendancy. Poor play. A selection of other findings follows.

In Why playtime is an essential part of childhood development (Child in the City), Jenny Silverstone writes:

When they play, they learn . . . When they play, a child is working on their neurological development . . .

(Sorry, they’re doing what?)

. . . solo playtime is important to help a child explore their imagination. Playtime with other [children] is equally important too as it helps with socialization [sic] and conflict resolution . . . [sensory play] builds up language skills and it is a way for them to learn how to problem solve.

Professor Karen Hutchison of Rowan University says: ‘Play is actually the work of a child in which they are preparing themselves for adult roles and society at large.’

No. No, it’s really not. Play is the focus of the now.

Perri Klass writes in Taking playtime seriously (New York Times):

Play is a universal, cross-cultural and necessary attribute of childhood, essential for development and essential for learning.

In addition to teaching children content, we should look to strengthen their human skills, [Dr. Hirsh-Pasek] said, helping them learn to think up new ideas and explore them, and to navigate the social worlds of play and, later, of work.

‘Play is not a specific activity, it’s an approach to learning, an engaged, fun, curious way of discovering your world,’ Dr. Tamis-LeMonda said.

Play is an approach to learning, to work, to development, the future of ‘betterness’. What about being?

In Time Health, Siobhan O’Connor writes about The secret power of play:

. . . scientists have learned that free play isn’t just something children like to do — it’s something they need to do. Play keeps [children] physically active, all the more important at a time when some 20% of American children are obese — more than triple the percentage from the more play-friendly 1970s . . . It also exercises their minds and their creativity. More than anything else, play teaches children how to work together and, at the same time, how to be alone. It teaches them how to be human.

Play for play’s sake doesn’t get a look in.

Reporting on National Playday in 2014, Katherine Sellgren writes in Play ‘boosts children’s development and happiness’ (BBC, archived under an education URL):

Play helps boost children’s language development, problem solving, risk management and independent learning skills, a study reaffirms.

The report, for the Children’s Play Policy Forum, found play improved children’s physical and mental health, as well as their emotional well-being.

It also found playtime in the school playground could enhance academic skills and attitudes and behaviour . . .

The study also said play and youth facilities in public spaces had led to reductions in levels of anti-social behaviour and vandalism.

[Playgrounds were] linked to a range of improvements in academic skills, attitudes and behaviour, and to improved social skills, improved social relations between different ethnic groups, and better adjustment to school life.

Yes, yes, but what about how play is?

Very acute and current affairs in the US have been viewed recently through the lens of play. Jonathan Haidt and Greg Lukianoff write in How to play our way to a better democracy (New York Times), and despite quoting the ‘free play’ definition offered by Peter Gray (‘activity that is freely chosen and directed by the participants and undertaken for its own sake, not consciously pursued to achieve ends that are distinct from the activity itself’), that:

Outdoor free play, in mixed-age groups, is the most effective way for children to learn . . . essential life skills, Professor Gray says.

How to future-fix a post-Trumpian society.

Returning to the recent publication by the office of the Children’s Commissioner for England, Michael Savage writes in The Observer under the title of Call for action to end children’s ‘battery-hen existence’ in summer holidays, that

[Re: the idea of ‘play on prescription’] Research has also indicated that half of British seven-year-olds do not meet the chief medical officer’s minimum physical activity guidelines of at least 60 minutes activity every day.

‘If children are there [at adventure playgrounds], they will be less anxious, out and about and improving.’ (Anne Longfield)

Improving, no less. Play for attainment of CMO activity guidelines. Savage goes on to write that:

Sarah Wollaston, the Tory chair of the health select committee, backed the calls. ‘Physical activity and play are enormously important to children’s physical and mental health,’ she said. ‘Providing these facilities may save money down the line. It is fantastic value in avoiding the costs later on of poor mental and physical health.’

Is it all about the money? What about poor play? Would any Tory know what ‘play for play’s sake’ means?

The final word here goes to the Lego Corporation. Perhaps whilst trying to entice a few readers into engaging with a few more products in the pipeline, under the title of Families that [sic] play more are happier, but even children say they are too busy for fun and games, the Lego reporter writes that:

The power of play to help children learn is indisputable for parents. Almost all (95%) believe play is essential for children’s wellbeing and a vital educational tool. Four in five (82%) think that children who play more will be more successful in future studies and work.

At the bottom of the page it’s stated that:

The Lego Group’s mission is to inspire and develop the builders of tomorrow through the power of play.

What though about the play of today?
 
 
References:

Chakrabortty, A. (2018), Which is the only country to protect in law the child’s right to play? The Guardian [online]. Available from: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2018/aug/22/child-right-to-play-wales-law-budget-cuts (Accessed Sep 6, 2018).

Children’s Commissioner for England (2018), Playing out: a Children’s Commissioner’s report on the importance to children of play and physical activity [online]. Available from: https://www.childrenscommissioner.gov.uk/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/Play-final-report.pdf (Accessed Sep 6, 2018).

Haidt, J. and Lukianoff, G. (2018), How to play our way to a better democracy. New York Times [online]. Available from: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/01/opinion/sunday/democracy-play-mccain.html (Accessed Sep 6, 2018).

Klass, P. (2018), Taking playtime seriously. New York Times [online]. Available from: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/29/well/family/taking-playtime-seriously.html (Accessed Sep 6, 2018).

O’Connor, S. (2017), The secret power of play. Time Health [online]. Available from: http://time.com/4928925/secret-power-play/ (Accessed Sep 6, 2018).

PPSG (2005), The playwork principles. Cardiff: Playwork Principles Steering Group.

Savage, M. (2018), Call for action to end children’s ‘battery-hen existence’ in summer holidays. The Observer [online]. Available from: https://www.theguardian.com/society/2018/aug/25/end-battery-hen-existence-in-summer-holidays-childrens-commissioner (Accessed Sep 6, 2018).

Sellgren, K. (2014), Play ‘boosts children’s development and happiness’. BBC [online]. Available from: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/education-28658441 (Accessed Sep 6, 2018).

Silverstone, J. (2018), Why playtime is an essential part of childhood development. Child in the City [online]. Available from: https://www.childinthecity.org/2018/08/29/why-playtime-is-an-essential-part-of-childhood-development/ (Accessed Sep 6, 2018).

Trangbæk, R. R. (2018), Families that play more are happier, but even children say they are too busy for fun and games. Lego Group [online]. Available from: https://www.lego.com/en-gb/aboutus/news-room/2018/august/play-well-report/ (Accessed Sep 6, 2018).
 
 
Addendum:
Sometimes reporters of articles get to speak to playworkers, advocates for play for play’s sake who do their level best to explain their experience and understanding of play, to inform those articles; sometimes, it’s acknowledged here, those reporters misrepresent or mangle those playworkers’ words.
 
 

We are all simply children of different ages.

— Gordon Sturrock, personal communication (2018)

 
It isn’t any wonder that many of us find ourselves all at sea in the waves of global and local political discontent, disinformation, dis-ease: the egotistic presidents, ministers and other lesser dictators of hyperbole have taken up their sticks and assumed themselves of power. Billionaires speak whatever passes in their mind, without regard, because others worship the capital scraps that fall at their feet; corporations speak in numbers, not in the language of people; bureaucrats enact the data crunching will that comes from somewhere high above, unquestioned, because that is what they’re programmed to do. It may sound naïve to say it but, whisper it, there are such things as people and the many trials and tribulations of their lives.

What has this all to do with children? Well, I write in the context that we are all never ‘fully solved’, that we are all somehow making our way, continuing to try to make our way, that we are — deep down, or not so very far from the surface — creatures of shared concerns, anxieties, hopes and fantasies of escape. In short, and to flip that all around, children are just like us too. We all experience the process of ageing, gaining internal encyclopaedias-worth of what we think as knowledge, refining our intuitions, making myriad mistakes and repeating them until those mistakes have taught us what we need to know, but wisdom doesn’t necessarily come with any of that. Wisdom can just as easily be an in-the-moment acuity, such as with child-like presence. There is a difference though between being ‘child-like’ and ‘childish’.

There is a far more positive connotation to the former than there is, in popular modern culture, to the latter. What if, one by one, some by some, we were to begin to connect with one another in the higher degrees of child-like grace? This is not a covert way of suggesting that we all ‘play nicely’ (whatever that means), ‘share and care’, or other saccharine mantras of pre-school adults’ soft decree; this is a way of saying that, if we think to see carefully, there are other communications within the apparent one before us. Children often have a great capacity, in my experience, to comprehend the essence of this.

