Some readers of Wondering Aloud will know that I have a long-standing interest in building philosophical skills in ways that are joyful and themselves philosophical. To be together in a community of philosophical inquiry requires that we all articulate our ideas as clearly as possible and also ask for clarification when necessary. As an educator I know too well the look of confusion on students’ faces when I say something that makes complete sense in my own brain but fails to communicate much meaning to others. Over the years, I have learned to check in with students when I see those confused faces and to model what asking for clarity from another entails. Knowing that what we say needs to make sense to someone outside of ourselves is fundamental to the dialogical process whether in oral or written form.

In service of building the skills necessary to communicate clearly and ask for clarification from others, I developed an activity that I have called “Thinking Clearly Through Art” which is admittedly not a great name. I will happily take suggestions for alternatives in the comments section! Some readers might recognize this activity as a version of the exercise where people are asked to describe, step-by-step, how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to others who must follow their directions to the letter, often with calamitous results due to imprecise directives. I had that exercise in mind as I developed this activity, but needed something more school-friendly, less messy, and more portable.

Thinking Clearly Through Art requires only one person to draw (they need not be a particularly good artist indeed the activity is better when they are not), a whiteboard, and a marker. In my sessions, I was the artist. I explained to the class that they were going to come up with something for me to draw and that they would need to tell me what to draw without telling me what the thing is. They could tell me shapes, directions, etc. but no hint of what the actual thing is, does, or sounds like. I then stepped out of the room while the students and their teacher decided what to tell me to draw.

Upon reentering the room, I asked the students to share what was in their minds about what I should draw. I made it a point to take them extremely literally. If they told me to draw a circle, but did not mention the size, I would draw a circle the size of a U.S. quarter. If they told me to “make a larger circle,” I would draw one only slightly larger in diameter. As the picture below shows, if they told me to “draw another rectangle,” I would put it somewhere else on the board entirely (see the upper left corner in the picture below). In the other picture below, you can see that the direction was given to “draw a bill,” so I drew a dollar bill. Doing this results in strange looking drawings – we had dogs with legs coming out of their heads, a duck with feathers perpendicular to their body, and a school building that looked like a prison (though truthfully, that may have been what the students were going for in that case). In one round we drew, erased, and redrew a single circle over twenty times as each student sought to improve on the communication of previous students.

I did several rounds of this exercise in one session. After each round, I asked what they thought could go better, how they might articulate their ideas with more precision, and how they might work together to convey meaning. Interestingly, none of the students I worked with on this in four different classrooms ever suggested that I might have a role to play in aiding my own comprehension. At the end of each session I asked, “Is there anything I could have done to make this go more smoothly?” and was met largely with blank stares. “What if I had asked some questions of you all?” I prompted. That did the trick. The students began to realize the role of clarifying questions and how, even if we think we understand someone else, when it becomes clear that we did not we can always express curiosity to better understand their meaning.  If, for example, I had asked “where does the rectangle go?” that out of place rectangle in the photo would be where it should have been all along.

The students loved this activity and often ask me if we can do it again. During the sessions themselves, many students requested the opportunity to be the “artist.” I declined those requests for two reasons: (1) I knew most students would want to draw and there was not nearly enough time for that, and (2) being the “artist” involves deliberately misunderstanding but only just enough to make the point about the necessity for clarity. A student could be coached into doing this well, but I lacked the time for that preparation. I can see a future use for this activity in rooms where we have already done the full exercise and we then use it as a warm-up where students have an opportunity to be the artist. 

The activity brought the students real joy and a sense of fun while also working on the basics of what is required for clear and thoughtful communication, thinking about who carries the burdens for the effectiveness of communication (The speaker? The listener? Both?), and in my case it offered an opportunity to demonstrate some real humility. I am a terrible fine artist, so the students had a chance to see me off my game a bit, which is a wonderful way to remind them that we are all just learning from one another whether we are the adult in the room or the child.

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I have always been a curious observer. Whether I’m listening to my mom read bedtime stories or talking about “Big Questions” in my Outschool philosophy class, I always ask one thing: “Why do people make the choices they do?” At ICS, my interests are supported every day. In Social Studies, we learn about different continents and countries, which helps me understand human behavior on a global scale. We also follow the “4Bs”: Be Safe, Be Respectful, Be Responsible, and Be Problem Solvers. To me, being a “Problem Solver” often means understanding the reasons behind someone’s actions and decisions.

One of my biggest inspirations is a book series called “Fushigi Dagashiya Zenitendo” (The Mysterious Snack Shop). It taught me that every choice has a consequence. This made me look at people around me – like my little sister or my friends – and wonder why they decide to act in certain ways when they are happy, frustrated, or in a hurry. 

