The Fine Art of Stilt Walking

On a crisp November afternoon, four of us made our way to the mini-soccer field armed with some strange looking wooden objects. Tyger carried two long wooden planks with ropes spouting out of them while Sara and I had two pairs of stilts which were heavy enough for some bicep-curling activities along the way. Mr David Chandler, occasional D & T Teacher and black-belt stilt-walker, strolled behind us, waving a camera and whistling.

This was to be Lesson 2 at stilt walking… the first having been conducted outside the AV Room where I walked the entire width of the corridor (all 10 feet of it), screaming in terror that I suffer from vertigo, supported by Mr Chandler the whole time. So, being the dare-devil, willing as always to risk life and limb to learn something new (well, I know I was only two feet off the ground, but can you imagine how terrifying it was to not have Mother Earth under my feet?) I signed up for Lesson 2. The clan wanted to be part of the action. Did they want to learn too? Not necessarily. "It'll be great fun watching you fall off," they said. So much for filial loyalty, hmpf!

Tyger was set the task of walking on the skis (that's what they turned out to be, only they were made of wood), and Sara told to have a go at her stilts by herself, and ah, I thought, I'm going to be able to try this out without wild cackling from the offspring… Mr Chandler turned to me. First came the theory. "You get onto the stilts, hold them like this," he demonstrated, "then take short steps. Keep your legs close together, and keep your steps short." And finally, most importantly, "Don't worry, I'll be holding on to them."

For a while we tried this on the grassy slopes, occasional stumbling caused by the hidden bumps and crags. Then he decided to take the exercise to the paved path next to the field. "It may be easier to do this here since the surface is firm." It was, and we went down the path, turned, walked back, turned again. The whole time he held on to the stilts. I think on the couple of instances that he did let go, I must have screamed, "Don't let go," and I felt the reassuring support again. I fell off many times, then got back up again and gave it another shot. I don't clearly recall what he said the whole time, just that they made me feel that I had to keep trying.

When I took a break, he went off to help Sara, then Tyger. The three of us got onto the skis together and faced the challenge of walking all the way to the other end of the field. We even successfully attempted climbing up a short flight of steps.

Finally, I got onto the stilts again, this time with Sara supporting me while I swung myself on, and with complete ease and to my utter amazement, I walked at least 10 steps before jumping off.

Then came the epiphany. For several weeks I had been struggling with my Grade 9 IGCSE students, deconstructing poetry and analysing it. We were all up to our necks in literary devices, knew them backwards, were able to identify them accurately and give examples ad nauseum. But, here's the catch, when it came to analyses, we were always looking for an explanation from the teacher… i.e. yours truly. "But how do I write this?" I had been asked many times. Providing them with a structure for an analytical essay had not helped. They were still paraphrasing like the dickens, not responding or commenting. "What do you FEEL about this? What does this image make you feel?" I said repeatedly. And mostly, what I got [not in discussions, of course, but in their written work] was "I don't FEEL anything - except that I can't figure out what to write." Fear stared starkly each time they approached a clean sheet of paper on which they had to put down their wise words of deconstruction.

So, what was I doing wrong? Or, what else did I need to do? It all became clear that afternoon:
First, demonstrate and give clear instructions. [This I had done, but what needed to be done next was way more important.]
Second, give them many chances to try it out, make mistakes.
Third, if a certain way [surface] wasn't working, change it and find a new way.
Fourth, most importantly, don't let go of the stilts till they came to an independent decision to take off by themselves.
Fifth, applaud every little victory and encourage them after every fall.
Sixth, do something fun and achievable every once in a while.

I went back into my Grade 9 class on Monday morning, full of renewed vigour and energy, bubbling over with enthusiasm. We were about a week from the mid-year exams and they were terrified. But everything else was suddenly different. I began by telling them about the stilt-walking lessons and what I had learnt from it about teaching them. They were appreciative. "So now, we are going to make a lot of mistakes, but it really doesn't matter because each time we will learn something new. What I want you to do is stop worrying." That week was amazing in terms of the response I got. Some of them managed to improve in leaps, others strolled along but no longer fearful or lazy. Most importantly, we all started enjoying this whole deconstruction thing. Have they all cracked it? No, of course not. Are they all now willing to try? That's a resounding YES!

Hats off, Mr Chandler, you taught me so much more than stilt walking that afternoon!