Children and adults alike can be child-like or perceived as childish. In the negative connotation of the latter, wrapped as it is in a distrust or fear or illness of ease regarding children and their actions or apparent irrationalities, adults construct a state of feebleness, of unformedness, of uselessness. The word is wholly unfair on, and unrepresentative of, the child. The noun that is ‘child’ suffers judgement with the addition of the suffix that is ‘ish’ in the way that adjectives don’t always do (e.g. yellowish, smallish, flatish). Even, if we were to stretch the lexical point, the adjective that is ‘Spanish’, or ‘English’, (‘relating to Spain or to England’), could suggest a vagueness (Spain-ish, England-ish), but not such negativity as we often find in ‘childish’.

We could shift our collective thinking. Connotations can change: they have done already in some words (e.g. artificial, villain). What if ‘childish’ became so elevated that it were up there, enjoying the view, with ‘child-like’? What would need to happen for that to be? Of course, the dominant collective attitude, disposition, treatment and regard for children would need to shift, but this will take time: children are often treated as pawns for adult agendas (the well-documented separation of Central American families travelling across the US border, for example; the insidious testing of school children to meet Government targets in the UK). There are such things as people . . .

Herein lies the rub: we are all such things as people: even the billionaires, the power merchants, the corporate greys in their penthouses, the bureaucrats and others programmed to perform. None of us ‘grow up’ because none of us can: we may think of ourselves as wise or powerful or worthy in any amount of ways, but really we rely on others to bestow or affirm these attributes on us. We grow out, grow along, we gather articles along the way, which we may later discard or keep still, but ‘growing up’ is a fallacy. We might work out how better to cover the emotions that tangle out of our feelings, but we won’t master this thing called life: children are emotional feeling people, as we are; adults are emotional feeling people, as children are.

I’m not so naïve as to believe that every person on this planet is going to get along. I do, however, believe (because I have experienced it) in the notion of child-like grace. It is a transpersonal presence in both children and adults, and it is a connection we can all make if we want to try being open. We listen to the noise that’s forced upon us (even with the best effort of not trying to hear the squawking in the street below, in the dead of night, we can’t always not hear the relentless stream that comes at us from the politicians, the media analysts and manipulators, the opinions of all our fellow listeners): we listen and we become subsumed, we allow ourselves to follow, we accept connotations. We can do something about this: we can think, we can see, we can connect. It is child-like to do so.

We have a common grace, but we have to want to be in touch with it. We will fail daily, because we share our streets and cities with many others, and we can’t always predict their various shifting states of being; we will, however, have moments of affirmation that aren’t wrapped up in corporate or individual greed, the rhetorics of power, or the hierarchal positionings and posturings of dominance. Our affirmations will be quiet, quite probably unworded, full of a sense of knowing that isn’t taught at school, replete with something ‘other’. We will be child-like, childkind.
 
 

It’s late at night, late at least for these younger children, wrapped in blankets or wrapped into parents, at a small fire, in a small clearing in the woods, nowhere near concrete or traffic or towns or cities, somewhere deep in the middle of Kent. I’m drawn over to this side of the camp by the soft sounds of someone playing the guitar. I sit down on the grass by the pyramid frame that’s standing above the low flames. It’s warm here and there are half a dozen children gathered around, listening quietly to the low music. Rachael, the camp band’s singer, passes me the guitar: play something, she says, whilst she attends to the children’s needs (hot chocolate or marshmallows? It’s already drifting in space and memory, a week on). I can only play a few chords. It’s OK, I’m told by Jim, the barman of the barn-bar, the ukulele player, you play more than me! I play very low because I’m really not that good, and I stop because one of the girls wants to sing a song. She says she’s making it up as she goes along: she sings as she looks into the flames, repeating repeating the refrain.

Here we are again. I have been to this small place for five years in my returns now, every May. There are familiar faces and new families. There are maybe thirty or forty children, I suppose, or it feels like it, mostly younger, though a handful are older. It doesn’t take long for the new to fall into the pace and feel of here. This year, because I’m working on my own, I set up the gazebo at the end of the clearing, just ahead of the dirt mounds which, later, I hear some children talking about: look, the playground’s still here. There is a rope swing and a tyre swing; there is a plank of wood, which some children manufacture as a standing see-saw, and some lean it experimentally against the old caravan, later, as I see from a distance, using it as a means to reach the rope; there is the shallow dirt basin where other years’ play took place; a punch bag hangs nearby — I can hear the rhythmic whacking of sticks hitting it, even a hundred yards or so away at my tent, on the edges of the clearing corner where Bec and Dru and Amy have set up a woodcrafting place, where Dru whittles spoons and strews the ground with shavings from other workings, where the wool is woven, where the little dogs wander, and through which the children navigate, en route for their own camp in the deep green luminosity of the woods just beyond.

At nights the candles down the track are lit. I stand at the edge of the clearing, beyond the barn, looking down and down the narrow, shallow slope towards where the lake is in the dark, and the black is always the very blackest down there through the trees, and the small smudges of those candle lights, in two ragged receding roughly parallel lines, always catch my attention. Places like these, sights and the feel of all and suchlike can, and has, made its way into other writings of flow and fiction. Sometime, somewhere along the way of the weekend, I remember a conversation in passing, with a father, who told me how he watched the space station going over with his child. In the night, one night, I emerge from the trees, from under the rickety old metal-roofed shack that creaks with the wood of the trunks, from where I have been talking and eating with a friend re-met, and the sky is strobing intermittently. I wonder if my eyes need to readjust, but it’s far-off lightning sparking the dark. The rain comes, just as I close my tent zip up, but I don’t hear the storm that passes over.

I forget the order of things. It doesn’t matter at all. I’m at the fire bowl in the woodcrafts corner of the clearing, one night, and from where I’m sitting, just looking out, drinking beer, being still, I can see the barn and there are twists of light around the wood struts of the shelter in front of this. Rachael is singing and the guitar and ukulele are in accompaniment and I just catch the flickerings of a child there and she’s dancing. She’s using the light strings, playing with the interactions, twisting her hands and arms around, turning around and around and down and up. The night is for play as well as the day.

Last year, in the early mornings as we camped along a track in a van a little way out from the clearing, we were often greeted, on stretched extraction or coffee making, by a young boy, maybe five, who would bring us sticks as presents. Oh, thanks, I would say, a stick. I’d sweep my hand across the vista of the forest: we were looking for one of these (or words such as these). He trailed us in our settings-up and takings-down. This year, I see him and I say hello and I call him by my remembrance of his name. I remember you, do you remember me? He looks at me, briefly, matter-of-factly, turning down his lips and shrugging his shoulders: No. I’m not aggrieved! I’m amused: ego has no place here.

Later, in the baking sun-trap down by the lake, I sit amongst the tall daisies with him and his younger brother, in a small clearing of our own devising. I have bubbles here, because I said I would, and a box of bits and bobs, because the children seemed to like this the day before, on a larger scale, and some clay, because one girl said she’d like this. It is a little odd, really, because the whole lake is lined with clay, but I take the darker stuff down anyway. The boys want to know what might happen if this clay I’ve brought gets wet. The oldest says it in a squeaky, experimental, half-hopeful kind of way. Go get some water, I say to him, pointing to the lake: there’s loads down there. He comes back with the biscuit tin I’ve given him half-filled. In goes the clay and we squeeze it between our fingers so that it squirts out of all the in-betweens.

Plenty of children seem to like the clay, the previous day, getting good and messy on the tarpaulin beneath the gazebo. The sun creeps across the ground, under the canvas roof, and wordlessly, like a sun dial, we all slowly shift and edge along and around with it, keeping in the shade as the day goes on. There are experiments of bubbles in the afternoon, when plenty of families have gone elsewhere on-site, woodcrafting, forest-schooling, and so on. I judge it an opportune time. There are a handful of children and parents still around. I have several containers full of this year’s batch of home-made bubble mix, and I have bubble-wands made from elastic and bamboo. There is a small gathering, a small to and fro, of younger children dipping and lifting and blowing softly or too suddenly, waving and flapping, holding the sticks to the breeze, floating and popping bubbles, or chasing them, just chasing them, as children are often wont to do. I look up, sometime (the bright idea of putting the tubs and containers into a larger plastic crate, in case of spillages, having dawned on me), and there with bubble-wands in hand, experimenting, are just three fathers: three dads, me, and a supply of bubble mixture.

