Recess

Written by: Phoebe Jacoby Edited by: Mason Dao Designed by: Sharon Nahm

The 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. 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

senior year, many students drove themselves to and from school, parking with a view of the playground from our time in elementary school. This driving arrangement helped us feel a sense of sponsibility and gave us a taste of adulthood for the first time. In reality, this was a double-edged sword because it allowed us to squander the afternoons away in the parking lot. Nevertheless, the time spent there was a wonderful way to exist in an in-between space where we weren’t under the authority of the school anymore and also didn’t have to face the strenuous hours of homework waiting for us. We could lose ourselves in our conversations and escape from our blossoming responsibilities that came with growing up.

One of my friends was particularly fond of this time by the playground. We would sit in the car and chat for ages, munching on whatever stray snacks we could rustle up. Any topic of conversation was fair game. What usually began as complaints about schoolwork or anecdotes from the day evolved into hours-long discussions. While we never managed to answer something as monumental as the meaning of life, I left every one of those car chats with a sense of satisfaction and having learned something new about myself and my friend. Sometimes we would sit together for so long that the sun began to set and we would be the only ones left the parking lot, night air slowly seeping in through the windows.

Rather than an opportunity for active listening, I would consider these experiences by the playground as moments of true quality time. Quality time is considered one of the five love languages popularized in mainstream media over the past few decades and I think the term emanates the same sense of warmth and comfort that I originally discovered during my childhood playground conversations. Exploring the role of those experiences in my life has allowed me to reconnect with a more light, natural way of interacting with other people. I have realized that the cores of my quality conversations have been influenced not only in the structure of my adult life but also in the exploratory nature of my childhood. That is what allowed me to make discoveries without limitations or fear of judgment. Quality times and conversations do not need to be serious, productive, or take on any semblance of responsibility. They are meant to flow naturally, topics weaving together and connections made without conscious effort. There is a physicality to them that may not be as obvious as a nook in the playground equipment but still offer a sense of privacy and closeness.

Perhaps most importantly, I have come to appreciate the temporality of these types of quality discussions. While no school bells are signaling the end of my conversations, they all have to conclude eventually—the finality of these moments just makes them all the more exceptional. They belong to a bubble in time where ideas and sentiments can be carried forward or revisited but the exchange itself cannot be tampered with. As I’ve grown up, my connection to the playground has faded away in its more literal form and taken on a more abstract significance. However, many of the formative lessons I have learned throughout my life have hinged on the conversations I had while playing behind the winding red slide.