Another big turning point for me was taking an online discussion class called “Philosophy for Children: Logic for Kids with Questions Big and Small” on Outschool. Discussing “Big Questions” with other children helped me realize that I wanted to organize my thoughts more systematically. This class gave me the idea to turn my observations into a real project, which is how the Human Judgement Lab was born.

I officially started my Human Judgement Lab and Little Thinker blog in late 2025 to record my observations systematically. Every week, I record about 7–8 observations from my daily life like at school, the supermarket, the mall, or the playground, and put the information in my notebook and computer. When I see something interesting, I try to record it carefully. I look at the Situation and what caused it (Environment Trigger). I also try to guess what will happen (Prediction) and compare it to what the person actually did (Final Decision). Then, I add my own Observer’s Insightto explain what I think about it.   

The Little Thinker Blog is where I turn my weekly observations from my Human Judgement Lab into short stories and essays. I write about moments from my daily life that make me stop and think, such as what happens at school, on the playground, or in public places. Each week, I choose one or two situations that felt interesting or confusing to me. I try to describe what happened, what choice was made, and why I think the person acted that way.

Writing helps me practice thinking carefully and noticing that people do not always make the same choice in the same situation. For example, in my blog post about “The Invisible Brake,” I explored the internal reasons why we sometimes stop doing things we love. You can visit my blog to see how I translate raw data into stories here:

• Home Page: https://sites.google.com/view/littlethinkersnotebook/home
• Latest Essay: https://sites.google.com/view/littlethinkersnotebook/home/weekly-essays/2026

Here’s a sample of my latest essay written on January 12: “When Being in a Hurry Leads to the Wrong Choice.”

The Observation: 

I was going to 7-Eleven with my mom to buy ice cream when I saw a jet-black motorcycle heading toward the store. In front of the shop, there was a small slope for people in wheelchairs to go up to the sidewalk.

At first, I felt confused. The motorcycle could not park in front of the shop because that space was for a bus. It was also against the law to park on the sidewalk.

So, I wondered, Where was the motorcycle going to park? 

The Prediction: 

I predicted that the motorcycle would park a little past the store.

That place was not against the law, and the police would not lock the motorcycle’s wheels

The Reality:

In reality, the motorcycle parked right in front of the convenience store. 

The driver quickly got off and rushed into the shop 

The Why:

The driver probably did that because he was in a hurry to buy something. 

What I Learned: 

I learned that when people are in a rush, they sometimes do the wrong thing because they do not have time to think.

When we hurry too much, we only think about what we want to do, not what is right.

New Question I Still Have:

How can we try to do the right thing when we are in a big hurry?

Through this project, I’m learning that people’s choices can change depending on many things, like how they feel inside.   

Lately, I have also become curious about Artificial Intelligence (AI) and if computers can ever think or make choices like we do. I have recently started a new part of my project where I compare human decisions with AI decisions. So far, I have recorded 29 situations in my Lab, and for 12 of these cases, I have compared how a human and an AI would react to the same environment. I found that sometimes they choose the same thing, but often they are very different. I am excited to keep collecting more data to study if computers can ever have “judgement” like humans. My school teaches me to be a “Problem Solver,” and that makes me want to keep observing and writing every day.

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I Am Henry Finch by Alexis Deacon (illustrations by Viviane Schwarz) tells the story of Henry, a member of a community of finches, all of whom think and act alike. The flock is always together, and they do the same things, day after day. They are never quiet; in fact, they “make such a racket all day long, you really could not hear yourself think.” 

One night, Henry wakes up and it is quiet. For the first time, he has a thought of his own, and he becomes aware that he is able to think. “I am Henry Finch,” he thought. “I think.”

“I could be great,” he thinks. Becoming conscious of himself as an individual and not just a member of the flock, Henry starts to imagine the kind of person he might be.

The next morning the Beast appears, and Henry decides this is a moment for greatness. “I am Henry Finch,” he shouts, diving down at the Beast, who eats him.

Inside the Beast, the background of the pages has changed from white to black, and there is no color. Henry’s thoughts also turn dark. “You are a fool, Henry Finch,” he thinks. “You are not great. You are only someone’s dinner.” But as he continues to think, his thoughts deepen.

Henry begins to pay attention to the existence all around him. He realizes he can hear the Beast’s thoughts, which are focused on having a big family and needing to feed them. “Crawling, swimming, flying, walking . . . anything will do,” thinks the Beast. “No,” Henry says. He tells the Beast that all creatures have families, just like the Beast, and that the Beast should only eat plants from now on. The Beast acquiesces.

