I Was Schooled at Hippie Heaven

An experience of radical learning in an experimental era

Image source: Wikimedia Commons

My elementary school had no chairs or desks. I’d lounge on the carpet, pinching the skin of my knees into folds while teachers roamed.

In third grade, I once abandoned my own class and drifted over to the central library, where a sixth-grader was giving a talk on tides. No one cared that I had taken off. In fact, such behaviour was encouraged. The boy held up a Bristol board displaying moon diagrams. I basked in the glow of his wisdom. Truly, I dug that presentation, even if I didn’t completely understand it. I wonder where that kid is now. Working for NASA, I hope.

This was during the early 1970s in the Canadian province of Ontario, when hippie ideology had permeated the minds of even the most traditionalist politicians. In a radical move, the provincial government allowed school boards to implement an educational model called open plan. It turned the traditional ‘egg-crate’ organization of classrooms on its head.

Roughly 400 schools participated in the experiment, about ten per cent of the total. These schools were taxpayer-funded, not private alternatives, so parents had little choice.

Even the New York Times took notice.

“Open‐area schools — adopted elsewhere, of course, but seldom in such a concentrated pattern as in Ontario — do not have the traditional long corridors and box‐like classrooms; rather, they have large, wall‐less learning areas occupied by all the children.” — From the article “Second Thoughts on Open Plan,” New York Times, April 16, 1972.

When people hear about open-plan schools, they usually think of the wacky architectural setup. While it’s true that interior design was a major element of the strategy, far more profound were changes to the curriculum. The experiment was nothing less than a pedagogical mini-revolution, a reordering of the hierarchy.

Like structured bodices and vinyl singles, the fussiness of previous generations was tossed aside. Discipline, minimized. Rote learning, mostly chucked.

Between first and third grades, I attended an open-plan school called Denlow in suburban Toronto. For Grade Four, I transferred to a more rigid primary school in London, England, as my father had been offered a temporary work opportunity across the pond.

The differences between the two systems were stark. And dare I say, instructional.

We sketched, we warbled, we recorded

Framed posters of animals caught my eye upon entering the lobby of Denlow Public School on my first day at the age of six. Each bore the caption, Let it Be. My classroom could be found down a brightly painted corridor, although the word classroom is a misnomer. Better to describe it as an expansive learning area.

Art, music, and audio-visual activities dominated the daily schedule.

On some spring days, my class would spill outside with our pencil crayons and sit cross-legged on patio slabs, sketching flowers. My favourite live model was the purple hyacinth. When I spot a hyacinth now, even an emoji one, I’m reminded that I used to be a serious artist. As a primary schooler, that is.

We would stand in a circle and belt out songs of amity in the gym. I’d like to build the world a home, and furnish it with love. Originating from a Coca-Cola advertisement, “I’d Like To Teach the World to Sing” was later revived ironically in the series finale of the TV show Mad Men.

Students would be all abuzz when a teacher unlocked the Super 8 movie camera from the cabinet. This was the holy grail of learning aids. We’d record each other reading our own versions of the news. Technology ruled, even then. Sign of things to come.

Reading, writing, and arithmetic weren’t ignored; they were simply put on equal footing with sketching, singing, and filming. At my own pace, I progressed through colour-coded boxes of index cards that included short reading passages. I was taught the ancient practice of cursive writing. I memorized my times tables, a necessity in pre-calculator times. Sometimes, I’d join a small group tackling long division at a table in a glass room off to the side, but only if I was in the mood for math.

I liked going to Denlow, but I was a self-starter and had a contrary disposition anyway. Some students had trouble focusing, which isn’t surprising given the school’s hectic nature. Parents were appalled. My father didn’t appreciate the “math if you feel like it” method of teaching.

My mother has described it as bedlam.

The underbelly of forced positivity

The open-plan experiment arose from the Hall-Dennis report, an influential paper written by a committee chaired by two individuals: Canadian Supreme Court Justice Emmett Hall and school principal Lloyd Dennis.

Released in 1968 with 258 recommendations, the report stated that the underlying aim of education was to further “man’s unending search for truth.”

(I’m not going to get all persnickety about the ‘man’ thing. It was the way people described humankind back then. Not fantastic, but we’ll move on.)

“The atmosphere within the classroom must be positive and encouraging. The fixed positions of pupil and teacher, the insistence on silence, and the punitive approach must give way to a more relaxed teacher-pupil relationship which will encourage discussion, inquiry, and experimentation, and enhance the dignity of the individual.” — From the 1968 Hall-Dennis report entitled “Living and Learning,” commissioned by the Ontario government.

Nice sentiments; they’re hard to argue with. But did the recommendations yield their intended results? In my mind, no. I recall a murky undercurrent flowing through all that communalism.

First, the outside of the building was a hint that something was not quite right. It was constructed of harsh concrete, not gentle brick, and punctuated by slit-like windows. So brutalist was the exterior of the place that everyone in the neighbourhood referred to it as the “Denlow Jail.”

Next, pupils were competitive, which probably wasn’t what the duo of Hall and Dennis had in mind when they dreamed up their educational utopia. I sped through my reading exercises, trying to reach the final box of cue cards before my rivals as if my life depended on it.

And then there was recess. Oh, recess.

Several times a week, a fight would break out in the playground between a couple of boys. We girls were hardly innocent; we’d ditch our skipping ropes to join a growing audience surrounding the scuffling pair, pumping our little fists in the air and shouting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

How we relished those outbursts. How badly we wanted a winner and a loser.