In the shade of one hot day, under the gazebo, some younger girls are carefully trying to thread beads onto what will be necklaces or bracelets for themselves or for their fathers, who are sat there with them. I’m nearby and I feel a need to say something genuine, though I hear myself as I say it and it comes out oddly: I say to one of the dads there how good I see it to be that he, and the others around, can interact with their children in this way of play. I do mean it, though I hope it doesn’t come across so patronising as I hear it. It is good because you don’t always see it.

Some children come back time and again to the gazebo, to the dirt ‘playground’, to the bubbles. Some children are more content roaming in the woods, and these are the children just seen in passing, in and out, in between. As I sit in the shade with the clay and the paper and the beads, the feathers and the fabric, and the suchlike all spread out and around, a younger girl of maybe four, and early on without having really had a proper conversation yet with me at all, leans in, telling me her genuine consideration of me, though in words, and without regard for adult sensibilities, in a way only a maybe four year old can. Later, a small green caterpillar labours across the tarpaulin. The other children are suddenly intrigued. The maybe four year old stands, a little wobbly, maybe she’s off-balance, landing a foot down suddenly, squashing the caterpillar flat. Maybe she didn’t mean it; maybe she did. She doesn’t shrug as she steadies herself for whatever her next play is to be, but she might as well do.

At the lake, with the clay and water boys, the slightly older of the two is taken by the sight of a fat furry caterpillar. He wants to take it up, but I’m mindful of the previous day’s episode. I try to dissuade him but he’s adamant. He knows about cocoons, he told me earlier, and I needn’t be in his way here: he picks up the caterpillar with a lolly stick and examines it, placing it down carefully on a long daisy stalk when he’s done. When he looks around again, he tells me it’s gone. Where did it go? he asks. I don’t know: perhaps its found a place out of the sun.

Out of the direct sun, but where the moss on the fallen branches on the ground is a bright and luminous green between the trees, across a ditch where the children have a bridge, they’ve declared a ‘no adult zone’. One of our number is camped by the metal-roofed shack on our side, just beyond the woodcraft corner of the clearing. He hears the conversations from the children’s side. He wants to go over, to infiltrate, to play, but we stay on our side: we respect the lay of the land. Over there, over the ditch, the children concoct plans, create their domain, they just are. I know they’re there. I sit at my tent or amongst the wood shavings of the crafters and see how the children have two routes through: they use more or less two straight lines, either directly across the branches laid down here, along through and then in between the small and large tents and into the ferns, past the shack, and towards the ditch, or the other way straight over the low bunting flags of the woodcraft camp and between the vans and on. Children’s routes often pay no heed to adults’ demarcations.

It is evening on the last day. Some families have left already; there are some spaces between tents. I lay out the parachute because we haven’t used it yet and because I think the children who are scattered variously in the clearing might find it and play something with it. I ask permission of the nearest campers because it is, effectively, in their back garden. Most of the children don’t see it at first, it being off the beaten track. Then, eventually, when a parent calls out that there’s a parachute out, a wave of children appear from out of the metaphorical woodwork. I think the play might form organically but immediately it becomes directed by an older girl, who I’ve known these past few years or so. Something curious happens on the way of the parachute play: all the games she leads the other children towards are standard, as known (albeit with variations on names, as I know them), but she adopts a very precise style of doing things. It is as if she’s copying a teacher she knows or someone similar. She adopts an air and a voice far beyond her years. At one point, she stops a game of ‘fruit salad’ mid-flow because, she says, it just isn’t going right; the apples and the pears are running when they shouldn’t be, everything’s terribly mixed up . . . I tell her that it doesn’t matter but she’s determined and adamant. I tell her that she maybe ought to be quicker because she’ll lose the younger children’s attentions, but she bats on regardless in her own style. The play happens. The younger children go with the flow. All the children are children here.

Here we are, in a small clearing in the woods, nowhere near concrete or traffic or towns or cities, somewhere deep in the middle of Kent. As has been my year-on-year realisation: it is a privilege being here.
 
 

Further to my recent post on the childhood obesity agenda, a little refinement is necessary. This is a subject matter that might gain continual return in my writing. Briefly, my current thinking is that play, as precious and beautiful and as fraught or vociferous as it is, is engaged in for the sake of itself; play ‘used’ for instrumental gain by external parties is disingenuous to what play is, for the player. So, by not so stealthy means (and despite the fact that the ‘p’ word — as playworkers know it — hardly gains any real degree of recognition in those external parties’ outpourings), when play is manipulated (albeit under the guise of, say, ‘physical activity’) towards solving issues (societal, economic: political), I’m in disagreement.

The manipulation in question here is the obesity agenda. My writing/thinking is a reframing of prevalent perceptions of play: play, for the player, is autotelic. Regarding autotelic theory, Burghardt (2005) writes that this ‘derives from the view that all play is done for its own sake . . . the play performance is its own gratification, not the putative end or goal. Thus, autotelic means that the goal (telos) of the behaviour is itself (auto)’. Compare this to the one reference to ‘play’ I’ve managed to find, to date, amongst government documents — under a section entitled ‘supporting early years settings’ in the Department of Health and Social Care’s (2017) document Childhood obesity: a plan for action, it’s stated that:

‘In early 2017 . . . we will update the Early Years Foundation Stage Framework to make specific reference to the UK chief medical officers’ guidelines for physical activity in the early years (including active play).’

It is only ‘active play’ deemed as beneficial: there is an agenda for its use; furthermore, it’s included in a section specifically referenced to the early years. It is as if play doesn’t or shouldn’t exist beyond the early years because it will, by then, have further transmuted into other forms of activity that have (playworker un-endorsed) measurable outcomes. If playworkers continue to jump on the bandwagon of using the ‘play as physical activity to help solve obesity agenda’, then play for play’s sake loses out, even if the funding is provided. Well, some might say, play the game, twist things for your project’s benefit: it helps keep the real play agenda going. That it might, but it doesn’t help in the long run, I’d say. The wider perception of play for play’s sake won’t be enhanced because people haven’t been adequately informed.

Play for play’s sake: this is the message we should be continually shouting out. We have to call it as it is.

This ‘calling it as it is’ brings me back round to the government’s obesity agenda. It has long been my contention that, despite the rhetoric of concern for the health and well-being of the nation, the actual bottom line is that the economic strain on the NHS, and by extension, the government coffers, is the real driving force. So, it’s apposite that the following news report has been filed today: Nick Triggle (2018) writes for the BBC that the ‘NHS needs £50bn extra by 2030’, citing ‘a former health minister and leading surgeon’, Lord Darzi.

A few days ago, I felt obliged (though, really, I didn’t actually want to) to wade around in the murky depths of the Tory Party Manifesto — more technically reference-able, perhaps, as The Conservative and Unionist Party Manifesto (2017). I felt obliged to root around in order to feed my obesity agenda concerns, to get some evidence, though I felt dirty for it afterwards! I do it so you don’t have to. A few nuggets unearthed, for your consideration:

The manifesto is aimed at what it calls ‘ordinary working families’, stating explicitly that ‘[t]hey are the people to whom this manifesto is dedicated.’ (p.8). Does this then presuppose that everyone not included in the narrow overlap of whatever ‘ordinary’, ‘working’ and ‘family’ are considered to be are not included?

‘We do not believe in untrammelled free markets. We reject the cult of selfish individualism.’ (p.9). (The jury appears to be out on this one, given the reputation of ministers of recent times, based on actions). Let’s move onwards though with the economic agenda.

Under the heading of ‘five giant challenges’, the manifesto points to ‘[t]he need for a strong economy’ (p.6), and this bullet point comes top of the list. The capitalist agenda is, contrary to feeble attempts to persuade us otherwise, prevalent: ‘Without business and enterprise, there would be no prosperity and no public services.’ (p.9); ‘A strong economy is the basis for everything we want to achieve as a nation.’ (p.13); ‘Capitalism and free markets remain the best way to deliver prosperity and economic security.’ (p.16).

How does the party plan our present and our future? We’re in the sausage machine of ‘productivity’, don’t forget:

‘[W]e will continue to strive for full employment.’ (p.54); ‘We need to give every child in our country the best possible education if we are to provide them with the best opportunities in the world.’ (p.50) (that is, employability). Education is filed under a section entitled ‘The world’s great meritocracy’, where it’s stated that ours should be ‘a country where everyone has a fair chance to go as far as their talent and their hard work will allow, where advantage is based on merit not privilege.’ (p.49) (work hard, be productive, be a part of the machine, the economy requires it). Let’s just gloss over the quote about privilege here because it’s laughable.

