|My dear spouse, circa 1961, Baltimore.|
As a teacher of young children, it's important to me to create a safe space where students can stretch themselves with risk-taking at their own pace. Some are so stunned by the entire experience of a full day of school that by day's end, well, they ain't got much left.
One dear soul approached me 15 minutes before dismissal today and in a barely audible voice uttered my name. Pointing to his eyes with a pair of fingers, he directed my gaze to his face just seconds before the tears began to fall. Unable to speak between sobs and sniffs, he accepted a brief touch and some gentle direction and packed up his things like a trooper.
It turns out he was anxious about the after-school pick up, fretting about whether his mother would in fact arrive. He agreed that if he finds himself unable to speak, he would try to express himself in writing. That's success in my book, and, I trust, in his.