I glance at this new group of children planted in a neat and gentle circle around me. I look down at my paper. There are nine names on a list. Five students stare quietly at me. Four are missing. I don’t know any of them. They have no idea who I am. We are nearing the end of September and it has taken this amount of time to meet them.
Their lunch schedule was set and then altered and then an additional school meeting was added and the schedule changed again just for Wednesdays…and then one more burdensome change piled on because of logistics and support and crowding and the usual ‘what all’. ‘What all’…that beleaguered phenomenon which leaves everyone exhausted and young innocent bystanders under educated.
So here we are on a cold Friday afternoon in the final days of the month, all looking at each other.
A half hour earlier, I waited at the edge of the door and heard the name ‘Maria!’ float out of the classroom. I chose not to help myself and I immediately broke out into song. ‘Maria! I just met a girl named Maria!’…the classroom teacher, a pleasant newcomer from Brazil glanced nervously over at me; very puzzled. I attempted an explanation. ‘Do you know that song from ‘Westside Story’? It’s very famous’. He shook his head quietly and continued to call out the names of those students condemned to follow the strange singing teacher out into the hallway.
I continued to try. ‘I can break into song, anytime, anywhere and I don’t care what anyone thinks’. ‘Ah’ he responded simply. Too much. Too many hurdles and crossed wires for this new teacher to grasp. I gambled with creative social interaction and lost.
A little one joined my growing line of children and said softly, ‘I’m Maria’.
Finally seated at the circular table in my room, my eyes fall on two beautiful boys whose appearance is significantly different than the others. I prod carefully, stepping cautiously through and around the English language to figure out where they are from. ‘No Puerto Rico…Ecuador. We are from Ecuador’. They look so similar and I inquire again. ‘Are you brothers?’ The one wearing the grey sweatshirt takes the lead in speaking for the duo. ‘No, we are friends’. ‘Friends!’ repeats the other. The thicker one points to his chest with his thumb. His eyes are onyx and his hair jet black. His buddy has a shockingly thick black curl in the middle of his forehead. The two boys share mountain blood; thickened with cold, pristine air, climbers…ancient Andean highlands….such a long, long way from home. Brothers indeed.
I’m searching madly for a point of connection. I look at Maria and burst out into song again. She grins shyly. ‘You sure you never heard it?’ She shakes her head and I continue. ‘Well, if you go to New York you can see it in a show. You’re famous, you know’. Bingo. I’ve found the connecting thread between all of us…all of a sudden. She looks up at me and responds with enthusiasm. ‘Hey. All of my family lives in New York’. ‘They do?’ I inquire. ‘In Washington Heights? Brooklyn? Manhattan?’ Her eyes light up. ‘Yes! Yes, Manhattan!’ The boy with the onyx eyes jumps in, ‘Brooklyn!’ I look at him. ‘You came from Brooklyn?’ He places his chubby, strong thumb on the table. ‘Ecuador. Brooklyn. Ro CHESTER’. He looks much more secure and comfortable now that we have this geographic question cleared up. I look at the others and we go around the circle…’Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico, Brooklyn, Brooklyn, Puerto Rico…’ The children have visibly relaxed and settled in their chairs.
We have everyone labeled now…the briefest glimpse into how they are here. In my circle. On a cold September Friday afternoon when the sun has turned into amber shades and the sweatshirts have come out. ‘I used to live in Manhattan, too’ I smile. ‘So now we are all friends…brothers’ and we begin the lesson…
690 Saint Paul 