So, we come to the NHS and the economy and the productive units of society. It must stick in the throats of the Tories who might well prefer that the NHS is sold off, to be more profitable, but it can’t, yet, when the manifesto declares that ‘[t]he Conservative Party believes in the founding principles of the NHS . . . care should be free at the point of use.’ (p.66). The ghost of Aneurin Bevan must be howling for conflicting reasons.

The manifesto attempts to temper the subtitle that is ‘The money and people the NHS needs’ (p.66) with its touch of the human element, but really it’s the money that stands out. Yes, it is a service that needs paying for, this can’t be denied, but the humanity rings hollow, the sentiment as read thereafter that the nation’s health and well-being are paramount is secondary (if that high up at all) to the finances. So it is we come back to childhood obesity and ‘the crisis of obesity’:

‘We will continue to take action to reduce childhood obesity . . . We shall continue to support school sport, delivering on our commitment to double support for sports in primary schools.’ (p.72). Yes, I’m cynical and no, I don’t apologise: use play, or approximations of it, or near-guesses of it, to ramp up fitness, to deliver (or pump in ‘education’) academic achievement, to create ‘opportunity’ for jobs, to become productive units for the economy. Blah.

Returning to the Department of Health and Social Care’s (2017) Childhood obesity: a plan for action document, it is stated that:

‘[N]ot only are obese people more likely to get physical health conditions like heart disease, they are also more likely to be living with conditions like depression . . . [t]he economic costs are great, too.’ I suspect that the last line here, being the first line of the second paragraph, is the real first line of the document. The first line though, as given, is rather: ‘Today nearly a third of children aged 2 to 15 are overweight or obese.’ What this doesn’t do, however, is play straight with the document it cites for this. This document, the Health and Social Care Information Centre’s (2015) National child measurement programme (England, 2014/15 school year), gives statistics for reception age (four year olds) and Year 6 (eleven year olds), not 2-15 year olds. The focus of the former document is on obesity, but the latter document has four categories of weight, being: underweight, healthy weight, overweight and obese (also combining the last two for comparison purposes). What is then read in Childhood obesity: a plan for action, no doubt, is that the ‘overweight’ category becomes subsumed into an all-encompassing ‘obesity’.

The Health and Social Care Information Centre’s (2015) document also suggests that, in fact, the trend for obesity in four year olds is going down, not up:

‘The prevalence of obese [reception age] children (9.1%) was lower than 2013/14 (9.5%) and 2006/07 (9.9%). Over a fifth (21.9%) of the children measured were either overweight or obese. This was lower than in 2013/14 (22.5%) and 2006/07 (22.9%).’ (p.9).

A closer look at the whole range of percentages for the four categories of weight, for four year olds, allows us to see a picture that isn’t just focused on the ‘negative news’, putting things in perspective:

‘Table 1: Prevalence of the BMI classifications, by school year and sex, England 2014/15: [Underweight] 1.0 [%]; [healthy weight] 77.2 [%]; [overweight] 12.8 [%]; [obese] 9.1 [%].’ (p.10).

Plugging my previous post’s figures for population of four year olds (662,738) into an equation that has it that 9.1% of these are obese (coming out at 60,309, give or take), and with the assumption of 16,786 state-funded schools for children of that age, we still come out at 4 children per school, rounded up, falling into this category. Four. Now, the added extra to the thinking is the explicit acknowledgement of children’s BMI categories being played off against each other and only those at the 95th percentile (i.e. 95% of the reference population weights are less) are seen as obese: surely, in any reference population where percentiles are made use of, a certain number are going to be in that top bracket, no matter what their weight?

Let’s come back full circle. The Department of Health and Social Care’s (2017) Childhood obesity: a plan for action document states that:

‘There is also evidence that physical activity and participating in organised sports and after school clubs is linked to improved academic performance.’

Ramp up fitness, to deliver (or pump in ‘education’) academic achievement, to create ‘opportunity’ for jobs, to become productive units for the economy. Blah. There’s even reference to how Ofsted will be used as a stick to ensure compliance of the above, though not, of course, in those words.

Poor play (or loose approximations of it, notwithstanding the argument that ‘sport’ and ‘play’ can, philosophically, be deemed as different things entirely). It is to the perception of play, or its grouping together with ‘sport’, ‘physical activity for xyz benefit’, and so forth, that I write of. Poor play: used to improve academic performance, for greater ‘opportunity’ to access the ‘world’s great meritocracy’, to be economically purposeful, to be a part of the sausage machine of productivity, to not cost the government coffers too much.

What of play, for play’s sake?
 
 
References:

Burghardt, G. M. (2005), The genesis of animal play. Cambridge, MA: Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

Department of Health and Social Care (2017), Childhood obesity: a plan for action [online]. Available from: https://www.gov.uk/government/publications/childhood-obesity-a-plan-for-action/childhood-obesity-a-plan-for-action (Accessed April 26, 2018).

Health and Social Care Information Centre (2015), National child measurement programme (England, 2014/15 school year) [online]. Available from: https://files.digital.nhs.uk/publicationimport/pub19xxx/pub19109/nati-chil-meas-prog-eng-2014-2015-rep.pdf (Accessed April 26, 2018).

The Conservative and Unionist Party Manifesto (2017), Forward together: our plan for a stronger Britain and a prosperous future [online]. Available from: https://s3-eu-west-1.amazonaws.com/2017-manifestos/Conservative+Manifesto+2017.pdf (Accessed April 26, 2018).

Triggle, N. (2018), NHS needs ‘£50bn extra by 2030’ [online]. Available from: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-43898963 (Accessed April 26, 2018).
 
 

Play, for play’s sake

The rhetoric of play as an instrumental tool is everywhere (within the limited incidence of its national discussion). It seems that politicians (if they even engage with the idea of ‘play’ at all), journalists, the majority of those who work with children in any capacity, et al, seem to be predominately fixated on outcomes, desirable goals, end product, future-fixing. Play, in this construct, is a means to an end. Play, in this formation, is an adult-manipulation. What children see is different, and it is what children see and how and why they engage in their play that should be the most important consideration when play is the subject of contemplation.

For a long while I’ve been banging this particular drum, but recently and specifically I’ve been somewhat grated by the whole affair that is the instrumental use of play in order to help ‘solve’ the ‘national obesity crisis’. The cynic in me suspects (though can’t yet substantiate) that there is no great and overwhelming desire for the health and well-being of people in the eyes of the government and other powers that be: it’s more to do with counting the beans and keeping the costs to the NHS down. I do wonder about the numbers. That is, I’m dubious about how much of a crisis this ‘crisis’ really is. I’m particularly dubious with regards to the contention that there’s a huge obesity crisis in school children.

Now, before I go further, some balancing out: yes, I have witnessed some examples of particularly overweight children in my day-to-days in various locations, and it’s fair to say that this highlights that those children exist, of course, beyond the dry spreadsheet data. I’m also aware that some areas of the country, or of particular towns, cities or rural areas, might be more prone to a greater occurrence of higher body mass index (BMI) in children (by way of all manner of complex socio-economic factors). However, having worked in some areas of recognised socio-economic ‘deprivation’, I just don’t see what the statistics are saying. (I don’t claim extensive observational evidence, of course: who could? I accept that this is a snapshot).

Could it be that, simplistically, all the obese children are indoors on their Xboxes and Playstations and not out and about playing? Well, the instrumental argument follows a simple cause and effect of ‘run around, get fit’, after all. That said, why aren’t all the underweight and, for want of an appropriate word, ‘normal’ (whatever that is) weighted children (within the acceptable BMI percentile) who play in such ways considered in that equation? i.e. not seen out and about, so must be lazy, on their way to obesity, need to be ‘fixed’. The discussion is wider than the one that often goes along the lines of: if we use play to make children fit, then there will be less obesity and people will be better for it. ‘If we use play’ is a red flag to this particular playworker.

So, this post is an entire exercise in ‘back of an envelope’ calculations and notes. (Fair warning: there will be some rough workings and plenty of scribbling of numbers). How many obese children are there actually? We get fed the message of a ‘crisis’ or an ‘obesity epidemic’ but we don’t always get the numbers to back it up. Then, when we receive some data, we get this in handy sound-bites too, without really knowing how that relates to the whole. This line of thinking struck me on reading a recent article in The Guardian entitled Obesity putting strain on NHS as weight-related admissions rise (Boseley, 2018). Apart from the article’s title feeding my cynicism re: the economic impact on the NHS, the main point of interest was the following:

Childhood obesity has not shifted very much since the school measurement programme was introduced in 2006-7. Last year [2017] 10% of children starting school in the reception year were classed as obese, a slight decrease over time.

