Kids

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i wish i could talk to my students the way i talk to my children

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Kids want to know. Want to have the conversation. Want to hear it from someone they trust. Kids want to talk about sex. They do. They know it’s out there. They know it’s happening. But they have no one to talk to. Because? Well, because it’s taboo for kids so young to have that conversation. I mean, really, how many adults believe that if you talk to kids about sex that kids will take that information and use it. Use it for real, and actually go out and have sex. Lots of adults believe it. Believe if you talk about it, that means you are giving them permission to act on it. Or, they believe the opposite. Don’t talk about it. Even if kids ask. About sex. About what it is. Or what this or that means. Because, well, it’s embarrassing for them, the adult, to talk about an adult thing with such a young kid. That the best way to handle such a conversation is to ignore it, and to change the subject as quickly as you can. But, I am telling you, kids want to know. They want to have the conversation. With someone who is informed, and will tell them the truth.

Long ago, when Elizabeth was, maybe, five years old, she asked me where babies come from. I answered her with a question of my own. Where do you think they come from? She thought for a moment, and in her small, young girl voice she questioned From here? pointing to her belly button. Not that I was shy about the conversation, in fact I embraced it, loved where it was going, but I also knew she was teeny tiny and could only handle so much. So I simply answered something like, Sounds good. And that was that. Over the years she’d asked simple questions that I knew were building up to more in-depth important sex questions, and every time, without hesitation, I’d answer her, based on her question. But, wait, she wondered one day, how does the baby get in there? She must have been about 8, 9, or 10 years old at the time, and I matter-of-factly told her. Yes I did! I knew she was ready for the info so I told her, using vocabulary she’d understand. Oh, is what she said, with interest, seemingly happy to know something maybe many of her friends knew nothing about. And so it went. We talked. About everything sex. Over the years. We talked openly, without embarrassment. And, along the way, her two younger brothers learned that they too could ask me questions and talk about things they wanted to know. Things about sex. Things they heard, or read about but didn’t understand what it meant. They’d ask as casually as if they were asking what was on TV. And, you know what, the best thing is – for Liz, my one and only daughter, a girl I wanted to grow up with a strong sense of self respect – did just that.  When high school was all said and done for her, the main thing that prevented her from ever doing anything too emotional with a boy was due to our open conversations. About sex. And me explaining how the intense emotions involved should be saved for when she was ready to handle such relationships. I know this because she told me so.

I wish I could talk to my students the way I talk to my children because, they too, are curious and want to know the facts. They know things, and have heard things. I mean, how can they not with all the information so available to them. Information that makes them wonder, interests them. But really, all they want to know are the facts. And they just wish someone would talk to them. Have a conversation with them. To help them make wise choices. That’s all, really.

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What’s a 5th grader doing with a condom?

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Alert! Alert! What’s a condom doing on an elementary campus? Who knows? Except for the kid, who was clutching it in his fist, dug deep into his pocket. Clutching it deep until he got caught. Not by a teacher. But by some other kids. Kids who screamed eeww! and gross! They kept screaming as they ran away, looking for someone to tell. As they were running, breathing deep, trying to get the word out, the kid quickly ran to the boy’s bathroom and flushed that plastic encased circular-shaped rubberized gadget – could it be considered a gadget? – down the fastest flushing toilet. Whew! he sighed. Gulp! he swallowed when he was approached just outside the door, by an angry looking adult, who whisked him away, straight to the man in charge.

During the lunch hour, an innocent kid, someone without a clue, but someone who was considered a witness, was asked what he saw. That poor kid felt nervous, didn’t know what to say, until, well, he just blurted that the other kid, the one who was in trouble, had something gross, something I don’t want to talk about. Oh, the poor kid. He just wanted life to go back to normal. Back to normal 5th grade things, like foursquare and climbing on the jungle gym.

The condom kid cried. Said he found it, at his home, in his much older brother’s truck. He didn’t think it was a big deal, until it became one. He thought it’d be funny, maybe blow it up like a balloon. Boy was he wrong. That’s not a funny, entertaining thing to do. Not at school, anyway. Not in front of adults trying to teach morals and values. No way. No how. Not there. But, oh my goodness, did that one little, or maybe it was big, condom start the buzz of conversation of other interested youngsters. Kids who were curious. Curious about things like that. Things like condoms, and what they are meant for. Oh geez! Later in the day, when all was dealt with, the kid, the one who caused all the ruckus, returned to the man in charge, full of tears and regrets. And was told to ‘never ever ever bring something like that here, to school, ever again. Never.’ Okay, is all the kid could say, a tear dribbling slowly down his cheek.

