I want to explicate what many Brown students already know — that the classroom does not have to be composed of four walls. The stories students and faculty bring to Brown are one example. From traveling in South America to working in the community, it is clear that growth emerges everywhere. This is because the essence of the classroom is a student's individual interest and capacity to learn. If that is there, he can make anything his teacher. In this way, inanimate and animate objects become teachers. The challenge, as I see it, is maintaining this individual interest and capacity everywhere one goes. This is very difficult.
There is a particular type of classroom which I want to address — that which nurtures reflection. I suspect these are responsible for keeping the inquisitive mind alive. It is through reflection that we untangle our thinking and generate the first draft of ideas. But what is a classroom that nurtures reflection? To understand it, I think of solitude and the outside. For example, sometimes I need to sit in a coffee shop and watch people pass by as I mull over a thought. These are times when I want to be alone among others — I want to hear and see their energy in order to call forth the energy in myself. At other times, I want to be at India Point, gazing over the water. At others still, I want to be in a forest among trees. I'll say these are classrooms of reflection — where the world can quiet down to a murmur so that you can hear yourself think.
The classroom that will nurture reflection for you might be different than mine, but I think two things are required for its effectiveness. The first is that suggestion by the poet Jimmy Santiago Baca — that you love your solitude. Not loneliness, solitude. This is the time when you are in company with yourself. When I began college, this is something I dreaded. Being alone was scary for many reasons. Overcoming the fear was difficult — like throwing myself into the water unsure if I would swim. Of course, solitude is only temporary. Soon enough, we step into that stage of life where we continue our social exchanges. But for its duration, loving solitude is ultimately about cherishing the contemplation of your own mind.
The second element of an effective classroom for reflection is environment. To refine this concept, I want to stress the importance of environment. Environments can heal or hurt you, inspire or oppress you, bring forth your best self or your worst self. What is more, an environment is an aggregate of discrete elements which themselves need consideration. One example — a recent study by Diederik Stapel and Siegwart Lindenberg concludes that disorder triggers stereotypical views. People exposed to dirty train stations, disorganized geometrical shapes or a picture of a messy bookcase reported a higher rate of stereotyped views. The reasoning appears to be that when faced with disorder, we seek order in whatever way we can. Stereotyping is one of those ways.
Although it is a leap to say that environment alone influences one's perspective on things like stereotypes or, to go further, racism, it is nonetheless undeniable that our surroundings do affect us. The objective is to increase positive effects while minimizing negative ones. Colors, organization, natural elements, synthetic elements, people — they all affect me and you. Finding out in what ways will help us locate that classroom for reflection. In my example of the coffee shop above, I need the energy the presence of others has without the direct verbal interaction. The openness of the space, the lighting, the colors — these kinds of things that design students can explain better than I could.
But let me offer an example that does not invite reflection — my own high school classroom. It was a room with four white walls, no windows and tired fluorescent lighting. When I first saw it, I desperately wanted to bring in a plant or a fish — anything that would lessen the artificial feel of it all. Sadly, I got caught up in other things and ceased to notice the bleakness. As I think about it again, though, the space is uninviting to reflection. And whatever reflection takes place in there will be colored, I think, by the space.
This past week, I took a trip to Vermont. I was on a hiking trail, loving my solitude, when I decided to cut through a field that would take me back. As the leaves and twigs crackled under my feet, I saw a herd of deer run from one side of the field to the other, their white tails and ears standing in attention. Slowly, I made my way around them, noticing that a few were very young. For that moment, the deer were reading me, and I was reading the deer. Their elegance was captivating. As I thought about my teaching and my work, these deer pushed me to think about carpe diem — what if that moment in the forest was enough? It is not a stretch to say that they, along with the trees and the green field, were my teachers.
I love seeing artists' studios. With sculptures in the making and sketches taped to the walls, the creative process is visually accessible. At their best, classrooms for reflection allow a similar, albeit mental, clarity. So I hope you always seek classrooms for reflection, and once you find them, you go to them often.
Hector Najera GS is a graduate student focusing in education.
