Why We Don’t Clap
It’s Fall 2017. A five-year-old child stands up at a Westland Sing, along with three other Group Oners. It is the first time Group One is sharing; momentousness is in the air. The child first to go looks at his mom sitting in the bleachers. She gives the “thumbs up/you got this!” sign while discreetly holding her phone in “record mode.” She can’t remember what the Parent and Guardian Handbook says about that but she’ll make sure to ask later. There are grandparents in NJ who need this moment. The child starts off. “Group One…” and pauses, then looks around at the hundreds of staring, attentive eyes. The auditorium holds its breath. The Group One teacher leans in closer, sitting off to the side in the front row, calmly smiling. There is more waiting. Someone coughs. Thirty seconds takes on that 5-minute quality to those new in the community. The child tries again, “Group One has been studying…” and pauses. Again, another 30 seconds, this time with minimal exhaling from the audience. The teacher leans in, “Looks like you may need a little bit of thinking time before you share about the name of our study?”
The small speaker nods, and that one cue releases some sort of public speaking valve. The child then starts sharing, nonchalantly so, announcing to the entire school community that Group One has been studying Westland’s campus in order to get to know the people who work here and understand what they do. The other children share too. One child whispers into another child’s ear a missed detail that they then add on. Another child shares a map that Group One created together. (It was their idea, stemming from one of their questions at the beginning of the Study.) The last child shares the data from a school-wide survey about special spots on campus. The children finish. They look up at the audience, then to the teacher, who motions them to come sit back down, supporting them with the materials. The next group comes up.
After this moment in my first year at Westland, I sensed a tone of triumph, victory, deep-seated pride. After Group One shared this very first time, I had a personal urge to stand up. Applaud and whoop. Maybe even throw in an “Arsenio Hall” motion with my right arm. I was compelled to clap my heart out for this brave child who overcame so much in such a short amount of time. I kinda wanted the teacher, who skillfully supported the child and process, to take a small bow.
But not one person in the audience clapped. It all came across as natural, somehow business as usual. While I knew the rule, No Clapping, I just wasn’t prepared for it. There was simply smiling and silence. There was nodding, then a swift shifting of attention to the next share.
There’s a lot going on with this no-clapping practice. I am aware that there are several current parents who think that the rule should be changed. They share with me, kinda joking/kinda serious, that the rule is just too uptight, too counter-intuitive to how humans innately respond to children putting themselves out there, especially when children are sharing their music: “Melinda, it’s unnatural not to clap. It’s not human!” Some have suggested that the rule seems like at this point it’s there just to be there. The no-clapping rule lacks clarity and intention.
I appreciate the honest opinions of others, because I appreciate the reflection that comes and the invitation to be curious about a differing perspective. I believe that with honest, sincere feedback, there is always – at least – a grain of truth. The grain of truth that I currently acknowledge about this feedback is that not clapping can indeed feel quite uncomfortable and counterintuitive. I sat on my hands during most Sings my first year.
Sometimes feedback can lead to in-depth analysis and even sweeping change. Sometimes, feedback can lead to something else, like a blog post to clarify the deep intention behind our no-clapping-at-Sings practice!
When I initially experienced these moments when I wanted to clap but didn’t, I cognitively understood the rule, but I emotionally, physically, and even culturally resisted the rule. I come from a world of clapping. I was brought up to clap. To cheer. To celebrate! To be joyful, boisterous, and immediate in my feedback. Be it athletic games in the Midwest where we lose our voices screaming and chanting, to my Greek folk dancing culture where we yell “Yasou paidiá!” make hissing sounds, and clap with our hands above our heads to honor whoever is putting themselves out there on the dance floor. My examples, though, are in reference to performances, contests, and presentations.
Westland Sings are different. They are shares on process and progress. Sings are neither performances, contests, nor presentations. I once heard a teacher describe them as Westland’s living community newsletter. We would not clap for Tom Brokaw sharing the news. Nor would we necessarily clap for an athlete or musician rehearsing and giving an update on their progress in an interview. Sings are about children sharing what they’re learning. Sings are an update on what’s going on at Westland.