Henry then instructs the Beast to open his mouth so that Henry can fly out. Returning to his flock, Henry tells the finches that he has something to say, but first they have to be quiet. For the first time, they are quiet. They listen to Henry’s story, and then they stay quiet. One after another, the finches start to have their own thoughts, becoming their own individual selves.

The story raises many philosophical questions – ethical, metaphysical, and epistemological – including:

• What is courage? 
• Is it wrong to eat other living creatures?
• What is the relationship between identity and thought?
• What do we need in order to think for ourselves?
• Is there a connection between solitude and independent thinking?
• What does it mean to be authentic?
• How do we define freedom?
• How do we balance the importance of individual choice and the need to conform to community norms?
• What does it mean to belong?
• What is the purpose of our existence?

The story’s echo of Descartes’ maxim “I think, therefore I am” reminded me of a discussion in a fifth-grade classroom some years ago. We had read a version of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, and our conversation led us to Nick Bostrom’s simulation hypothesis.  Bostrom argues that, given the likelihood that in the future advanced humans with powerful computers will be able to run “ancestor simulations,” creating virtual worlds populated by detailed simulations of ancestors capable of subjective experience, we are likely to be among the simulated minds. 

The students acknowledged that it’s impossible to be 100% certain that we are not in a simulation. We wondered whether we should worry about this. Does it matter? And can we still claim to know that what we experience is in fact real (the sun is shining, for example)? We discussed whether absolute certainty is necessary for knowledge. Does the possibility that we could be simulated ancestors mean that we can’t know that we exist in the physical world in the way it feels to us that we do? And if we can’t know this, what can we know?

“Okay,” said a quiet ten-year-old girl sitting near the front of the room, “maybe I can’t know that I am not just the mind of a computer, or living in a cave and seeing only shadows. But what I can know is that if I’m thinking about what I can know, I can be sure that at least there is me thinking, even if that’s all I can know about myself or anything else.”

I told the student that the philosopher René Descartes had come to a similar conclusion almost 400 years ago. If I am thinking about this problem, at least I can be sure that I am a thinking being, even if I can be sure of little else. 

Henry Finch has a similar revelation. “I am something. I am.” He comes to understand that he is a thinking, independent being, with an individual identity. This realization leads him to true greatness.

Children often ask questions about identity and the purpose of existence. I Am Henry Finch is a wonderful entry point to thinking about these kinds of questions with students. And the thumbprint illustrations are an ingenious way to exemplify the uniqueness of every individual, human or finch.

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I recently had the opportunity to attend a screening of the new documentary film “The Bowl,” from Ethereal Films and filmmaker Eli Yetter-Bowman, slated for broadcast on PBS in 2026. The screening was part of a conference session called “Start an Ethics Bowl,” held at the annual Eastern Division meeting of the American Philosophical Association (APA), which took place in Baltimore in early January. The film follows a High School Ethics Bowl team from North Carolina as it competes in the National Championships. The film takes a verité approach that combines interviews with the young women on the team with footage of the rounds they compete in as part of the championship. 

As with any Ethics Bowl, the questions the teams discuss are wide-ranging and very much current. One round takes up the question of whether parents should be allowed to earn a profit from their kids’ online videos; in another the teams are asked whether the fact that girls look up to female athletes as role models obligates those athletes to behave in certain ways. Each round begins with one team presenting their position; the opposing team then provides feedback on the strength of the first team’s arguments. The first team revises its position to meet that feedback and then answers questions from Ethics Bowl judges. The second team is then posed either the same question or a new one, and the process starts again. The film captures the intellectual ferment of ethical discussion and the excitement of young people discovering that they have something valuable to say about the big questions facing their communities. 

The film also makes it clear that Ethics Bowls differ substantially from what at first might appear similar: Speech and Debate competitions. The major difference is that in Speech and Debate, the personal views of the participants on the topic at hand are almost entirely irrelevant: the point is not to say what you yourself think but to be able to persuade an audience to accept the validity of both ‘pro’ and ‘con’ sides in a given argument. In that sense Speech and Debate trains its participants in the ancient art of rhetoric: how persuasive can they be? Ethics Bowls, on the other hand, ask participants to offer their views – what they really think – and it does so on the condition that they provide reasons for those views and open themselves up to changing them should they be presented with compelling reasons from the other side. As such, students participating in an Ethics Bowl gain exposure to the ideals of democratic citizenship. Citizens in a democracy have to decide for themselves what to believe with respect to the questions facing their community, because as citizens they are called on to decide what that community should do. Ethics Bowls demonstrate that the best way to decide what to think (and so what to do) is to develop your thoughts in conversation with others in a spirit of mutual trust and commitment to truth.    

