In 1971, I stepped into kindergarten in Potomac, Maryland, just in time to become part of a unique educational experiment known as open classroom learning. My school, Lake Normandy Elementary, was designed like a flower, where each petal—or pod—represented different grades, all connected and color-coded by carpet. In my kindergarten pod, there were no walls to separate us; just a gentle flow between classrooms, encouraging exploration and curiosity.
The heart of our school was the library, its open walls inviting us to explore its treasures. Navigating through the library was a daily ritual, as we moved from our pods to the cafeteria or the bathroom—where no passes were needed. If you needed to go, you simply went.
Our mornings began in the open area of our pod, where one of our free-spirited teachers strummed a guitar, leading us in songs that were more philosophical than religious. “Joy to the World” was our morning mantra, while “If I Had a Hammer” fueled our youthful ideals. We once held a contest to draw the most imaginative toy, and while I didn’t win, witnessing the vast array of creativity among my classmates was inspiring.
Even today, when faced with differing perspectives on various issues, I think back to those days of unique toys and limitless imagination. After reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, we were given the autonomy to decide how to complete our educational tasks throughout the week. Each task was presented at centers, which were simply easels covered in construction paper that outlined our unique challenges—whether it was figuring out which objects floated, or delving into a state study.
Reading groups were a regular part of our day, allowing us to engage with peers at similar levels; however, math assignments encouraged independence. I learned to navigate addition and subtraction on my own, and while fractions posed a challenge, I managed to conquer them eventually. This daily freedom instilled a sense of responsibility for my own education. If I chose to finish all my tasks by Monday, I was free to explore other interests—be it reading about space, practicing cursive with older students, or collaborating with my friend Sarah to memorize Pi.
This blend of time management and personal choice has shaped my adult life significantly. Now, as I juggle various projects—from writing books to working on television shows—those early lessons on prioritizing and self-guided learning remain invaluable. Managing numerous tasks can be overwhelming, but I remind myself to take it step by step, which makes everything manageable. Stress is counterproductive; it drains both time and energy.
Transitioning to junior high was a stark contrast. Suddenly, I was confined to a traditional classroom setup, feeling as if I had lost my freedom. Only in English class, where Mr. Carter encouraged discussions in small groups, did I find a semblance of the creative learning environment I once thrived in. My experiences in junior high, lacking the stimulation of an open classroom, diminished my curiosity until I reached college.
I’ve witnessed my children face similar challenges in today’s education system, particularly my daughter, who is now a senior in high school. The pressure to achieve high grades has turned her into a stressed-out student, devoid of the exploratory spirit I once enjoyed.
The arts were a vital part of our open classroom education, fostering creativity among my peers. One of my classmates, Mark Johnson, who played the Wiz in our sixth-grade production of “The Wiz,” has gone on to lead a successful career in television. When I asked him if he felt that Lake Normandy shaped his path, he wholeheartedly agreed. Our teachers encouraged us to think outside the box, often bending the rules. I fondly recall the time I challenged a question on an oceanography test, arguing my case and ultimately receiving back my points. This early experience in questioning authority helped shape my perspective, inspiring a community of thinkers who refuse to conform.
Reflecting on my years at Lake Normandy, I feel a sense of loss for the innovative spirit that has faded from today’s educational landscape. My youngest child recently endured three days of state-mandated testing, a process that feels to me like it stifles creativity and curiosity. As I waved goodbye to him each morning, I thought about the importance of allowing children the freedom to explore, rather than confining them to standardized measures of success.
Lake Normandy Elementary ultimately closed its doors after my class graduated. While the building still stands, now serving as a recreation center, I can’t help but remember it as a space of endless possibilities.
In conclusion, the lessons I learned in my open classroom—creativity, independence, and the value of questioning—remain with me today, shaping both my work and my perspective on education. I believe that fostering a love for learning, rather than measuring success by test scores, is crucial for developing curious, innovative minds.
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