In late April, we drop handfuls of beans into clear plastic cups, pack cotton balls around them, and sprinkle them with water. Students scrawl their names on the cups, and place them on the windowsill. Of course students recognize the beans; they’re from a bag of pinto beans I grabbed from my pantry at home, and I’d guess that a good percentage of the class has an identical bag, possibly from the same store, in their cupboards. They’ve seen beans in water before, usually simmering with salt and garlic and a chunk of onion. Today, though, they seem unsure of what will happen to the beans in the cup.
I explain that with good care and a little bit of luck, they will sprout in time to make pretty little Mother’s Day plants. We’ll wrap up the cups in tissue paper and ribbon, and hopefully moms, grandmas or stepmoms, will be pleased by the thought, if not the product.
We watch the beans over the next few days. One morning, Brianna comes to me, concerned. “Teacher, there’s something gross on my plant. It’s like a little worm or something.” I follow her to the windowsill, to see what she’s pointing at.
“Honey, that’s a root. Your bean is starting to grow.” She looks at me, stunned.
I’m a little stunned myself. I assumed most 10-year-olds would have at least a passing familiarity with the life cycle of a plant. As we water the beans, students are surprised and delighted by the signs of growth. Sarah shyly offers that she planted beans in a cup in her kindergarten class in Tijuana, and a few others nod that yes, their mothers or grandmothers have potted plants, but Rafael cocks his head to one side and asks, “What are we even doing to these beans?” I explain to them again that beans are seeds, and will grow into plants. It’s clear that much of the class has no idea what I’m talking about.
I certainly have no green thumb, and the tiny garden in front of my condominium is limited to cacti and other plants that are nearly impossible to kill. However, I grew up in Northern California in the 1970s, when Sunset Magazine was a ubiquitous staple on the coffee tables of many middle-class homes. Skimming through it, even a novice could learn to plant a vegetable garden, make macramé plant hangers, build a redwood deck, or panel the den. Although I personally know how to do none of those things, they don’t seem far out of reach if I wanted to learn.
Nonetheless, seeds and dirt have always been familiar to me. Perhaps it was the Sunset Magazine-inspired zucchini garden that took over our backyard each summer under my father’s care. Possibly it’s because my mom preferred me and my flock of siblings out from underfoot as often as possible and shooed us outdoors, weather permitting. We roamed the nearby fields and foothills, collecting dirt and plants and seeds. I filched a handful of popcorn from my mother’s pantry to see if it would grow into corn plants (It did; I nursed three tiny corn stalks until the neighborhood bully yanked them out of the ground.) We blew the soft white puffs of dandelions into the wind, making wishes, never realizing that we’d sent a new crop of weeds directly onto our neighbors’ lawns.
The majority of my students have grown up in apartments however. Even our school yard is covered with artificial turf. They have so few chances to trace patterns in the dirt with their fingers, chase lizards, dig holes. I watch as they peer into their plastic cups with joy and astonishment. Each sprout, root, or leaf fills them with wonder. They become protective of their cups, jockeying for what they perceive to be the best spot on the windowsill. A few of the boys name their plants.
By the time Mother’s Day approaches, most of the plants have sprouted. We gently detangle the roots from the cotton balls. As I pour handfuls of potting soil into each cup, students tentatively stick their hands in the dirt, sift it through their fingers, bring it to their noses to smell it. I catch little Miguel sticking a fistful of dirt in his pants pockets. I stifle a giggle. “Your mom isn’t going to like that when she washes your pants. If you’d like a plastic bag of soil, I’ll give you one, but please don’t give your mom a pocketful of mud for Mother’s Day.”
Finally, the little bean plants are potted, wrapped in cheerful paper, and decorated with bows. The kids are happy that they have grown something for their moms, and I am happy that maybe something else has been planted here as well.
