When my students arrived at school today, they were beaming
and wearing their favorite pajamas. Some
carried a favorite stuffed animal, eyes twinkled, and little random stories and
facts spilled out of their mouths. I don’t
think I can easily articulate how important today was for me. As the first graders trotted through the
hallways, jingling their bells and trying to remember the words to Frosty, (I
think I heard one boy yodeling , “with a corn dog pipe…”) I saw old first grade
friends, cheeks less round, glowing with knowing smiles that said they remembered
the fun and comfort of their own Polar Express celebration. A colleague of mine slipped me two packets of
cocoa, a memory of my desperate cocoa hunt two days prior. So many generous gifts, tangible and
symbolic, piled up in the warmth of the day.
As the day progressed, I was reminded in that
back-of-the-mind, front-of-the-heart way, that since last week, and other
events preceding it, I’ve been impressed with how critical, how vital, Aibileen’s
striking words are for children: You are kind. You are smart. You are important.
My son knows he is, and my students do, too. Upon the
frequent occasions of students’ being spontaneously and thoughtfully kind to
one another, I now state it as plainly as I can: You are so kind. You are
thoughtful.
There’s this teacher at Langston’s school, who for months
has greeted him by name when he arrives. She waits with older kids just outside
in the mornings, for the bus. And for months, I thought, for all his racing to
the door, his focus on our routine of punching in the beepy numbers for the
entry code, that he didn’t notice or hear her consistent, friendly greeting. I’d
often apologetically either model a
greeting for him to repeat, or say another lame thing, “We’re so excited to
start the day…,” etc.
But then this thing happened. A few days ago, as if a switch
had been flipped, one morning Langston hopped out the car, wriggled into his
backpack, as always, and as we neared the crowd of students, he walked up to
the group, winding his gaze, spanning it toward the teacher, like a seeking
tractor beam. “Hi, A.!” he chirped.
Every day since then, his face, with that wide open clarity that only our sons can have, seeks her out when we
arrive, smiling and ready with his purposeful greeting. This morning, the
teacher was speaking with a parent, and while he missed his chance to deliver
his greeting, the moment of his smiling searching gaze was not lost on me. There’s a former student of mine who is like
this, so connected to the people he knows. He could be in a crowd of a hundred,
and if he knows you’re there, you, one of his
people that he knows and loves, his eyes will find you. And when your gaze
finds his, his happiness is perceptible, this thing you can hold in your hand. There! There she is.
I’m so grateful for the little people that I am honored to
live and work with. I’m grateful for the teachers who for care for my son, who
fall in love with his quirky talents and know just the right and fair time to
say no to him, to help him learn what is right. I am grateful for all parents:
mine, whose gifts are boundless, like the apples, branches and more of the
story – you know the one – and the parents I’ve met in my professional life,
who trust us to keep their children safe and happy.
We are smart. We are kind. We are important.
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