In addition to the screening, the APA session featured three members of the University of Baltimore community who are involved in Ethics Bowls. They emphasized that students in Ethics Bowls learn deeply about the nature of ethical deliberation through examining ethical case studies, and a team that makes it to the national competition might have reviewed as many as 30 different such case studies. One panelist captured the collaborative nature of the competition by saying teams are not trying to outmaneuver or outflank each other, but to push each other to provide the best reasons: “it’s great training in philosophy.” The session moderator added that the emphasis is on dialogue rather than debate, and indeed a team is penalized if it does not take the other team’s arguments seriously. Examples abound of politically opposed students becoming friends while participating on an Ethics Bowl team. As one students says in the film, “if you’re going to dissect someone’s moral positions, you’re going to get to know them a little bit.”  

As the proud father of a 7^th grader who loves participating in his school’s Speech and Debate club, I was inspired by the APA session and the documentary as offering a complementary experience for young people embarking on the great adventure of intellectual and public life. As members of the APA panel pointed out, ethical deliberation is about examining our assumptions; ethics is not about having an unassailable worldview but about working through difficult questions, developing good reasons for your views, and even changing your views through an openness to understanding the reasoning of others. Students gain many things from school-based activities like Speech and Debate and Ethics Bowls, from leadership and teamwork to social trust, critical reasoning, and feelings of accomplishment and independence. But the Ethics Bowl in particular helps students understand the value of turning around and looking at their own most basic beliefs – what Descartes thought he should do at least once in his life but that in philosophy forms an ongoing practice.  

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When my son was in elementary school, there was an alarming incident in one of the classrooms. A teacher had a cerebral event that led to her acting very strangely. The young students knew something was wrong, but when two asked to get help outside the room the teacher refused (this was not malicious, but rather a part of the cerebral event). Once the situation was resolved, it came to light that the children had sat in the room obeying the rules for quite a long time before one of them felt empowered on their own to leave and call for help.

The tragic nature of the situation struck me deeply. The teacher, long known as caring and capable, was not herself and needed medical attention. The students knew what they were seeing was problematic and they felt the need for help but had been taught to obey. We can all point to moments in the past and present where strict adherence to obeyance leads to calamitous results.

As a philosopher working with young people, I wanted to think carefully with young people about the nature of rules— when we follow them, when we do not, whether there are rules that ought to be broken, and so forth. Enter The Library Lion, by Michelle Knudson. When a lion enters the library, the persnickety Mr. McBee of the circulation desk runs and reports the infraction to head librarian Miss Merriweather. She concludes that the lion can stay as long as he obeys the rule to remain quiet (in particular for a lion, no roaring). As it happens, everyone loves the lion. He is useful as a library volunteer and he and the children love story time together. One day, the lion sees that Miss Merriweather has fallen and needs help. He makes many rule-abiding attempts to get Mr. McBee’s attention to no avail, thus resorting to the best tool he has: a mighty roar. This roar breaks the rules. Knowing this, the lion removes himself from the library. Eventually, he is found and joyfully restored to his role in the library along with a modification of the no roaring rule to “No roaring allowed, unless you have a very good reason.”

When I use this book with elementary school students, I sometimes start with the question “Why did the lion break the rules?” which turns quickly to whether it is ever permissible to break rules. Often, the students begin with the position exhibited by their peers at my son’s school: rules cannot be broken. They demonstrate a keen sense of the consequences of rule breaking. Sometimes, the students argue that, because he had a good reason, the lion did not in fact break a rule. Here, they show a desire to make the stated rule conform to their ethical intuitions that the lion did the right thing by roaring, particularly given that his polite attempts to get McBee’s attention were unheeded.

Does it work to say that the lion did not break the rule because he had a good reason, though? The rule was that you cannot roar in the library and he unquestionably roared. We discuss this and whether it might be the case that the lion indeed broke the rule but did so for good reason. Some students strongly defend the position that most rules come with an unspoken “unless there is a good reason” clause. Thinking about the “no running in the halls” rule at their school, they note that the rule really means “no running in the halls without a good reason.” I wonder if the school’s administration takes the same view!