It was number crunching time! For the purposes of balance here, Boseley does go on to add that ‘the proportion for those leaving in Year 6 for secondary school was 20%, which is a small increase.’ It’s beyond the scope of this particular post to speculate on the causes of the apparent 10-20% increase between school years R-6 (age 4 to 11 in the UK) because I’m interested in comparing observational (and albeit piecemeal) data with the statistics of younger children deemed to be obese.

Are there really such huge numbers of obese four year olds in the UK? Ten per cent screams out like a crisis. However, what are we really looking at here? Before we go any further, a quick overview of body mass index (BMI) and ‘obesity’. According to information given by diabetes.co.uk, if your BMI (measured by dividing your weight in kg by your height in metres squared) is 30 or above then you’re classed as obese. If there’s an obesity crisis in children (in this study, four year olds in Reception class), another question is how much might all these children weigh to be classed as obese?

So, to the number crunching. The Department for Education (DfE) (2017) provides figures for England on school attendees (so, the start of back of an envelope workings-out if extrapolation needs doing for the UK as a whole). It states that there are, as of January 2017, some 4,689,660 children at state funded primary schools in England and that there are 16,786 state funded primary schools in this country. This gives an average of 279 children per primary school. According to the Office for National Statistics (2015), 2011 being the most up to date census, in which admittedly, all the following are closer to secondary school age now than Reception age, there were at that date some 763,851 four year olds in the UK. It doesn’t give the figures for England alone so some creative extrapolation needs to be done: ukpopulation.org suggests that, as of 2017, there were around 54.99 million people in England. Calculating, from the 2011 census, that the percentage of four year olds to the UK total population was around 1.21% (763,851 out of 63,379,787), this gives a current working figure of around 662,738 four year olds in England (yes, I’m aware that I’m working on 2011 and 2017 data sets, but it’s back of the envelope stuff, this). That is, 1.21% of 54.99 million total population of England, rather than the UK. If we divide this 662,738 by the DfE statistic of 4,689,660 children at state funded primary schools in England in 2017, we reach the figure of some 14% of primary school children being 4 year olds, i.e. Reception age. (Checking my maths is fine, and please let me know if you see an error in the calculations).

If there are 279 children per primary school on average, then 14% of this figure gives us an estimate of 39 four year olds per primary school. Citing the Organisation for Economic Co-Operation and Development (OECD) (2017), Boseley (2018) reckons on 10% of four year olds being obese. That, according to my number crunching, equates to four Reception class four year olds per primary school in England (i.e. 10% of 39 children per school). Four.

Now, as the quote goes, there are lies, damn lies and statistics, but four isn’t a crisis, is it? There are those who will, no doubt, shout out that even one is too many. Yes, if we’re talking about genuine health grounds for concern, then maybe. We should look at what BMI calculations for four year olds mean in numbers. If the average four year old is, taking into account variations for gender, around 1.05m tall (or, 3 feet 5 inches in ‘old money’) then their weight would need to be in the region of 33kg (or, around 5 stone 3lbs, because, frankly, you might as well ask me to weigh someone out in buckets of sand for all I know about how much 33kg is!) for their BMI to hit the obese classification of 30. Here’s the point: 33kg, or a little over 5 stone, is a lot for a four year old to weigh. How many of those do you actually see?

I’m still dubious after all my number crunching. There’s an extra layer of cynicism here as well though: this may well come back to bite me in some way but if playworkers jump on the ‘obesity agenda’ bandwagon to get their work funded, for example, then aren’t they falling into the trap that supports the notion that play has to be ‘for’ something, future-fixing? We know what play’s about, playworkers. We really do. If the future fixers over-ride the idea of play for play’s sake, as children know it to be, then play gets fully subsumed as a subset of sport, citizenship, social engineering and so on. Play should not be taken over by the soft- or hard-line control agenda. The agenda goes something like this: play in ‘xyz’ way because sport/fitness, or any other health agenda, will help you be healthy model citizens, you’ll be ‘responsible’ (i.e. thinking in the same way as the rest of the masses), and you won’t cost the country as much, economically or otherwise.

Play is better than this, more magical than this, more ineffable. On the rare occasion that it does manage to be uttered from the mouth of a politician, it often comes out distorted. I recently sat through forty minutes of a recorded online ministerial debate, poorly attended as it was, though at least play was nominally the subject (my apologies for not yet being able to transfer the link). It was brought up for discussion by Chris Leslie MP (Labour) and though he did bring the subject of funding for playgrounds up (so, all good there), he did bang the ‘play and obesity’ drum a little too much. I sighed, again. Still, the other fella (Conservative MP, Rishi Sunak) was playing on his phone somewhat and not giving the impression he was paying attention and thus, I suspect was the case, when his turn came he rattled off his pre-prepared speech, slipping in an attempted one-up to the Rt Hon other fella by claiming one more offspring, and then going on ad nauseum about the instrumental nature of all things play without ever mentioning play, in essence, at all (sport, fitness, yes, as I remember it, even mental health, and social cohesion, but not play).

Thus ends today’s sermon of number crunching and disconsolation at the instrumental perception of play, to the accompaniment of the banging of drums and the shrill peeping of pipes, which — being maybe in so high a pitch that very few can actually hear — keep on saying, over and over: play for play’s sake, play for play’s sake.

Or, to shift the inflection with the flick of a comma: play, for play’s sake.
 
 
Addendum:

Thank you to Jim Ley (see comments below) for the feedback on the difference between BMI calculations for adults and children. In the spirit of how this blog has always been written, these posts are all works in progress (playworkings in themselves) and so an addendum is required to the above writing. As Jim points out, a BMI of 30 for children would be extremely high and different figures are considered for those of a younger age. Whilst I was aware of the percentile aspect of the BMI calculations, this didn’t get relayed in my writing. So, although some of the calculations above are going to change, the argument still stands that the obese child is not, as observed, as prevalent as we’re led to believe.

Jim suggests a more ‘mid-healthy’ BMI for a child to be 15 rather than 23 for an adult and, whilst knowing where the line is crossed for obesity in an adult is said to occur (stated as 30), the calculation isn’t so clear for a child.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website states that: ‘Obesity is defined as a BMI at or above the 95th percentile for children and teens of the same age and sex’, meaning that ‘the child’s BMI is greater than the BMI of 95% of [children] in the reference population.’

So, to return to my calculation of a 3 feet 5 inch (1.05m) tall four year old and using a back of the envelope BMI of 23 (assuming this to fall above the 95th percentile for this age) then that child would still need to weigh a little over 25kg (4 stone) to be classed as obese. The argument still stands.

Thank you again, Jim, for your corrections. This blog and its posts are an ongoing conversation, so I leave the original in its place with this addendum (in the spirit of showing all my workings!)
 
 
References:

Boseley, S. (2018), Obesity putting strain on NHS as weight-related admissions rise [online]. Available from: https://www.theguardian.com/society/2018/apr/04/obesity-putting-strain-on-nhs-as-weight-related-admissions-rise (Accessed April 17, 2018)

Department for Education (2017), Schools, pupils and their characteristics [online]. Available from: https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/650547/SFR28_2017_Main_Text.pdf (Accessed April 17, 2018)

Office for National Statistics (2015), 2011 census: population estimates for the UK [online]. Available from: https://www.ons.gov.uk/file?uri=/peoplepopulationandcommunity/populationandmigration/populationestimates/datasets/2011censusunitedkingdomsubmissionforunitednationsquestionnaireonpopulationandhousingcensuses/part2/rfttable1_tcm77-392509.xls (Accessed April 17, 2018)

Organisation for Economic Co-Operation and Development (OECD) (2017), Obesity update 2017 [online]. Available from: https://www.oecd.org/health/obesity-update.htm (Accessed April 17, 2018)
 
 

Reading through the posts and pages of this site, as I have been doing as of late, it’s occurred to me that I write a lot in praise of play, in support of children and their rights, about what those children do or how they are (it is a blog with a certain focus, after all) — in echoing A. S. Neill, of Summerhill, I am ‘on the side of the bairns’ (Neill, 1916; cited by Croall, 1983: 57), but I don’t always give as much credit where it’s due to the adults who are also focused in such a way. That is, in respect of the current thinking, I thought it high time I wrote a little about some of those who I’ve worked with, over the years, in our joint focus of working with and for the children, who I’ve either learned from, been inspired by, or just simply enjoyed working with because they enjoyed working with the children and were good at what they did.

