He looks mournfully at me. ‘Why, why did you ignore me yesterday?’ He’s wearing a truly tragic face. I turn to look directly at him. ‘I did not ignore you. I did not’. He’s silent. I start again. ‘I did not. I apologize if you thought that because I do not ignore you’. He puts his head down on the desk. This conversation is not moving forward.
Now… begins the delicate dance, the shuffle of truth with kindness, the borrowing of someone else’s sorrow with permission. I extend my hand and take from one child’s grief pile and move it to the other; expecting somehow to borrow discouragement and return it, while manipulating it to become part of a healing process or a stopgap; to return distress with an extra cup of sugar and a warm blanket and a piece of chocolate…but it’s tricky. It is risky.
I look away from him and look directly at her. I talk to him while speaking to her. He’s listening. She’s watching. I start again; picking up the fallen thread of the recent conversation. ‘Sometimes, I have to work with other students who need me more’. Silence. I address her. ‘May I tell him why I am working with you now?’ ‘Yes’ she says and smiles. I watch her and address him. ‘She can’t read yet’. I continue quickly, ‘but she will read some day…’ She smiles and says, ‘Yes because I am blind. And you know my Mom is working with that…because I am blind’.
I look at her, at her bright shiny, healthy eyes…then I look back at him. ‘Well, actually you can’t read because you have missed a huge amount of school…but…you are smart. I can tell’. ‘Yes, yes’ she responds quickly. ‘And…and I’m blind, you know…my Mom is working on that’.
I turn to address him directly. ‘Okay…’ he looks up. ‘I can’t read that passage’ he says…very close to tears. I take another deep breath. ‘You can read a lot of it. You can’. He shakes his head. ‘Everyone else in the whole class can read it except me’. I look at him directly and address her. ‘No…they really can’t’. She’s listening and drawing lines on the whiteboard. ‘Hey, can I have the purple marker?’ She reaches for my bag…
690 Saint Paul 