Naturally, thinking of rules as having an “unless there is a good reason” clause leads to a discussion of what constitutes a good reason and who gets to decide whether that reason is valid. So often, in school settings and at home, the arbiter of these decisions is adults. I wonder sometimes what it would look like to have a panel of elementary students who weigh in on whether the rule-breaker had a good reason for their action in much the same way some undergraduate institutions have student governance over infractions against the school’s codes of behavior.

Even all these years later (my son is now a sophomore in college), I cannot help but wonder whether a philosophical conversation about The Library Lion would have made a difference for his peers enclosed in a room with their unwell teacher. I think about how philosophy’s focus on questioning assumptions and reasoning carefully translates to discernment and empowerment in young people. I’ll be honest and add that, ethics aside, I also think about how amazing it would be to have a library lion!

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A few months ago, I started becoming more interested in political philosophy because I realized it connected two of my favorite academic topics: ethics and politics. That realization happened after I took the Justice course by Micheal Sandel, a HarvardX course which is free to audit online, where it became clear to me that ethics, politics, and philosophy are all interconnected ideas that work together to shape a just and coexisting society. Ethics and politics influence everything around us, and I love learning how they show up in real-world situations, not just in theories. Since the course is made up of videos and readings, I usually work through it at my own pace on my laptop, and I was relieved to see it wasn’t just a series of tired lectures but a mix that genuinely kept me engaged.

The course itself:Justice, which is also a book by Sandel, explained ethical concepts through discussions and real-world case studies. The focus on ethics naturally led into political philosophy, where I learned about philosophers like Nozick, Rawls, and Locke, and saw how their ideas still shape the way society functions today. Rawls’s idea of distributive justice, which focuses on fairly allocating resources and opportunities so everyone has a real chance, made me rethink what fairness means. I used to think fairness just meant treating everyone the same, but now I realize it also means recognizing people’s different starting points and adjusting systems so those differences don’t hold them back. One example that made this clearer was a news story I read a few months ago about unequal school funding across districts. Some communities had updated facilities and small class sizes, while others struggled with outdated textbooks and overflowing classrooms. Seeing that gap made Rawls’s point feel real to me, because treating every district “the same” would not fix anything if their basic conditions were already unequal. Personally, I like looking at facts and developing a fresh new opinion each time I look at a situation, which makes me feel like I am somewhere between different ethical theories. Sometimes I find myself leaning towards the clarity of moral duty, but other times the focus on outcomes seems more practical, so I am still figuring out my perspective.

What I appreciated most was how these ethical concepts are connected to real-life debates. Toward the end of the course, we examined divisive issues like same-sex marriage and affirmative action, analyzing them through the theories we studied. It was fascinating to see how philosophical frameworks developed hundreds of years ago still apply to the questions people argue about today. The course also showed me that philosophy isn’t about memorizing abstract ideas but is about understanding how those ideas apply to modern-day dilemmas and the ways in which people are treated today.  

Actually paying attention to online courses can be difficult, especially if they are not engaging from the start. But Professor Sandel drew me into the material through the discussions he had with his students. Hearing so many opinions from such a diverse group of people opened my eyes to how differently people view the same moral and political questions, the kinds of questions our entire society is built on. One moment that stood out was a debate about affirmative action. Some students argued that it creates unfair advantages and goes against the idea of equal treatment, while others believed it is necessary to right long-standing wrongs and give students from under-resourced backgrounds a fair chance. They were all around the same age, yet their reasoning came from such different life experiences that it felt like they were seeing the same issue through completely different lenses. Whether most of us realize it or not, ethics and political philosophy are the mental prisms through which we all live our lives. This course helped me see that people’s thought processes are shaped by their own unique lived experiences and values, even when we are all in the same stage of life. 

My Takeaways: Taking the online course Justice showed me that education is not limited by where you live or what school you attend but by how curious you choose to be. The learning is open to anyone who wants to put in time, not just people who can afford to pay for a certificate. That accessibility made the experience feel even more meaningful. I have also realized that online courses like this can be a really helpful supplement to what I learn in school because they let me go deeper into topics that my classes might only touch on. Learning how different ethical theories and political philosophies influence the world around us has made me excited to take more edX courses and keep building on what I’ve learned.

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“The age of five is the most philosophical age you can be.”
– Mo Willems 

Mo Willems’ We Are in a Book! raises in a playful way some of the deepest questions of epistemology and metaphysics, including questions about reality, identity, knowledge, the relationship between the mind and the body, and death. The story begins when Willems’ beloved characters Elephant and Piggie sense that someone is looking at them. Is it a monster? No, it’s a . . .

They are in a book, they realize. How exciting! Piggie points out that being in a book means that they can, for example, make the reader say “banana” if the reader reads it aloud. This works! 

