Recess Written by: Phoebe Jacoby Edited by: Mason Dao Designed by: Sharon Nahm
T
he idea of playgrounds as a type of refuge is transformative to me. Playgrounds have offered me a chance to talk to friends and have shared experiences that can be hard to replicate in other settings. These moments take on a quality that balances between the more childlike awe inherent in any new activity with an ability to mature into conversations that have lasting impacts. Sometimes the lingering effects of the connections forged during those times are obvious, such as finding a solution to an immediate concern, but other times they simmer and gently alter our subconscious perception of ourselves or our relationships with others. Not every conversation is similar to the ones I am describing, nor should it be; nevertheless, those by the playground have the potential to change lives. Many teachers or adults in my life have attempted to encourage quality chats and bonding experiences by preaching about the importance of active listening. While this practice has its uses, and fruitful conversations certainly require good listeners, this method strikes me as something with too much purpose. Active listening is a tool often used when attempting to facilitate problem-solving, either between people or in anticipation of an upcoming deadline. Adults outline a list of how-tos and cues to follow, but I think following the deliberate steps of active listening results in a mindset more rigid than what I’ve had and what I seek while on the playground. The playground can be a sanctuary for safe, productive discussion, but it is also meant to be a place of freedom, exploration, and joy.
56
When I was a kid, the playground was a place where I could become anything I wanted. My friends and I would tuck ourselves away behind the winding red slide where there no teachers could spy on us. For 35 wonderful minutes of recess, we submerged ourselves in a different world. Our imaginations had a transformative quality and we were able to craft entire universes by pooling our ideas together. Some days we were chemists who whisked together concoctions of wild berries and onion grass in discarded water bottles to age them to an impressive, mysterious lilac color. Other times we were archaeologists who ground mica-flecked stones together in hopes of excavating some hidden treasures we could then covertly tuck into our pockets. (When my pockets ran out of room, I stuck baubles in my socks.) I became anyone and anything that I wanted to be for a magical, suspended moment in time when I was on the playground. When recess was over we would brush rubber mulch off our clothes and safely fold our worlds away until the next day. By high school, the playground was mostly just a fond memory and a favorite topic of discussion when reminiscing about my earlier school days. I loved to remember the fun of the playground and the secret worlds I would patch together with my friends while sitting just out of view of the teacher. The playground always flitted at the edge of my time at school, however. The parking lot of my school overlooked the playground, and the rows of white-lined grey asphalt were a stark comparison to the brightly colored children’s equipment. By
