You don’t have to teach people how to be creative. In fact, I’d argue that creativity, at its root, is not teachable. It is a survival instinct, and maybe even, the first one we have as we become sentient. Finding solutions is what we are built to do. We can, however, teach kids to stop using their creativity—and we do. I often reflect on a study commissioned by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration in the sixties which showed that ninety-eight percent of kids, ages four to five, are creative geniuses by NASA’s standard. It also showed that as the kids got older, the number dropped significantly, declining to only two percent as adults. Creativity is one of the most sought after qualities on a job application. Everything we appreciate, use, and admire as a society is the result of someone’s creative idea. Medical advancements, architecture, books, movies, music, the microwave—everything beyond Mother Earth’s gracious gifts exists because a person created them. Even still, we operate within systems that train us to stop using the superpower we have. My career has been dedicated to encouraging, nurturing, and making space for ideas to flourish. My work has never been about teaching people to be creative; it has always been about letting people be creative.
My passion comes from the people in my life who made space for my ideas to flourish when I was young. There were plenty of adults who tried to coerce the creativity out of me with test scores and career plans, but the adults who encouraged me were louder.
I was born to a single teen mom and raised by her and my almost blind grandmother, who was an early-age, two-time stroke survivor. Given the circumstances, they didn’t have much money, but that didn’t stop them from finding ways to encourage me to create. They got me a library card and gave me scrap paper and bank lobby pens. I wrote stories and songs. I drew pictures and designed houses. I read books. My creative genius was in full effect. I held onto my creativity like a cherished heirloom, refusing to let it go, no matter how many times I was told to regurgitate an answer instead of coming up with my own. I wrote like my life depended on it, and in some ways, I think it might have. So many of my proudest moments can be traced back to that Tupperware of pens.
As a teen, I was deemed a “troubled youth.” Mental health issues and childhood traumas bubbled up to the surface. I was getting into trouble. I dropped out of school and tried my best to take the pain I was feeling and find somewhere else to throw it, but somehow it always landed in my notebooks. I eventually went to an alternative high school, where the point was to get my high school credits and get out. There were no school dances or extracurriculars. This school was for those of us who were on our last chance. It was there that I had teachers who gave me their own versions of my grandma’s scrap paper. My health teacher let me write a report on how writing can help with stress, because I was more interested in writing about that than about exercise. My history teacher held onto my forgotten world civilizations notebook because I had written poems in it. My English teacher taught me about spoken word poetry and introduced me to my favorite author—both in general and in person!
As an adult, I wanted to be like all of those people in my life who motivated me by refusing to stifle me, so I dedicated my career to it. When I run a writing class or an event, I don’t aim to teach kids to write the way I write or to write at all. I aim to inspire them to use their voices, however that looks for them. When they choose an outlet, I provide any resources I can to make sure they can dance with their ideas. I give prompts, rather than instructions. I bring along blank copy paper, because some storytellers choose to draw. I encourage conversations, both as a group and between individuals. I don’t force participation, but allow options for different ways to participate instead. I make an active and intentional attempt to make opportunities accessible in any way I can. I choose to work with organizations and community partners that promote creative thought and do what I can to support their work.
The percentage of creative geniuses in a preschool class does not have to decrease to two percent as they grow older, and we don’t all have to invest our lives into being arts teachers to make it happen either, though I think it’s a cool thing to do. All you really have to do to make an impact is remember: When a kid has an idea, they might just be the most qualified to execute it. Don’t let your adult opinion stand in the way of a child’s genius.