January 2, 2007--Awe for 2008
Imagine a 3rd grade class in Philadelphia. As in so many, this one too has a Science Corner. There one would find a small fish tank with a few guppies and tattered angle fish, a gerbil cage, and a terrarium in which the teacher has placed, among the grasses, a butterfly chrysalisis. This one for a Monarch.
The children feed the fish, clean up their droppings, watch the gerbil race to nowhere in the wheel in it cage, and peer at the seemingly inert chrysalisis as it perhaps swells in the overheated classroom.
An occasional guppy dies sparking some sadness among the children, but beyond that all proceeds without incident. But then one Monday morning, when the kids return from the weekend, they discover that the cocoon has split open and flitting among the plants is a newly emerged butterfly.
Putting down their readers, all race to the rear of the room to peer at the metamorphic miracle. But there will soon be more for them to wonder at—their teacher tells them that for the butterfly to survive they will soon need to release it.
“But what will happen to it?” one seven-year-old whimpers.
“It will fly away to join other butterflies of the same kind,” the teacher attempts to assure him, “And he will be all right. You do not need to worry.”
Not entirely assured, he asks, “And the what will happen to them?”
“Well,” she is a teacher who knows her science, “later in the year they will all fly to Mexico.”
“To Mexico? Isn’t that very far away?”
“Yes, it is. More than 1,000 miles.”
“They can fly that far without dying?”
“Most will manage to get there safely.”
“Why do they make such a long trip? They are so small. It even takes big airplanes a long time to get there.”
“They fly to Mexico to breed. To make baby Monarch Butterflies.”
“Why can’t they do that here?” another student asks.
“They need the t conditions—the right climate and the right food. And there is only one place in the whole world where they can find these. Only in a very small area in Mexico.”
“And then next year they will fly back here to Philadelphia and make new cocoons?”
“Yes, they will do that.”
“How many?”
“You mean how many from here or from all over the United States?”
“From all over.”
“Well, many millions will migrate from the United States. That’s what it’s called—to migrate. Other animals do that too. In Africa. And here when there were millions of buffalo. They migrated across the middle of our country. Across the Great Plaines.”
“Wow, this is so cool. So amazing.”
“It is.”
“And how,” one child asks a final question, “how do the butterflies know how to get from here to Mexico? Do they have tiny maps?” At that, the other students giggle.
“No, silly, they do not have maps. But,” she pauses, “nobody knows for certain how they find their way there. Even the scientists who have been studying them for years.”
“I like that,” one tike muses, “that no one knows. Just the butterflies. It’s their secret.”
With that, they return to their reading lesson. But a few of the children ignore their book and stare out the window at the trees and the sky.
Some day, perhaps, one of the children will discover the butterflies’ secret. Or let it remain one forever, feeling that there are some things we should leave undiscovered.
Or, some day they will come upon David Wilcove’s recent book, No Way Home, in which he tells about how the phenomenon of migration is disappearing. We know, for example, what happened to America’s bison. (See NY Times article linked below.)
Even the magical Monarchs are seriously threatened. And as a result there will be less available to inspire awe and fire young imaginations.
The children feed the fish, clean up their droppings, watch the gerbil race to nowhere in the wheel in it cage, and peer at the seemingly inert chrysalisis as it perhaps swells in the overheated classroom.
An occasional guppy dies sparking some sadness among the children, but beyond that all proceeds without incident. But then one Monday morning, when the kids return from the weekend, they discover that the cocoon has split open and flitting among the plants is a newly emerged butterfly.
Putting down their readers, all race to the rear of the room to peer at the metamorphic miracle. But there will soon be more for them to wonder at—their teacher tells them that for the butterfly to survive they will soon need to release it.
“But what will happen to it?” one seven-year-old whimpers.
“It will fly away to join other butterflies of the same kind,” the teacher attempts to assure him, “And he will be all right. You do not need to worry.”
Not entirely assured, he asks, “And the what will happen to them?”
“Well,” she is a teacher who knows her science, “later in the year they will all fly to Mexico.”
“To Mexico? Isn’t that very far away?”
“Yes, it is. More than 1,000 miles.”
“They can fly that far without dying?”
“Most will manage to get there safely.”
“Why do they make such a long trip? They are so small. It even takes big airplanes a long time to get there.”
“They fly to Mexico to breed. To make baby Monarch Butterflies.”
“Why can’t they do that here?” another student asks.
“They need the t conditions—the right climate and the right food. And there is only one place in the whole world where they can find these. Only in a very small area in Mexico.”
“And then next year they will fly back here to Philadelphia and make new cocoons?”
“Yes, they will do that.”
“How many?”
“You mean how many from here or from all over the United States?”
“From all over.”
“Well, many millions will migrate from the United States. That’s what it’s called—to migrate. Other animals do that too. In Africa. And here when there were millions of buffalo. They migrated across the middle of our country. Across the Great Plaines.”
“Wow, this is so cool. So amazing.”
“It is.”
“And how,” one child asks a final question, “how do the butterflies know how to get from here to Mexico? Do they have tiny maps?” At that, the other students giggle.
“No, silly, they do not have maps. But,” she pauses, “nobody knows for certain how they find their way there. Even the scientists who have been studying them for years.”
“I like that,” one tike muses, “that no one knows. Just the butterflies. It’s their secret.”
With that, they return to their reading lesson. But a few of the children ignore their book and stare out the window at the trees and the sky.
Some day, perhaps, one of the children will discover the butterflies’ secret. Or let it remain one forever, feeling that there are some things we should leave undiscovered.
Or, some day they will come upon David Wilcove’s recent book, No Way Home, in which he tells about how the phenomenon of migration is disappearing. We know, for example, what happened to America’s bison. (See NY Times article linked below.)
Even the magical Monarchs are seriously threatened. And as a result there will be less available to inspire awe and fire young imaginations.
posted by Steven Zwerling at
10:21 AM
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