Piggie suggests that Elephant take a turn before the book ends. Elephant is taken aback. “The book ends?!”

Elephant is shaken by the knowledge that there will be an end to the book and, as the pages go by, protests that the book is going too fast: “I have more to give!” Then Piggie has an idea: they can just ask the reader to read the book again.

I read the story with a group of third grade students last spring, after doing philosophy with them each week all year. I asked them to think about the philosophical questions about which the story led them to wonder. They came up with eight questions.

We spent most of the class talking about whether we could be in an “infinite dream.” Could we be in a dream? If life is an infinite dream, would that matter? What would be different from the way life feels to us now? 

We discussed whether it might be possible that we could be characters in a book (or in a video game or simulation, or in the mind of God). How can we know we are or are not book characters? Would it be possible, if we were, to experience consciousness? What is consciousness?

The book can also lead to discussions about the nature of death. Elephant is thrown into a state of anxiety upon the realization that the book will end. He is not ready for it to be over. Why does life end and people die? If we could live our lives over again, would we? If so, how many times? Would we choose to live forever if we could? What does death mean for how we live our lives? What do we think happens when people die? Could we continue to exist in some form after death?

Questions about death and reality can lead to thinking about the relationship between the mind and the body. Are we our bodies, our minds, or our brains? What is the difference, if any, between the brain and the mind? Do our bodies control our minds, or do our minds control our bodies? Could our minds exist without our bodies?

The gap between appearance and reality is another topic raised by the story. Do we experience the real world or just our perceptions of it? Are our perceptions an accurate depiction of reality? What is the role of reason in understanding reality? Can we have knowledge of a reality independent of our perceptions? Are appearances illusions or are they a way to access reality? What does reality mean? What does it mean to be real? If we were book characters, would that make us less “real” than we believe ourselves to be now?

Many philosophers consider metaphysics and epistemology to engage the most fundamental questions of philosophy. In Some Problems of Philosophy, William James described metaphysics as “the discussion of various obscure, abstract, and universal questions which the sciences and life in general suggest but do not solve.” We Are in a Book! is a wonderful resource for inspiring discussions about some of these questions, which also tend to be among the most pressing philosophical issues for children. 

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I grew up the son of a Baptist preacher. We lived right next door to the church. As a little boy, I’d spend my Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings, Wednesday evenings, and sometimes even Saturdays there, learning to pray, reading scripture, and occasionally trying to scale the marquee letterboard out front.

Unsurprisingly, the first time I read the word ‘philosophy’ was in the Bible. But the message was not a positive one. In one of the apostle Paul’s letters, he warns:

See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition and the elemental spiritual forces of this world rather than on Christ. (Colossians 2:8)

Because of Paul’s words, my Bible-believing church was suspicious of philosophy. They thought it was misleading and deceptive, creating atheists out of committed Christians.

With this upbringing, you might be surprised to learn that I am a philosophy professor. You might also be surprised that I helped create The Philosophy Teaching Library, a collection of introductory philosophy readings for high school and college students. But as I learned more about what philosophy actually is, and how it has been a way of understanding the world more deeply for the religious and non-religious alike, I became convinced that philosophy should be more accessible for teachers, students, and society as a whole.

I grew up reading more than just the Bible. My dad had a library – stacks and stacks of books on theology, psychology, leadership, and biblical interpretation. And I was curious. Though I didn’t understand much at the time, I started lots of those books, even if I rarely finished them.

I also had a lot of questions. I wondered whether God existed, if we had free will, what it meant to love others, and what religion (if any) was correct.  

And my questions often got me in trouble. One evening when I was in high school, I challenged my younger sister to the following “game.” I would describe two political policies on an issue and ask her which one she thought was best. There was one catch: I wouldn’t tell her which policy was supported by Democrats and which was supported by Republicans. My mom quickly put the kibosh on that game.

Anyone with some familiarity with philosophy would have instantly recognized my questions as exactly that – questions about ethics, metaphysics, philosophy of religion, and political philosophy. But I never really thought of my questions as philosophical. For all I knew, the answers philosophy offered were as hollow and deceptive as the apostle Paul said, but the answers I was discovering to my questions were anything but that.

When I started college, I began as a double major in biblical studies and psychology, two subjects I was already familiar with from my dad’s library. But when I took a philosophy class my freshman year, I quickly changed course. I saw that philosophy, far from being antithetical to the faith in which I was raised, could actually help bring clarity and insight to my questions.