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best friends

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The classroom was in full swing. The party was on, and the students were enjoying themselves. They were laughing, talking, playing board games, reading, and eating brought-in high calorie snacks.

Pajama day is the coolest! someone hollered.

Under the table, behind the blankets, within the class-made tent, a secret was forming. An innocent secret, but an activity the teacher would never approve of. A girl kissed a boy. And the boy kissed back.

I have a secret to tell you, the young girl told her best friend. And don’t tell anyone!

Tell me! Tell me! the bestie excitedly responded.

Seriously, the young girl firmly told her most cherished friend. You cannot tell anyone what I am going to tell you! The two girls were standing under the shade of a tree, outside, near the playground. The classroom party had transitioned, under the day’s sunshine, thirty minutes before the end-of-the-day bell was going to ring. Cross my heart, her best friend responded, making an X over her rapidly beating organ.

I kissed him, she smiled. And he kissed me back.

Her friend responded in an expected way: surprised, curious, and maybe jealous. What the young girl didn’t know was that her best friend was already making plans about who it was she was going to tell this news to. That there was no way she could keep this to herself. So, when the school bell rang to signal the end of the day, she ran off to spread the news. Each of those people she told, told another person, and on and on. By the next day everyone knew the secret.

The young girl looked down, after giving her supposedly best friend a mean look, as she walked towards her teacher, who was calling to her, saying they needed to talk.

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the quiet room

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The kids sat, desks spread out throughout the classroom, concentrating on their work. Work they didn’t want to do. Didn’t have to do. If only they’d simply behaved. Work they were doing as a punishment for their uncooperative behavior.

The teacher also sat writing notes, ideas about upcoming lessons. Her back was aching from hunching over. Her eyes scanned the room, watching the kids. She wondered why a last ditch incentive didn’t curb their misconduct like it did with most of their peers. Peers who were in another room enjoying the reward of staying focused, putting in their best effort. Why does it seem to be a joke, a given right to misbehave with this group of kids?

She reflected on herself as a youth. A young girl who simply followed the rules, followed directions and was respectful to those around her, especially the adults. Especially her teacher. Not these kids. They defy everything, say they don’t need to listen, and Who cares! And she knows that is a big part of the problem. Who does care? Anyone? Is there an effort to teach them to be productive and valuable individuals? Or does it not matter? Just give these kids whatever they want and assume everything will turn out okay.

The teacher knows, though, that it won’t be okay unless someone besides herself, at this moment, during this year, and more importantly, throughout their life, sets boundaries and maintains some sort of structure in their lives. Everyone plays a role in the growth of each child. Everyone involved.

The kids are tired, she notices, just like she is. Some of them look up, look at her, but then quickly bow their heads, returning to their work, defeated. She wishes she can change everything, make them understand the importance of responsibility; but, they just roll their eyes at her, not accepting her explanation.

For the moment, they are quiet here in the quiet room. Working because she told them to, because they have no choice, because she has expectations. But, when the bell rings, alerting them that their day is done, the kids spring from their seats, and once outside, return to their shenanigans.

Tomorrow is another day she tells herself. A chance to try again.

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YOLO

ice cream truck

Oh, those crazy crazy boys. Making plans to hop onto the back of the soon-to-be-passing-by ice cream truck. They sat on the curb, watching as it rounded the corner a block down.

“Okay, this is it!” one kid shouted.

“You Only Live Once!” the second kid, the younger brother yelled in response.

Tra-la-la-Ding-ding-Ring-a-ling went the megaphone stationed at the top of the moving freezer. Up ahead, the driver saw a group of kids standing on the curb, waving to him. He stopped, smiled, and asked each and every kid what his or her preference was. Including the two crazy crazy boys. One chose a Bomb Pop, the other grabbed a flavored Snow Cone.