Now, the caveat here is that I’m not looking to raise the status of playworker (or the playworking-minded) to an ego-focus (maybe, ‘raise’ isn’t the right word here) — as I’ve written elsewhere, and more than once, play (and the playground) isn’t about the playworker. What I am looking to do is to say that this person, or that person, has had a positive affect, even if they didn’t know it at the time. For this caveat above and because of privacy, I won’t mention any names: if those people read here, they’ll hopefully recognise themselves. If they don’t read here, then it’s here for anyone else, or for them if they ever find it.

There’s no particular rhyme or reason for the list I’m forming in my head, other than what I’ve already written above, so there will be omissions and that doesn’t mean that those people weren’t good either. There has to be some start process though. I don’t want to write things out in chronological order either, and nor do I wish to create some sort of hierarchy of ‘value’. I shall press the internal shuffle button and see what transpires.

This post wasn’t going to be written with the added extra of academic references, but now in the flow I can see another relevant one floating up in my mind’s eye: Hughes (2001: 172) writes about what he terms as six different ‘playwork approaches’ and the ‘quality of child/playworker relationship’ as he sees it, in each. These six approaches are broadly grouped into four degrees of relationship interaction, namely: poor (for the ‘repressive’ and ‘nosy’ approaches); better (for the ‘functional’ approach); good (for the ‘enthusiastic’ approach); high (for the ‘perceived indifferent’ and ‘controlled authentic’ approaches). For the purposes of writing about my previous play-minded colleagues, I find myself thinking about the latter three approaches of the above list. (I’m not differentiating between ‘good’ and ‘high’ quality relationships for the purposes of this writing: it’s all on a level).

I’ve worked in many places and with many people over the years, and some of those adult colleagues can easily be seen as enthusiasts (though they could spill over into taking over the play, they had their hearts in the right places and the children seemed to love having them around); some have practised, with intelligence and sophistication, that sometimes difficult skill of being acutely aware of what’s going on around them, though whilst exhibiting apparent indifference; some have been authentically engaged in support of the needs and preferences, the anxieties and just plain random strangeness of the children around them, and those children ‘know’. I’ll leave you to figure who fits where in the Hughes model. So, with the preliminaries over, onwards and onwards.

A long time ago (in a galaxy far, far away!), I worked with a group of teenagers who (though we didn’t call ourselves playworkers at the time) were playworkers in training. I wasn’t so much older than they were myself, but it did strike me that these amazing people were worth their weight in gold. One in particular was always bright and beautiful, always focused on the play, even when she wasn’t so upbeat in herself (she found a way), and I just appreciated her energy. I’ve written about ‘grace’ a few times before, in respect of those who populate a place where children play (whether they are the children or the adults), and when she and I worked together, I felt that. Years later, in another place and in another life, I remember another colleague who, I think, is probably the most grace-full person I’ve ever worked with. She was quiet and caring, fragile in some ways, but just right, in my opinion, for those particular younger children there.

Maybe this is turning into a list of attributes for the ideal playworking person. Let’s mix it up. Zoom forwards another few years: I met a male playworker of roughly the same age as me and we were fairly chalk and cheese in many, many respects. We worked together closely, a lot, and so we had the easy ability to wind each other up: he would do it deliberately and I often took the bait! That said, I have to give it to him, when he was on form as a playworker, he was definitely on form. He had a look in his eye that told me that not only could he sense the play and the actions of the adults all around him, but that he wanted to push his luck a little more and more, just to see what would happen! He enjoyed the provoking, but he also knew the importance of play and wanted others to see it too. The children, most importantly, I think, also ‘knew’ and sensed him.

I’ve been lucky enough, over the years, to meet and work with plenty of people from various other countries (those from India, America, Finland, Sweden, France, Italy, Morocco, and Spain spring immediately to mind). Some of these people became good friends. A while back I had the good fortune to work with someone who came to England on a form of cultural exchange, and who later became a music teacher, I believe: we worked with children in forest locations and he was open to trying just about anything, and he was softly amazing with the children. In a similar vein (and if you trawl through the posts on this site, you’ll find this next person quietly amongst the words), I shall always remember the support worker who pushed a child in his specially adapted wheelchair up the steep inclines to where the forest school session was being held, and she worked with that boy and focused all her energy and attention on him without a word of personal grievance (if she had any at all). Some people just stay in the mind for simple acts, for years gone by.

A few years back, I worked with a man I had so much time and respect for, and over our years of working together he would bring me stories of his own children’s play, or he’d show me short films he’d made of them at play. It took me a little time to acclimatise to his humour, to his ways of working, to his ways of being, but when I did I realised that this man was the absolute heart and soul of the place. Many of the children loved and respected him, and he would often go out of his way to do things for them if they needed it, in difficult circumstances.

In a slight detour away from playwork colleagues, I did a short piece of work in a school once and was just struck happy by the sight of one of the teachers I was working with as she got inside a plastic barrel and interacted with the children on the level of play. It could have been perceived as inauthentic, some could say, but in that moment, with that teacher, with those children, in that place, it felt good and fine. You can often read things fairly accurately by reading the reactions of the children.

When it comes to reading skills, in the context of how I describe it above, two more playworkers come immediately to mind: together, and in overlaps of time, we developed a place for play, somewhere that the children also developed in their own fashion and for their own reasons, and we adults all needed to be very aware of what was happening, when, maybe why, and what might happen next, and so on. My colleagues were excellent readers of the place (by which I mean a combination of the built, the natural, the human, the temporal environment), and I respected their opinions, their ideas, their observations more than I think I could ever truly get across.

There are many others who have also had such positive affect on those around them (children and their families, other colleagues, me), at the time, and in time. There are those who listen without prejudice (yes, you know who you are!), and there are those who give great care. It’s not all been plain-sailing, of course: there have been ripples and great waves and everything in between in the seas of playworking interactions; that said, there’s been plenty of fire and grace, attention to detail, softness and oddness of idiosyncrasy along the way, so far.
 
 
References:

Hughes, B. (2001), Evolutionary playwork and reflective analytic practice. 1st ed. Abingdon: Routledge.

Neill, A. S. (1916), A dominie’s log. Herbert Jenkins (1916), Hart (1975). Cited in Croall, J. (1983), Neill of Summerhill: the permanent rebel. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
 
 

Plenty of my playworking and other day-to-day thinking energy, lately and historically, seems to have gone into concerns about the ostensibly innocuous but actually insidious little word that is ‘control’. When that word comes inextricably entwined within the context of working for children, it becomes particularly distasteful. A fair percentage of adults, I would hazard a guess at, would or do object to the idea of being controlled by another adult: yet, controlling children is often deemed fine by those same adults.

Let’s first get the tired old responses out of the way (the ones that are used again and again in such discussions on the subject matter — discussions that invariably result in nothing more than a clash of ideologies): yes, sometimes children will benefit from an alert adult’s quickfire instructions (such as when a child hasn’t seen an imminent and potentially life-threatening hazard — a situation of necessary ‘control’?); no, the opposite of ‘controlling children’ won’t definitively result in ‘chaos’, ‘anarchy’, or complete global-social meltdown for that matter; yes, we do all live in a world where we have to navigate around one another and their concerns, desires and general situations and viewpoints (though that doesn’t mean we should be able to exert control on others as a means of getting by and getting along, co-operating); no, this is not about how children should ‘respect adults’ (think of it the other way around). There may be more, but you get the gist.

Play is often seen as a bad word. This is deeply troubling. A significant section of a library could be constructed with material that relates directly or indirectly to what play is seen to be, how it benefits animals and humans, how it shapes or is shaped by culture, its evolutionary and therapeutic relevances, and so on. Play is treated in studies in psychology, psychotherapy, psychoanalysis, zoology, anthropology, technology, engineering, the arts, theology . . . just as a quick off-the-cuff list. Yet, for some, for many, play is frivolous, ‘unpurposeful’, pointless, bad.

