(no subject)
Have some writings. Yes, I know, I actually wrote something! *shock horror*
Lies and When They are Acceptable
Some children are loud by nature; any teacher will tell you so. They are the ones who will never sit down and quietly read a book when they could be running around making noise. They are the well-liked ones, even when their actions have repercussions for the rest of the class. They are mostly cheerful kids, I have found, and even when they are sad they will find an excuse for everyone to make a song and dance about it.
Harry is one such kid -- always beaming at his own silly jokes and making trouble for everyone else, yet you have to love him. The other children all want to have him in their group, and he is always the first child out on the playing field when recess starts. Not the brightest kid I’ve ever taught, but by far the most engaging. He’s a conversation starter in himself, as his mere presence encourages the shyest children to start talking:
“Hey, Harry, guess what my parents got me for my birthday!”
“Harry, do you want to help us play against the kids in 2nd grade this weekend?”
Yes, some children are just unique. I mean, he could be a terrible student sometimes - a lot of the time, actually - but he was probably the most optimistic and funny child I ever had in my class. Except for one day, about six months ago.
There was a strange atmosphere, almost tense, as I walked into the room. I had not realised just how solemn a class of children could be when they had the inclination. They were talking, of course, but their voices were quieter than usual, and many of them seemed to be in a small crowd at the back of the room. I made my way over, and the children parted silently to let me see Harry, who was sitting with his head on his desk, wordless for once. The other children sat back down with sober looks on their small faces. I crouched down to Harry’s level, and asked the first question which came into my mind.
“Are you alright, Harry?”
He lifted his head from his arms, and shook it. His face was red and his eyes screwed up, as though he were struggling not to cry. He did not say a thing, didn’t even start sobbing. I thought it best to continue my questioning outside, and so we moved to the cloakroom, where he sat down on the floor and hid his face again. I offered him a tissue, which he took without a word and blew his nose with. His face screwed up, his shoulders started shaking and yet again he tried to hide his eyes from me, which were no doubt brimming with tears. I sighed. He didn’t seem to be hurt; children have a tendency to start bawling their heads off when in physical pain. This silence unnerved me.
“Is… is everything alright at home, Harry?” He shook his head. I frowned and took a deep breath. I had never thought that I would have to ask that question. I had met his students before at parent-teacher conference evenings, they had always seemed so nice…
“My dog died this morning, Miss.”
Oh. Oh.
“I’m sorry, Harry.”
Now he really did start crying, rocking backwards and forwards, wailing in the most pitiful way. It is one thing as a teacher to comfort children with scraped knees or squabbles with friends, it is quite another to be in this sort of situation. I didn’t know what to say, or what to do about the other children in the class. I couldn’t leave them alone for too long, and this situation was becoming awkward, to say the least.
“My dad said he won’t go to Heaven, Miss, ‘cause he hasn’t got a soul. Is that true?” He cried. I startled. What the hell could I say? That I wasn’t allowed to answer that question? His earnest eyes looked up at me, searching for reassurance. I know the answer I should have given, but somehow I just couldn’t. Call me an idiot, but I couldn’t tell him that teachers were not allowed to discuss religion with pupils. I just gave the answer I thought would comfort a crying boy.
“I… I’m sure he will, Harry. Now, come on, we’ll find you another tissue and get back to class, okay?” He nodded, and shakily stood up after a moment.
Of course ‘discussions’ of that sort are never acceptable, and I was fired less than a week later. Lying to reassure Harry that day, however, still seems justifiable to me. Even throughout the hearings with the school board and Harry’s parents, even as I searched through the jobs section of newspapers for months afterwards, I still stood by my answer, and I do to this day.
Untitled Drabble
It fitted perfectly into the palm of his hand. ‘Cool, burnished metal against pale flesh...’ The man wrapped his fingers around it, finding grip in his muscles that he would use every time he held this weapon. Tilting it slowly left, then right, testing its balance and weight - the man smiled, sure of himself and his shiny new toy. Bound by fiscal agreements, he exchanged pleasantries and money with the others; work was work, after all. Nothing to get excited about in his line of business - nothing except the weapons. Not fatal cries, alarm bells, howling sirens.
