The mysteries of science

Tonight at dinner my son was talking about the activity he went to today. At Peninsula the kindergartners have elective activities, and the kids are consistently proud of their ability to choose your own activity. "I went to electronics," he said.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"We got to play with a handygraph generator."

"Why's it called that?"

"Because you put your hands on it, and it makes your hair stand up."

Having written my senior thesis about the MIT physics and electrical engineering departments in the 1930s-- what can I say, it seemed like a good idea at the time-- I actually know a thing or two about the history of the Van de Graaff generator, but I certainly wasn't going to ruin the moment with something as pedantic as telling my son the generator's proper name. (I once went to see The Mission with my father, who's an historian of colonial Latin America; my memory of the experience-- which I'm certain is exaggerated-- is of him complaining throughout about the film's historical errors.)

But it got me thinking. I'm not sure I ever saw a Van de Graaff generator until I got to college, and here's my 6 year-old, playing with one.

There's a belief that Peninsula doesn't do technology, but this is one of those things that a community likes to believe about itself even in the face of substantial contrary evidence. In fact, it's not really true: the Homebrew Computer Club met at Peninsula, the campus has wireless everywhere, and the kids aren't exactly low-tech, even though the emphasis is definitely (and rightly) on more physical activities and learning.

And where did they get their hands (literally!) on one? One of the other parents runs it a couple times a week. In fact, there are several parents who run these electives: one parent who lives nearby and raises chickens has "Farm," and the kids go over, feed the animals, and learn a little about where eggs come from. (One day I want to do one on geodesic dome-building, but not just yet. I'm going to save that for when I return to the dome book.) In most of the schools I went to, not only did my parents have very few opportunities to meet my teachers or step inside my classes, no one would have known what to do with them if they had appeared. Here, casual everyday contact between teachers and parents is the norm, and parents are expected to help keep things running.

[To the tune of Little Feat, "Dixie Chicken," from the album "Waiting for Columbus".]

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