“Have you heard of the Big Hungry Bear...?” A Lunchtime Conversation
One of my favorite things to do during our lunch times is to listen. I love adult silence. Not only does it mean that I get to know the children and the ways they are thinking and making meaning in the world, but the children get to know and interact with one another. In addition, I am fascinated by the way they interact with one another when the context is not mediated by adults. What is the children’s agenda? How are they going about furthering their goals, if they are even aware of those goals? More than anything, relationships are built among other things, on experience and conversation. Lunchtime is for conversation, and it’s on the children’s terms. So, on this day, here is the scene:
We are seated on a tarp for lunch. It is a sunny and the weather is warm for the wintertime. the children appear to be in good spirits as evidenced by the smiles on their faces and the general sense of ease that accompanied our transition to the lunch spot. In the mornings this week (of 2.1.21) we have been reading a book called The Little Mouse, the Red Ripe Strawberry and the Big Hungry Bear (Don Wood, 1984). In fact, we read it before transitioning to our lunch spot not fifteen minutes before this conversation occurs. The story is a simple one, chronicling the anxiety of a mouse who picks a strawberry and devises a way to keep it safe from a big hungry bear. (Spoiler alert: The mouse ends up eating the strawberry, and the bear never materializes). This lunchtime conversation shows the way the children were connecting with the story and its elements of suspense, fantasy, and, perhaps, incorporate the mouse’s fictional danger into a larger understanding of danger that they see elsewhere.
Hank begins, as we are a few bites into our lunch:
“Have you heard of the big hungry bear who eats everyone?”
No, comes the reply from the rest of the group. As he walks over to the backpacks to retrieve his water bottle, Hank’s parting words are: “He [the Big Hungry Bear] doesn’t eat me.” Upon his return, Hank continues.
“Have you heard of the Big Hungry Bear who drinks everyone’s water?”
“I’ve heard of a Big Hungry Bear and he likes to…”
“There’s also a Big Hungry Bear and he eats you!” Hank finishes, turning to Cam.
Cam smiles: “No!”
“Yes!” Hank replies.
“No!” Cam replies again, laughing.
Is Cam, I wonder, uncomfortable with even the fantasy potential of being eaten by a Big Hungry Bear? Is his laughter one of enjoyment? How long would it take to turn to protestation? I do not have a chance to discern further, because Hank alters course.
“Have you heard of the Big Hungry Bear who eats trees?” he asks.
Immediately, Cam answers “Yeah,” eating another spoonful of yogurt.
Does this new iteration of tree-eating bear mean that the fictional danger is sufficiently displaced? It seems that Cam is willing to re-entertain the possibility of belief, or suspension of disbelief, when his fictional person is no longer at stake.
After some moments of pause, Cam answers:
“Trees are too hard,”
“No. he can break the trees,” Hank seems to have an answer for everything.
“Yeah.”
“And he can eat trees,” Hank expands.
“Yeah.”
“…when he breaks [the trees] up. Also this tree.” Hank finishes, pointing to the split tree adjacent to our lunch spot. He rises up to touch the spot he is referring to.
“Yeah,” Cam answers, turning his body to look at Hank.
“See that mark? That’s from the Bear.”
It is interesting to watch the apparent pleasure Hank and Cam have in this conversation--and to witness the silent engagement of Bea and Andy. I wonder, if on some level, Hank believes in some sort of creature who could have split the tree, even if he knows it is not the Big Hungry Bear of the fictive world of the book and the imagined world of his current story. Does Hank think the others believe? Is this a process of deconstruction of myth, past and story for all of them?
Hank returns to the tarp and sits. He turns to Andy.
“Andy, have you heard of the water-drinking Hungry Bear?”
Andy retrieves his water bottle from his side. “Then I will drink all my water and the monster will think it’s in my drink when it’s not.” Andy sounds satisfied. Hank begins to say something else, but Andy speaks over him.
“By the way, these things don’t exist.” Andy says, an air of finality pervading his words.
Hank gestures again to the split tree.
“Have you heard of the Big Hungry T-Rex? He eats everything and trees and eats water bottles to get the water he needs.”
Bea chimes in with a laugh. “But dinosaurs don’t eat climb trees,”
“I said eat,” Hank reiterates.
Cam has something to say again. “But I been watching Dino Pups (an episode of PAW Patrol) and the orange T-Rex.”
Andy asks Cam: “But what does your mom say?”
“My mom just say we can watch Dino Pups. And it has a T-Rex in it.”
Perhaps there is something in the mother’s declaration that brings us all back into a shared silence. How have we reached this place? This dance of fact and fiction and the lines drawn between them. A T-Rex in a forest story and a TV show, dangerous creatures that never appear and the real dangers lurking in the forest (and, perhaps, uniquely in the children’s life stage).
I probably won’t ever be able to untangle the interesting web of this conversation or clarify the interconnectedness of thoughts, feelings, and motivations underlying this discussion. But I am grateful to have been able to listen to it, and to facilitate a space for it to take place.
For anyone interested, here’s the book!
Happy Thursday, friends!