In my playworking meanderings, I have known children who function, variously, on a kind of continuum between the rough markers of being utterly (emotionally and psychologically) crippled by the general or specific adult impact of any given environment on their true selves, to utterly self-confident and joyful beings. The latter are open and experimental, taking in all that those around them offer up. The former are compliant and narrow for fear of failure or displeasing the dominant force (i.e. the adult or the system or both). Those habitually subjected to controlling environments either buckle under and become subsumed by the dominance or they learn intermediate coping mechanisms, which at least go some way to allowing some of their natural selves through whilst appearing to appease the dominance at the same time. Sometimes (it’s clear to the astute eye), children are and have to be extremely subtle and sophisticated in the psychological games they’re obliged to operate.

In a playworking context (by which I mean, playworker input or input of play-literate others), there are actions that can be taken. These, however, may necessarily also need to be subtle and sophisticated. As a starting point here, I’m drawn to the thinking on what’s termed as what ‘interfere[s] with the successful flow of [the] play drive’ (Hughes, 2001: 170): I read this, in the context of my own observations and experience, as including adults who negatively affect, who psychologically and emotionally concern the child so that playing is not immediately possible. The actions of a playworking adult can alleviate the psychic discord and bring the affected child to a position of being able to engage in spontaneity. That is, the conditions can be shifted so that play can happen. As you might imagine, this is not always so easily achieved (playworking adults can be subjected to controlling environments too).

Play happens when children (and adults, and animals) find themselves in conducive environments. Fagen (1975) cites Bally (1945) in explaining the ‘relaxed field’ necessary for play. Fagen’s writing is focused on the benefits of play as connected to a technological-engineering context and the benefits of experimentation over control (the former having a broad potential and the latter being narrow and limited, as I read it):

The playful behaviour of [a feedback loop] procedure . . . suggests that play should be viewed as optimal generic learning by experimentation in a relaxed field (where the term ‘relaxed field’ (Bally, 1945) refers to the absence of goals of control).

— Fagen (1975: 160)

He gives the example of computing equipment learning to operate an aeroplane by trial and error. The feedback loop (including all the ‘inefficient’ extras of those ‘what if this or that were to be done?’ experiments) is analogous to the play of children. Replace the stereotyped thinking that tends to define the word ‘learning’ as ‘something for the future benefit’ with ‘something found out’ (for the present tense) and there’s a good enough analogue of play here. ‘Control’ and control agendas by external sources stultify the present tense experimentation; the relaxed field becomes tensioned.

Or, as Fagen goes on:

[A ‘relaxed field’, according to Bally (1945) is] a situation in which immediate needs are satisfied and no threat to the organism’s well-being is present [thus allowing play to take place] . . . goals of information [information-gathering, i.e. experimentation by play] can be achieved only when goals of control [non-play tasks] are absent . . . In the presence of goals of control, play is absent.

— Fagen (1975: 162)

On reflection, it is the lack of ‘threat to the organism’s [child’s] well-being’ that stimulates the ‘relaxed field’, and it is the relaxed field, when play can take place, that stimulates the well-being. It’s a repeated-giving positive loop in action. This is all a long-handed way of writing what the intuitively play-literate individual knows by heart, by faith and conviction.

Those adults of a controlling persuasion no doubt see it differently. Certain adults need specific purpose (well, it’s fair to say that many of us have a need for ‘purpose’, this is acknowledged): however, some adults are disrespectful towards the needs of children. Children don’t need ‘control’; they need play (I write this in the context of a need as something that addresses a deficit). Where there has been no opportunity for play or a suppression of play, children will seek it out to redress the balance. Is it the same equation for those adults who have a need to exercise control? Perhaps: there may be an initial deficit in opportunity to exercise power or purpose.

A little out of context with the original intention of the following quoted words, I come back to a presentation given by Simon Rix at the New Ventures (Playwork) Conference at Felix Road Adventure Playground in Bristol last year. Simon was talking about disenfranchised young men in the Midlands and their focus on self-worth due to factors that had affected them. Simon’s standout line for me, in respect of those young men’s opinions, was: ‘What am I for?’ Or, to paraphrase and slightly shift, because I’ve used this quote before: What’s the point of me?. If I can be forgiven for the borrowing, I suspect the same opinion lurks deep in the psyche of those adults who seek to control the actions and interactions (and play) of children.

Bob Hughes writes:

. . . the adult may see the child as a piece of property, where the child’s free interaction with the world undermines the feelings of power the adult gets from controlling the child’s behaviour.

— Hughes (2001: 124/5)

In summary, yes we live in a social environment of dynamic and multiple needs (i.e. we have to cope with other people in our day-to-days), but no that doesn’t mean that ‘control’ mechanisms are the optimal means of ‘getting along’. Play is like water (in its flow and sensory affect): control is for the narrowly channelled, the straight-lined, the dry of spirit.
 
 
References:

Bally, G. (1945), Vom ursprung und von den grenzen der freiheit, eine deutung des spieles bei tier und mensch. Basle: Schwabe. Cited in Fagen (1975).

Fagen, R. (1975), Modelling how and why play works in Bruner, J. S., Jolly, A., Sylva, K. (Eds) (1976), Play – its role in development and evolution. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books Limited.

Hughes, B. (2001), Evolutionary playwork and reflective analytic practice. 1st ed. Abingdon: Routledge.

Rix, S. (2017), Presentation. Bristol: New Ventures Conference.
 
 

Page one: on radical play

Radical:
[selected definitions]

Adj. Of or pertaining to a root or to roots.
Forming the root, basis or foundation; original, primary.
Of qualities: inherent in the nature or essence of a thing or person.
Philology: a root; a word or part of a word which cannot be analysed into simpler elements.

— Oxford English Dictionary (1979)

For quite a few years now I’ve heard myself say things related to play and playwork in terms of ‘really, this is page one stuff; it isn’t so difficult to understand, is it?’. The ‘Page One’ of play is that children play for the sake of playing. The ‘Page One’ of playwork is that children play for the sake of playing, and playworkers do whatever they can so that children can do this. However, and it’s a big ‘however’, for quite a few years now I’ve seen the trend of non-playworkers, potential employers, any given member of Joe Public seeing this ‘Page One’ stuff as somehow extreme, dangerous, ‘radical’ beyond acceptable limits. This troubles me.

I look over my writings and I know that I push buttons, like many writers: there’s no point in an anodyne approach when there are things that need saying. So, I challenge those I think don’t get the basics of play and I question petty pointlessness and inauthenticity and the like because I consider that it needs this. When I dig down though, I see that at the root of play and playwork, I think, there is a simple softness of grace. I use the word ‘simple’ in the highest regard. In amongst the bluster that we sometimes talk in playwork, in amongst the bravado and the tub-thumping for rights, there’s the ‘Page One’: here is play, just this.

So, a little ironically, admittedly, in order to delve into this a little more, I have to drag out the old soapbox again. Here’s the nub of it all: what’s so radical about play and, by extension, about playworking for children and their play? Playworkers can often be seen as having extreme views on play, and so society, but really that’s just a matter of perspective: it’s dependent on your starting position. If you’re of the persuasion that play must have ‘purpose’, then the inherently unpurposeful play of children and the support of this by playworkers is, I suppose, going to challenge you. I see this, but I often don’t understand why some people can’t understand the ‘Page One’ stuff: it’s on Page One for a reason.

The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) definitions, above, give an interesting take on the meaning of the word ‘radical’. To my reading, various disciplines such as literature, chemistry, mathematics, and the natural sciences, treat ‘radical’ as pertaining to that which is simplest, essential, at the root and core. This, strangely, is a way along the spectrum from ‘extreme’. That said, the OED does also offer up a political definition for ‘radical’:

Politics: an advocate of ‘radical reform’; one who holds the most advanced views of political reform on democratic lines, and thus belongs to the extreme section of the Liberal party.

— OED (1979)

Undoubtedly there is a political dimension to advocacy for play (both lower case ‘p’ and upper case ‘P’), and some playworkers openly engage with this: perhaps therein lies a claim for propagation of the opinion that playworkers hold ‘extreme’ views about play; perhaps, in our times of rampant opinion on an infinite range of subjects (yes, I’m aware I’m adding to that grand corpus here), anything expressed as vaguely challenging to the political status quo is viewed as ‘extreme’. There is, however, I suggest, a place for challenge whilst still operating within the margins of Page One.