Just because the sharers are children doesn’t mean they get an automatic clap. We take children’s work seriously, and they take their work seriously. We also take children’s process seriously. Sometimes I think the urge to clap comes because some of us might see the children as so dang cute. They are little and they are doing something big. They are doing something that we may find intimidating – extemporaneous public speaking in front of many people.
I believe there’s a shadow side to the instant feedback that could be associated with clapping. At Westland, the feedback we give children is noted for how intentional and thoughtful it is. When providing feedback to children, we choose our descriptive language, a fair and direct tone, with intentional timing. Applause, on the other hand, oftentimes isn’t very thoughtful, can be reflexive, and can even quite easily turn competitive. Since our founding, Westland has rooted in cooperation, not competition. In what I think is the oldest document that exists, from 1949, the language is clear and cautions against structures that “set one child in a competitive position against another.” Clapping could be one such construct that does just this, even though unintentionally.
I have fear that this might get some eye rolling. Who knows. But I’ve witnessed schools where clapping gets competitive. Who got the loudest claps? The most whoops? Who has an older sibling in the audience whose friend group gives one speaker extra, extroverted feedback, shouting a child’s name? This kind of clapping environment would run the risk of shifting the tone and purpose of Westland’s Sings. A tone of generosity, patience, and steadiness. I would even say beauty.
Clapping could turn the tone performative. And perhaps that’s where the biggest risk comes in. I think Sings are great places for children to not be perfect, to make mistakes, and not get overwhelmed or ashamed by publicly making a mistake. Some of my favorite moments during Sings have been when children have made mistakes! They just work through it, sometimes even acknowledging to the audience an error and how they will correct it.
Once when a Group Sixer was leading the Sing, as is tradition the second half of their last year at Westland, he skipped an entire section of his personal share. He had the tools to acknowledge his error, explain that he was going to go back to that section, and then pick up where he left off. It was a clinic in self-confidence, poise, and patience with self.
Plus, do our children really need more instances of immediate feedback? I grew up during a time where we had to wait weeks to see a photograph to get developed at the local Walgreens. Today’s children don’t really have to wait for much, including praise and approval.
Some even argue that children are over-praised, one of the outgrowths of the performative culture and dopamine-seeking behavior such as getting “likes” on social media. With adolescence just around the corner, the fact that Westland children experience the intrinsic satisfaction and joy of sharing and teaching for the sake of sharing and teaching is a very good thing. The research points to this.
In Jonathan Haidt’s The Anxious Generation, study after study points to children being impacted by praise culture and the ongoing traps of “What do people think of me?” that comes with social media. It’s hardest on our girls too. I’m reading Anxious Generation and one chart that is really staying with me is that the percentage of 8th, 10th, and 12th graders who are satisfied with themselves has plunged since 2012 (p. 155). This, Haidt argues, stems from social media and the “like” culture. I think at Sings, children, again and again, get to experience deep satisfaction that comes with sharing work they are excited about, being a part of a Group that is doing the same, and having the satisfaction come from doing it, not the praise or the “likes” that come afterwards, aka clapping.
Westland children know that their art, their ideas, their work, their questions, the way they support each other, and their risk taking is important. It’s real, it’s not a show. This is why Sings feel sacred to me. Once early on in my time at Westland a Group got up and played FOUR MEASURES on the Orff Instruments. That was it, four measures. I couldn’t believe it. They had just started learning a catchy song and they decided it would be a great idea to share with the community this new song that they started. It took longer to set up the Orff instruments than to play the four measures, a Westland statistic I cherish. It was a “centering process” moment.
And here’s one last thing. I’m not “anti performance.” The special Sings, plays, and concerts where there is clapping are really special and joyful. I clap my heart out. It is important for children to know what it means to prepare pieces to their fullest, finalized form. It’s also important for children to learn the conventions of being an audience member – attentive, supportive, and engaged. These performances are different though. They are not Sings.
In order to develop as lifelong learners, children need patience, guidance, presence, encouragement, the space to mess up, to not get it right, to forget their lines, to help a friend, to think on the spot, to problem solve in real time in front of hundreds, to recover, and to learn from experience. What children need from us at Sings is to not clap.