The large intestine of an adult is approximately 22 feet long.
The average fifth grader would weigh 300 pounds on Jupiter.
Flowers have both male and female parts.
The Earth is full of cyclical motion: the water cycle, the life cycle of a butterfly, the rock cycle.
The sun will someday burn out.
These are the science concepts that fascinate fifth graders. Given free rein, they will happily count their heartbeats, stare at their veins to see the blood pulsing through, and drink cold water to feel it cascading down their esophagi.
Although they cover their eyes and peek through their fingers, most secretly enjoy watching the video taken by a tiny camera traveling through the digestive system. They giggle when they say “rectum” or “bladder.”
Not enough students have seen a bean plant sprout or known the joy of watching a monarch butterfly emerge, soggy and weak, from its cocoon. The days of being allowed a class pet and watching its growth and habits are past; I am forced to rely on time-lapse videos for many concepts. One school year, the goofiest, bounciest boy in the class teared up at a video of a baby chick coming out of its egg.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” he laughed nervously. “That’s dumb. But it’s just so beautiful.”
Few things capture kids’ attention like the solar system. I don’t understand how the same student that still believes in Santa Claus could ask me in amazement, “Wait, is Jupiter a real place? Where is it?” The more mature students will whisper Uranus jokes to each other until I arrange my features into some semblance of sternness.
We cultivate space obsession together. This is a great time to be a fan of outer space. Thanks to technology, we followed Cmdr. Scott Kelly’s tweets from the International Space Station, marveling at the 16 sunrises and sunsets he saw per day and at the photo of the first flower to bloom in space.
My students learned that in a gravity-free environment, one sleeps strapped vertically to the wall, and that a sleeper’s arms float into a position resembling that of a bunny’s front legs.
If the International Space Station weren’t interesting enough, there are people preparing to live on Mars.
Discussions on this are punctuated with questions and exclamations. It’s a one-way ticket? Only four people will go on the first trip! What if they hate each other? What if three of them die? What if no food grows?
After generations have passed and Mars is colonized, what will be taught in school? Will the water cycle be relevant? Will the Iroquois be remembered? 300 years from now, will anyone care why George Washington crossed the Delaware River?
We were fortunate to see recent photos of Pluto, sent back to Earth by NASA’s New Horizons spacecraft. Children have a lot of sympathy for poor dethroned Pluto. They’re offended on its behalf. If Pluto’s planethood could be reinstated by popular vote, fifth graders would be the campaign managers.
My students recently took the state-mandated science test. With their enthusiasm for science, it seems a foregone conclusion they will ace this exam.
Unfortunately, this probably isn’t the case. The science they love — the science presented in their textbook and the science presented in the world every day — doesn’t appear on the decade-old state test.
Instead, they spend two days poring over a dry document that covers material from several grades, trying to make sense of NaCl and the Mohs scale of mineral hardness.
I’m told high-stakes testing is important, that it will ensure that no child is left behind. In the classroom, though, the truth is evident: children have already been left behind. They’re behind in discovery, in experimentation and in thinking about how the natural world works. The focus on testing has stripped time away from learning.
Every school year I am torn. Do I prepare them to pass this test or to love science? Should we forget about Mars, kidney function and pollination, and focus on Berkelium being a radioactive element with an atomic number of 97?
Will they understand biology later if they don’t understand the life cycle of a butterfly today? Can they recognize the seriousness of California’s years-long drought if they don’t know where water comes from and how it gets to them?
Do I teach facts, or do I teach wonder?
I want my school to be rated highly. I want my students and their parents to be proud of their scores.
Still, I can’t kill the joy of learning in order to make that happen. I can’t lose sight of the science we encounter daily in favor of a preparing for a test.
If I have to choose between test preparation and wonder, I choose wonder.