We’ve all been children. We’ve all been experts at being children. Yet, many adults lose this expertise as they shift conditions on their life’s journey (I’m not writing ‘as they progress to adulthood’ because that presupposes that adulthood is somehow a qualitatively better state to be in). Sometimes, in challenging other adults, a playworker can sense the glimmerings of self-recognition of that adult’s former child-expertise. Often, no more needs be said as the candle is burning. Sometimes it takes the challenge of a return to play for that adult, without prejudice, for them to re-engage. Page One is open and seen. Often, it takes more than this, because many adults don’t like to do what they deem to be ‘the frivolous stuff’, even though plenty of their day-to-day lives are, essentially, not important for the reasons that they think they are. Adults play too, and this is important, though they dilute it all by not calling it play. Sometimes, there’s just so much resistance to the idea of play, an ossification that has settled on the spirit, that the soft challenge that has become the strong challenge becomes the Extreme Radical Challenge of the Anarchist Incarnate (aka the playworker). Page One is stuck to the title page and will not be seen. The former child-expert, the adult who won’t see, has misplaced an essential element of themselves.

I find this troubling. I sound like an evangelist: I’m not, though there may be some truth in the thinking that there’s a correlation between ‘convincing’ and ‘converting to the playworking cause’. A playworker isn’t trying to save souls, if you’ll allow me a moment of flippancy. A playworker does want to have the conversation about play though: if it can be said that there’s a large contingent of adults out there who consider that children shouldn’t adversely affect the actions, access to learning, and so on of other children, then those same adults ought really not be adversely affecting the children’s actions, i.e. play, in this context, either.

On Page One, as I see it, children play for the sake of playing, and playworkers do whatever they can so that children can do this. There are so many individuals and organisations who claim to support playworking but, really, they won’t or don’t want to read the simple grace at the heart of it all, or they run from it when they find out: play and, by extension, playworking aren’t so extreme — play is the root, foundational, the essence of things. It is the simple, radical truth.
 
 

Following hard on the heels of an article written recently in The Guardian by Susanna Rustin (Votes at 16, yes. But children need more rights than that), I also came across another thoughtful post by Michael Rosen, who seems to write wisely and consistently about children, in his article in the same publication entitled Dear Damian Hinds [Education Secretary], Ofsted forgets our four-year-olds are not GCSE apprentices. I’d been collecting links to write an entirely different post over the past few weeks, but these two offerings above coalesced my thinking into writing on children’s rights: always a worthy subject matter, in my opinion.

Rustin’s article begins with the Welsh government’s plans to reduce the age for voting to sixteen in local elections, as is permitted to those of this age in Scotland. She goes on to discuss the significant lack of concern at governmental level in England for children’s rights — though we should ignore the tired reference that is ‘Reach for a utopian vision of liberated children in charge of their destinies and you bump up against William Golding’s dystopian Lord of the Flies’ (no doubt included for the sake of journalistic balance). Notwithstanding this inadvertent stoking of the anti-rights flames, Rustin is at pains to point out that children get a raw deal in England (the Welsh government have, for a long time now, been so much more advanced in their thinking towards those people in our society who just happen to be of or below the age to still attend school).

Michael Rosen writes of the school years with a cogent regard for children and their overall experience. His article highlights Ofsted’s Bold Beginnings report which, in his words, ‘assumes that the most important thing about four-year-olds is that they need to be pump-primed for what’s going to happen next.’ In other words, more future-focused work, less play. In such a short piece, Rosen packs his writing with a lot of sense. He writes (in the form of an open letter to the Education Secretary, Damian Hinds):

Schooling has been increasingly built around the idea that a proportion of children are ‘falling behind’. There are ‘falling behind’ tables . . . the report holds out, in the midst of setting and streaming, a no-one-falling-behind future. Perhaps you will acquire the special powers to prevent anyone from falling behind anyone else.

Rosen also quotes from Bold Beginnings:

‘[L]istening to stories, poems and rhymes fed children’s imagination’ and ‘[S]ome headteachers did not believe in the notion of ‘free play’. They viewed playing without boundaries as too rosy and unrealistic a view of childhood.’

He concludes this with the following:

It’s not clear why ‘imagination’ is self-evidently good, while ‘free play’ is ‘unrealistic’. Anyone who has spent any time thinking and writing about such things could as easily claim that ‘imagination’ is ‘unrealistic’ and ‘free play’ is self-evidently good.

The child’s right to play continues to be steadily and not so stealthily eroded. Many adults seem to want or need to create subsets of play (‘free play’, as opposed to the seemingly more valuable ‘structured play’ or any derivation thereof that suggests ‘solid’ and ‘useful’ outcomes — learning, citizenship, social responsibility, moral fibre, etc.) and, by extension, ‘free play’ (whatever that transpires to be) is just a frivolous luxury. Regular readers of this blog know that the perspective here is that this ‘frivolous luxury’ is very far from the lived experience of play for children.

How do or could we know this? Considered observation and reflection is always a good starting point, but we can also open our minds and opinions by actively listening to the children around us and to providing real opportunities to canvas opinion. Rustin touches on this area of thinking in her writing on giving the vote to sixteen year olds (though the argument can also be used for younger school-goers too). Regarding real consultation with children, she writes: ‘When did an education secretary, for example, last seek children’s views on the national curriculum?’

It is interesting to note, in a gallows humour kind of way, the stream of anti-rights comments that filters through the public opinion boards of Rustin’s article. There seems to be the dominant idea in the comments to her article that children — using the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child (UNCRC) definition of someone under the age of 18 — aren’t ‘fully developed’, have little to no critical thinking and analysis skills, have limited life experience, and so on, and therefore cannot possibly be trusted to make important decisions as suggested by the right to vote. Where to start here? It isn’t the fault of someone of a young age that they’re of a young age, but I have had countless conversations over the years with UNCRC-defined-as children on all sorts of topics of interest and a lot of it has been thought-provoking to say the least.

In theory, the UK subscribes to the UNCRC (ratified in 1991) and there are at least two articles contained therein that are enshrined in the thinking, actions and conversations of any self-respecting playworker, these being: Article 12, paraphrased, children’s right to an opinion about matters that concern them, and Article 31, children’s right to play (although this needed a further General Comment 17 to clarify matters, Article 31 being caught up in leisure and relaxation as it also is). As an aside, and as I understand it, there is only one country currently not to sign up to the UNCRC (and this may take further research but I believe it’s down to the concern for parents’ rights), and that is the USA. In theory, the UK subscribes to the UNCRC but precious little ‘real’ consultation takes place, as per Article 12, and though of course play does and shall always happen, it’s really adult attitudes towards play that need to be addressed so that a better offer can be made as a matter of course, not luxury, and as linked to Article 31.

Children expressing an opinion should not be a tick-box exercise. I have been to many schools or places designated as for play, as Rustin also alludes to in her article, where the UNCRC information is pasted on the walls, and I have observed or been part of plenty of consultations with children, but sometimes the efforts strike me as disingenuous. Children can work out the size and shape of things fairly quickly and they can play the game: they might write or say what the adult wants or needs to hear, but in their own time and on their own terms, they’ll express entirely different opinions. I’ve seen and heard this first hand. I continue to see it happening. Children aren’t stupid.

Where many adults have a need to create subsets of play, children will play in all their in-between time. Some adults find this disagreeable, unfocused, superficial, not towards any given ends. Children will play anywhere and everywhere, if that place is conducive to what they want to play and how they want to play. Children will play at any time, for the same reasons. So in trying to exercise their right to play (whether they know about the UNCRC or not), or in just getting on with what they are, as biological creatures, pre-disposed to do, i.e. play, children will play first thing in the morning and late at night, at meal times, at any given moment in the street going from destination to destination, in classes, waiting for the bus, brushing their teeth, going to the toilet, waiting in line, and all other instances which adults also do in their day-to-days and which, for those adults, are mundane necessities. Yet, this play of the children is not seen as play, often: it’s disruptive, unfocused, impacting on the adult who wants or needs to be somewhere, and so on.

I’m not proposing that all adults (whether they be parents, teachers, or anyone involved with working with or just passing by children) just give up the ghost and do whatever the children want whenever they want to (this is where I usually have people citing Golding’s Lord of the Flies, and ‘oh, but there’ll be anarchy, and we can’t have that’, and I’m frankly bored of that now): conversation, relating, intuition, and understanding are all needed in a properly functioning and diversely populated aggregation of people, which just so happens to include ‘x’ many children, who have their own opinions, feelings, experiences and ideas too.

If our legislation bestows rights on individuals and groups of people in our society, then those rights should be properly served. Children, in England at least — not served by a devolved government — seem to have paper rights that aren’t always properly provided for in the real world: the powers that be in Westminster, for example, have difficulty understanding that such small creatures called children could express valid points of view and that they tend towards something they know, as lived experience, as ‘play’ (four-letter word as that is, to some).
 
 

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