The great saints of the church have always thought this was so. We still read the writings of St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas for their philosophical insights, and they viewed philosophy as the handmaid to theology – a necessary preparation for understanding the things of God. The problem isn’t philosophy but being fooled by wise sounding but ultimately misleading ideas.

Looking back, I now realize that I should have had access to philosophy all along. I had so many philosophical questions – I should never have made it to college without knowing more about famous philosophers and the questions that they tried to answer. But there are many challenges to this sort of access.

First you have to know what to read. Maybe I could have started with Plato’s Republic. But it’s over 100,000 words long. Should I have just started at the beginning? How could I have found the most important parts?

Next, you have to know how to read. Even if I knew what to read, philosophy texts can be dense and unfamiliar, requiring a wealth of background knowledge to interpret and understand. 

This is where The Philosophy Teaching Library comes in. The Library helps students identify what to read – the most crucial foundational texts. Then, the Library helps them understand those books and articles. Our pieces are authored by philosophy professors who take readers word by word through the texts. 

A friend of mine teaches theology at a Catholic high school, and he discovered that giving students translations of the Euthyphro or the Apology just wasn’t working. There is too much new vocabulary and too little guidance for students to glean much from the readings on their own. Now, he is using the Library with his students.

My hope is that, as my friend discovered in his class, the Library can supply the resources I didn’t have growing up, and bring the (actual!) wisdom of the great philosophers to high school and college students everywhere.

The post My Dad Was a Baptist Preacher – I’m a Philosophy Professor appeared first on PLATO.

Thinking philosophically requires, among other things, developing a set of philosophical skills. Doing philosophy in elementary schools (students between 5 and 11 years old) for over a decade has drawn my attention to just how important it is to help young people build these skills. For the youngest philosophers, we often need to practice asking questions and giving reasons before we can begin doing more complex philosophical thinking together. Others need some time to learn how to give reasons and evaluate others’ reasons. I spend a good deal of my time as a Philosopher-in-Residence contemplating what skills are needed and how to work on them in a way that holds true to the values of creating a Community of Philosophical Inquiry. In particular, I do not want sessions focused on skills-building to feel like a “lesson” where I am imparting wisdom for the students to absorb passively.

Fortunately, there are many wonderful ways to build philosophical skills that promote student-centered inquiry. Among my favorites is Sarah Stanley’s “Monster at School” exercise. Stanley recommends drawing a monster that looks neither friendly nor scary and has a closed mouth, 3 arms, 4 legs, and a tail. I asked my then 13-year-old son to draw the monster for me (ask my students – I cannot draw!). He didn’t follow the rules entirely, but the result was excellent.

The facilitator presents this monster to the students with a short story about how they met the monster last night and that the monster would like to come to school tomorrow. The students then break into groups depending on whether they think the monster should or should not come to school. When I do the exercise, I offer the option for those who are unsure to make their own group. The students have an opportunity to share their thoughts with one another before we re-group as a whole. From there, I make “yes,” “no,” and “maybe” lists on the board, gathering their thoughts.

Once their ideas are on the board, I begin one of two ways. For students ages 5 or 6, I re-read what is on the board under one of the columns and then ask why one of the items listed there seems important. Often, the students will point out that the monster has too many arms. Interestingly, the extra appendage is sometimes considered a point in the monster’s favor and sometimes a point against them. I ask, “Why would how many arms the monster has matter for whether we let them come to class?”. For older students, I invite them to find something on the lists that does not make sense to them or that they have a question about. For example, a student might ask why it matters that the monster “looks like a potato spider.” In both cases, the students have an opportunity to share their reasons, think together about whether those reasons make sense, and evaluate what we really need to know about someone in order to trust they are safe to be around. We also discuss whether judging by appearance is good practice or fair.

We also work on the skill of clarification. In one room, students suggested that we need to know if the monster is good with children. I asked whether the monster only needs to be good with children or would they need to interact well with others as well. The students clarified that the monster needs to be good with all people since substitute teachers need to work with adults as well as students. This prompted a discussion of all the things teachers need to do and whether the monster could, in fact, do all those things. Several assumptions about differently abled people arise, making this discussion a wonderful way to question our assumptions (e.g., “do we know for sure that someone with a big body and short legs cannot walk up the stairs? Why would we assume they cannot?”).

Over the years, I have changed the exercise a bit to ask if the monster would be a good substitute teacher rather than whether they can simply visit the school. This slight alteration allows for another philosophical element to come to the fore: what qualities we think are important in teachers. Recently, in a first-grade classroom, several students were enthusiastic about the monster substituting for their class because they thoughts he “seems dumb,” “would let us do whatever we want,” and “would let us watch movies!”. This afforded us the opportunity to think about what we need from a teacher as well as how someone could look like they do not enforce rules. 

