Z Loved Woodworking
The outdoor workbench was a favorite place: a real hammer in his hand, a piece of scrap wood, a determined tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t pretending to work; he was working. Every swing of the hammer was focused and sincere. The materials weren’t toys. They were real. And so was he.
When Z entered kindergarten, he was given a worksheet. The question was simple: Which of these things do you use at school? The options were illustrated—a pen, a book, a crayon, a hammer. Z circled all of them. He used all of them. He knew this from experience.
He got an X.
He was told he was wrong.
Not impolitely. Not cruelly. The hammer, they explained, is not a thing you use in school.
Z wasn’t wrong. The worksheet was.
Whose Knowledge Counts?
This story isn't just about a hammer. It's about what counts as knowledge, what counts as learning, and who gets to decide. When we give children narrow definitions of what "school" is, we are not simply shaping their expectations; we are limiting their identity.
Z practiced spatial reasoning, rhythm, planning, and force. He learned how materials behave under pressure. He negotiated with peers over workspace, shared tools, and offered advice to others.
If this isn’t school, what is?
Tools as Invitations to Think
Children who build, tinker, hammer, sew, cook, or garden are engaging in cognitive work. They are solving problems, adapting methods, hypothesizing outcomes, and evaluating results. They are learning. But only if we see them that way.
When we relegate hammers to the realm of "play," or risky tools as not allowed, we rob them of their pedagogical power. And we rob children of the dignity of meaningful action.
Compliance or Connection?
What happens when we tell a child that what they know isn’t true? That their lived experience of school isn’t valid?
Z learned something that day, but it wasn't what the teacher intended. He learned that school is a place where right answers are sometimes wrong. That it matters less what he knows than what the system believes he should know. That even when he's telling the truth, he might be told he's mistaken.
If we’re not careful, this is how children start to lose trust in themselves.
A Place for Real Work
What if we said: yes, hammers belong in school. So do knives, saws, hot glue guns, sewing needles, garden spades, cooking stoves.
Not as special occasions or afterthoughts, but as integral to the curriculum.
What would shift if children’s ways of working were taken seriously?
Z didn’t stop loving hammers, but he did start to learn that school might not see him fully.
That’s a loss. Not just for Z, but for all of us.
Because when we build schools that don’t make room for the hammer, we may also lose the builder.
How do we decide what belongs in school—and who gets to decide?
What would your classroom or program look like if real work was always an option?
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