Whale Rock: The Pedagogy of the Inside Joke by Andrew

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Whale Rock: The Pedagogy of the Inside Joke

by Andrew (reflections by Rebecca)

Oh no! Where are the children? What will I tell the parents?

At first glance, it’s just a rock.

Tucked beside a leaf-strewn path, half-swallowed by bamboo, Whale Rock doesn’t announce itself. You might walk past it without noticing—unless you’re one of the children who knows its secret.

Over many years of walking this trail with children, a ritual took root. It started simply enough: they would run ahead and hide behind the rock.

The teacher, Andrew, would play along—pretending to be distracted by flowers or some creature, pausing just before the bend, gasping theatrically: “Oh no! Where are the children?”

He’d scan the woods with comic dread, “What will I tell the parents?” And from behind the rock, shrieks of laughter would erupt as the children burst out from hiding, unable to contain their glee.

They did it again.

And again.

Not just for a day, or a week. But over years.

Different children. Same rock. Same joke. Still funny.

What makes this kind of play endure? Why does it deepen rather than wear out?

Ritual, Not Repetition

There’s a moment in childhood when children know the adult knows the joke—but that shared knowing only makes it more delicious. In those moments, humor becomes collusion, not surprise.

Adults often treat humor as something meant to be clever, new, or unexpected. But for children, especially in early childhood, the repetition of a joke isn’t a failure of imagination—it’s a form of imaginative depth. Every reenactment is a deepening of trust, joy, and familiarity. It's not just the punchline that matters—it's the ritual of the telling.

This is ritualized play: repeated, dependable, shared. Whale Rock becomes more than a landmark—it becomes a container for laughter, a remembered rhythm in the culture of the group.

The Pedagogy of the Inside Joke

The adult’s role in this kind of play isn’t passive. Andrew's commitment to the bit—to acting surprised every time, to saying the same lines, to entering the drama with full presence—teaches more than any formal lesson. It says:

“I see you.”
“I’ll play along, again and again.”
“Your joy is important.”

This kind of play affirms relationship, power-sharing, and belonging. Children know the adult is in on the joke—and chooses to pretend otherwise. That’s a sacred kind of trust.

A Rock Becomes a Memory

Over time, Whale Rock gathers layers of meaning. It’s a geological object, yes—but also a social one, a cultural one, a site of memory.

Places like this exist in almost every long-standing learning community:

The tree where someone always stops to listen for woodpeckers.
The tree that becomes a sleeping dragon’
The bench where snacks always taste better.

These landmarks aren’t chosen by curriculum—they emerge through use, laughter, and love.

A Final Thought

We often look for curriculum in the big plans, the themed units, the learning outcomes. But the real curriculum is sometimes hiding in plain sight—behind a rock, around a bend, in the ritual of a shared joke.

Whale Rock reminds us:

That children do not tire of what is loved.
That humor, when repeated with care, becomes intimacy.
That adults have the sacred task of remembering the joke, even after the child has moved on.

And that the landscape itself—leafy, muddy, unchanged—holds the memory.