Just shiny toys.
Lies and When They are Acceptable
Some children are loud by nature; any teacher will tell you so. They are the ones who will never sit down and quietly read a book when they could be running around making noise. They are the well-liked ones, even when their actions have repercussions for the rest of the class. They are mostly cheerful kids, I have found, and even when they are sad they will find an excuse for everyone to make a song and dance about it.
Harry is one such kid -- always beaming at his own silly jokes and making trouble for everyone else, yet you have to love him. The other children all want to have him in their group, and he is always the first child out on the playing field when recess starts. Not the brightest kid I’ve ever taught, but by far the most engaging. He’s a conversation starter in himself, as his mere presence encourages the shyest children to start talking:
“Hey, Harry, guess what my parents got me for my birthday!”
“Harry, do you want to help us play against the kids in 2nd grade this weekend?”
Yes, some children are just unique. I mean, he could be a terrible student sometimes - a lot of the time, actually - but he was probably the most optimistic and funny child I ever had in my class. Except for one day, about six months ago.
There was a strange atmosphere, almost tense, as I walked into the room. I had not realised just how solemn a class of children could be when they had the inclination. They were talking, of course, but their voices were quieter than usual, and many of them seemed to be in a small crowd at the back of the room. I made my way over, and the children parted silently to let me see Harry, who was sitting with his head on his desk, wordless for once. The other children sat back down with sober looks on their small faces. I crouched down to Harry’s level, and asked the first question which came into my mind.
“Are you alright, Harry?”
He lifted his head from his arms, and shook it. His face was red and his eyes screwed up, as though he were struggling not to cry. He did not say a thing, didn’t even start sobbing. I thought it best to continue my questioning outside, and so we moved to the cloakroom, where he sat down on the floor and hid his face again. I offered him a tissue, which he took without a word and blew his nose with. His face screwed up, his shoulders started shaking and yet again he tried to hide his eyes from me, which were no doubt brimming with tears. I sighed. He didn’t seem to be hurt; children have a tendency to start bawling their heads off when in physical pain. This silence unnerved me.
“Is… is everything alright at home, Harry?” He shook his head. I frowned and took a deep breath. I had never thought that I would have to ask that question. I had met his students before at parent-teacher conference evenings, they had always seemed so nice…
“My dog died this morning, Miss.”
Oh. Oh.
“I’m sorry, Harry.”
Now he really did start crying, rocking backwards and forwards, wailing in the most pitiful way. It is one thing as a teacher to comfort children with scraped knees or squabbles with friends, it is quite another to be in this sort of situation. I didn’t know what to say, or what to do about the other children in the class. I couldn’t leave them alone for too long, and this situation was becoming awkward, to say the least.
“My dad said he won’t go to Heaven, Miss, ‘cause he hasn’t got a soul. Is that true?” He cried. I startled. What the hell could I say? That I wasn’t allowed to answer that question? His earnest eyes looked up at me, searching for reassurance. I know the answer I should have given, but somehow I just couldn’t. Call me an idiot, but I couldn’t tell him that teachers were not allowed to discuss religion with pupils. I just gave the answer I thought would comfort a crying boy.
“I… I’m sure he will, Harry. Now, come on, we’ll find you another tissue and get back to class, okay?” He nodded, and shakily stood up after a moment.
Of course ‘discussions’ of that sort are never acceptable, and I was fired less than a week later. Lying to reassure Harry that day, however, still seems justifiable to me. Even throughout the hearings with the school board and Harry’s parents, even as I searched through the jobs section of newspapers for months afterwards, I still stood by my answer, and I do to this day.
Untitled Drabble
It fitted perfectly into the palm of his hand. ‘Cool, burnished metal against pale flesh...’ The man wrapped his fingers around it, finding grip in his muscles that he would use every time he held this weapon. Tilting it slowly left, then right, testing its balance and weight - the man smiled, sure of himself and his shiny new toy. Bound by fiscal agreements, he exchanged pleasantries and money with the others; work was work, after all. Nothing to get excited about in his line of business - nothing except the weapons. Not fatal cries, alarm bells, howling sirens.
Just shiny toys.