Building philosophical skills is essential for successful philosophy sessions, but it need not be tedious or boring. With creative exercises and careful facilitation, students can build the skills they need while enjoying all of the student-centered benefits of a community of philosophical inquiry. 

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Seven years ago, I began experimenting with philosophy for young people in the music classroom. Over these years, I have worked to incorporate principles of philosophical dialogue in all of my music courses including 4^th-8^th grade Waldorf education, K-12 community music schools, private music lessons, undergraduate courses, and pre-service educator training. 

I had never considered just how powerful philosophical dialogue could be for the development of children until I experienced it before my own eyes. One day, my long-time mentor, Paul Bodin, asked me to watch a discussion that took place in a fourth-grade classroom. Paul was deeply invested in bringing philosophical inquiry into the community of Eugene, Oregon. Beyond leading his own discussions at the local public library, Paul trained and educated teachers at the University of Oregon to lead philosophy for young people programs in public schools.

I was initially shocked to observe how gracefully and respectfully the fourth graders discussed topics that would likely be stunted or result in anger and frustration with adults—such as topics of equality and human rights. From my lens as a performer and music educator, philosophical dialogue resembled the delicate interplay of how chamber musicians create and navigate performance. I had a visceral reaction that there would be immense benefit for music students to engage in more dialogue, as well explore the role they play as musicians in our culture. This musical connection is what has led me on a consequent journey to involve philosophical dialogue in music instruction ever since.

My journey forward has been a serendipitous mixture of formal and informal education on the history and practice of philosophy for young people, as well as ongoing experimental practice with my own students. Aside from observing Paul Bodin’s work firsthand, the second most influential step in my path was reading Jana Mohr Lone’s (2021) book “Seen and Not Heard: Why Children’s Voices Matter”. The way Mohr Lone described children as being a marginalized group when it comes to their contribution of knowledge in society, and therefore the value that could come from epistemic justice for them, resonated with my experience as a music educator. In graduate coursework I had learned about Piaget’s stages of child development, and it seemed reasonable to think of the psychological limitations children may have.  

Conversely, as a music educator I was very much influenced by Dr. Shinichi Suzuki’s philosophy, which focused on early childhood development and a foremost pursuit as an educator to create a thriving community of global citizens. For Suzuki, music was both a vehicle and a manifestation of more inclusive and divergent learning. The concise and direct way Mohr Lone describes epistemic justice proved to be an “aha” moment for me, articulating what I think is likely a shared vision of many music educators, especially those influenced by Suzuki.

Within the domain of music, we have our own theoretical critics who question a lack of democratic teaching practices in the traditional bands, choirs, and orchestras omnipresent in public education. Other music education reformers question the essential role musicians play as an artist or perhaps specifically as a performer. If music is an art form but not all musicians compose or improvise, are they really artists? While these ideas point to many difficult questions, the good news is that philosophy for young people, as well as creating communities of philosophical inquiry, offers a means to safely explore answers and at the same time extend agency to everyone in the process.

While completing my PhD at The University of Texas at Austin, much of my focus was on researching best practices for teaching, as well as preparing to train the future generations of music educators. Assessment is all too often a mandatory part of teacher evaluations to meet state and national standards. But in concept, assessment is the best tool for teachers to measure whether their teaching leads to observable outcomes. In simple terms, all teachers must critically reflect on how well they know if their students are responding and learning from their teaching. 

Philosophy for young people is a profound way to get this feedback. My graduate advisor, Dr. Laurie Scott, challenged me to think about how philosophy for young people could provide important feedback for teachers in their assessment. If students can gracefully articulate their ideas, reflect, question, and respond with respect, what better tool could there be than dialogue for assessment? In this regard, I discovered an avenue to better advocate for the inclusion of philosophical dialogue in the music classroom when promoting the idea to teachers unfamiliar with the concept—dialogue affords invaluable assessment opportunity.

Just as I described the journey as being serendipitous it hasn’t always been easy to bring philosophical dialogue into my classrooms. Through informal surveys, nearly all my students value philosophical dialogue, but not all of them initially feel comfortable participating. The most common response I get from those who are not so keen on the idea is that it is “challenging” or “hard.” This admission that philosophy is challenging is what motivates me to continually advocate for philosophy for young people and reinforces the value of it in my classes. If it is challenging, it means that learning can take place. Our job as educators should be to help our students gain the confidence of expressing their own ideas so that they can grow, deal with adversity, and forge authentic connections with others. 

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