Of course, schoolyard brawls were common in those days. Nevertheless, they shouldn’t have happened at an open-plan school boasting lofty goals. No playground monitor ever interrupted the fights, as far as I recall, which is hard to believe now. The adults must have understood, perhaps intuitively, that underdeveloped humans needed an outlet for their frustrations.

Perfect harmony doesn’t come easily, no matter what song is sung.

The Unruly Classroom, painted by Italian artist Francesco Bergamini (1815–1883). Source: Wikimedia Commons

Gaggles of boisterous mates

In 1974, my family moved to England, and so ended my time in the trendy learning lab. I attended a primary school in the district of Edgware in northwest London.

At the Edgware school, we sat in chairs. We worked at desks. Rooms were enclosed. Wooden floors creaked with history. Blackboards, what a novelty! The teacher stood at the front of the class, because there was a front of the class. No movie cameras. And if we ventured outside, it sure as heck wasn’t to draw floral works of art.

We paid attention, because we were expected to. If math was the lesson, you bloody well completed the exercise.

A staff person would stand behind me in the dining hall, impatiently tapping a ladle against her palm as I attempted to finish my hot meal. No one wasted food there, not after the rationing of the war. Picky eaters need not apply! Once, I vomited chili after swallowing the last bite, unfortunately missing the matron’s laced Oxford shoes. To this day, I slide kidney beans to the side of my plate, placing them in a neat pile of nostalgic disgust.

Small mercy: After discussing the incident with my parents, the principal agreed that I could go home for lunch every day on an exceptional basis. What a relief, to nibble on a simple sandwich for the midday meal.

I loved Edgware, anyhow. More than loved. I adored the place, mainly on account of my fellow students.

The children were deliriously joyful, despite the authoritarian environment. Raucously funny, absurdly daring, and wonderfully kind. On my first day, a gaggle of classmates gathered round me in excitement, peppering me with questions about Canada; they were genuinely curious. Grabbing me by the arm, they led me on a tour down the dour corridors, jokingly chatting in their melodic accents.

These kids swung on the monkey bars with utter glee. A girl whose father drove a stately black cab taught me how to nick candy from a shop. She was the one who careened on her bum down a hilly, icy sidewalk, yelling at pedestrians to get out of the way.

These children were alive. Spontaneous and unapologetic.

To be clear, I wasn’t completely friendless at Toronto’s Denlow Public School. My closest friend at the time is still a great friend of mine to this day, more than half a century later. Three close cousins who lived on my street also attended the school.

But compared to Edgware, Denlow lacked a solid group dynamic.

True, we would gather in small groups for various activities at the open-plan school, but the overall emphasis was on individualism, which created a spirit of aimlessness. We were students without a student body. It was like we had eaten too much candy and were off in our own corners rubbing our tummies, anxious to be given the next gumball.

Canada and the United Kingdom are two different countries with different cultures, but not so very different. In addition, I was a tad older in London. Those two factors may help explain the contrasting experiences.

Yet I can’t help but think that the “us versus them” tension at the London school created tighter student bonds. Not that I’m advocating inter-generational strife as a way of easing conflict among pupils.

Just my honest impression, not a scientific conclusion. I suppose mandated structures can’t suppress the vagaries of human nature. It’s not easy, nor even desirable, to mould children into cherubs.

Bookshelves acting as makeshift barriers

Ontario didn’t cancel the open-plan experiment all at once. Rather, starting in the mid-1970s, the model fizzled out over time, at least in the radical form that it had first been envisioned.

People rarely mention this educational adventure anymore, except in obscure academic articles.

In a 2014 paper, education professor Kurt Clausen reviewed this historic period of educational reform. He focused on Pleasant Avenue School in Toronto, one of the first to test open-plan methods. Indeed, the early experience of Pleasant Avenue informed the Hall-Dennis report.

According to Clausen, a lack of buy-in resulted in the downfall of the program. Teachers, parents, and the media complained about thin walls and noise leakage, he explains. Principals received insufficient training in the model, and therefore had trouble inspiring teachers.

“. . . Many teachers who had been used to their individual classrooms didn’t like or understand why they had to plan and teach “cheek to jowl” with colleagues. Based on this backlash, architects soon began to abandon this model, and staff-members piled up bookshelves to sequester their own classrooms once again.” — From the article in the journal Historical Studies in Education, “***Educational Reform in Ontario: The Importance of Pleasant Avenue School, 1962–1975,” *by Kurt Clausen, published in 2014.

My ranking of Edgware in London above Denlow in Toronto isn’t an enlightened one, I know. I appreciated having my own chair. And desk. Furniture to call my own.

Perhaps sitting sprawled on stained broadloom isn’t the best way to live.

It’s a well-known fact that children require clear boundaries. They need nurturing, of course, but also structure. Having too many choices can lead to a feeling of being overwhelmed. Edgware was as strict as a sergeant, but it was predictable. Limits may be stifling, but they can also reduce stress.

Still, when I look back on those Denlow days, it’s with fondness. For three years, I was given a gift. Not a perfectly wrapped gift, but a gift just the same.

A gift of knowing that traditions can be scrapped and new ways attempted.

A gift of purple hyacinths.

A gift of learning about oceans, pulled by the gravity of the moon, growing and subsiding, moving forward and backward and forward again.