Because of him, I know we will all end up okay...
I was having an off day and opted for the cliche. "Open up your journals," I'd say. Let's write about what we want to be when we grow up. Gag. Me. And stick a wet cotton-ball in my ear. While twisting. Because cotton balls suck. As did this assignment. What a mediocre essay. Unimaginative. Inhibited. Sub-par.
The eight year old who can barely spell one syllable words took this assignment, soared with it, and saved my soul in the process. His response to such a dreadfully dull assignment floored me. Because this little guy did not want to be a teacher, mechanic, firefighter, or even the next Barack Obama. No. This little guy wanted to be a superhero. Not super man. But a superhero. Yes, there is a difference.
He wrote a full page about it. With examples of how he'd save the world. And it all made sense to me. Because I want to be a superhero when I grow up too.
The eight year old who can barely spell one syllable words took this assignment, soared with it, and saved my soul in the process. His response to such a dreadfully dull assignment floored me. Because this little guy did not want to be a teacher, mechanic, firefighter, or even the next Barack Obama. No. This little guy wanted to be a superhero. Not super man. But a superhero. Yes, there is a difference.
He wrote a full page about it. With examples of how he'd save the world. And it all made sense to me. Because I want to be a superhero when I grow up too.