As the ice cream man waved and slowly pulled away, those two not-so-silly boys climbed onto the rear bumper, grabbing hold of a protruding metal bar. The rest of the well-behaved kids just watched, in awe of the bravery they were witnessing. Until, well, when the truck rounded the next corner, the brothers fell off, scratching arms and legs. Battering heads and faces.

While those crazy crazy boys spent the evening in the emergency room, the other kids were given a second helping of oh-so-yummy ice cream.

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x-ing

walk sign

There I was, little miss twelve year old, standing on the corner of a busy boulevard, pressing the walk button, and leaning a 5-speed bike against my left hipbone. I was watching the traffic flow by, waiting patiently for the WALK sign to illuminate. The opposing traffic’s light turned red, and-not-a-second-later the capital letters blinked, prompting me to forge ahead.

Hands firmly planted on the handlebars, my left foot on the left pedal, my right foot pushed off the ground, setting me in motion; then, my leg swung over the narrow seat so I could straddle it. The spin of the pedals rotated the chain, moving me and the bike forward. About half-way across BAM! a car struck me, knocking me to the ground, where my head smashed onto the paved road. I was knocked unconscious, for-how-long-I-don’t-know-but-not-too-long, when suddenly I opened my eyes, rubbed my head, and realized I was causing a traffic jam.

I was extremely embarrassed.

I stood up, and-was-probably-helped-by-someone-but-I-can’t-remember-those-details, then I wobbled my way to the opposing corner from which I had come. Next thing I knew medics were asking me if I was okay. Still overwhelmingly self-conscious I told them yes, looked up and saw my brother Greg standing there, probably by happenstance. I didn’t need any medical attention I adamantly told them, that I just wanted to walk home.

My brother rushed into the house alerting my parents to the fact I had been hit by a car as I was crossing the street. As any parent would, my mom gasped and checked me over, finding a deep gash in my head. I was taken to the hospital where I received some stitches to close up the hole created when I fell.

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music

beats

Head phones on his ears.

Head bobs up and down, to and fro.

His shoulders bounce.

Gyrate.

Arms jut out and then swing back in.

His hips swivel.

Feet tap.

His whole body spins.

Knees bend.

Lowering him.

Then shooting his body into the air.

Hands over the Beats.

Holding them in place.

As he dances.

And sings.

He yells out.

Shouts.

Follows along.

As the music blares.

Screams the lyrics.

Pushing them into his memory.

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liar

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“I didn’t take it!” Alex shouted, just as the pen he was accused of taking fell out of his notebook.

“Here we go again,” Marsel said, a little too loud.

The teacher stopped talking, irritated with Alex’s lies.

“What! Who put it in my folder?!” Alex continued ranting, looking around the classroom. Some of the kids laughed and some just stared, while a few simply rolled their eyes.

This wasn’t the first time Alex made claims, making up later to be discovered lies. Everyone, including Mr. Jones, figured once again that Alex was just trying to make waves. Looking for attention. It’d been a few months since the first time Alex stole something and lied about it. He was later outed by another student who was told by Alex himself that he did indeed steal the item in question. And regardless of the mess he was causing for himself, the lies just kept coming. Every day, nonstop.

Alex lied his way through another school in a neighboring district. He was transferred out because, well, his parents were hoping that a change of location might help him get a fresh start. A new beginning, with new friends. An opportunity to try again to apply himself.

Unfortunately, location had nothing to do with Alex’s lying. Small lies were getting bigger and bigger. And no one, especially not his teacher, believed anything he said. Not even the day Alex said “It wasn’t me! I didn’t take it!” when Mr. Jones told him to return his iPhone “Now!” But, no matter what he said, or did, to prove his innocence, Alex could not convince anyone that it was not him that took Mr. Jone’s cell phone.

Which worked perfectly for Marsel. She had been planning the theft for several weeks, and knew that it would be Alex who was blamed. Alex who wouldn’t be believed. Alex who would get in trouble. Alex who, this one time, really was innocent.

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honor

Tony didn’t understand why the bully was picking on him. Always laughing at him. For no apparent reason. Seriously, was it because his leather backpack was so huge, that it looked strange on his eight year old frame? Or was there something else? Tony didn’t know, never asked. He just endured the bully’s taunting day after day. And what was even more confusing to Tony was that the eight year old bully wasn’t even in his class. The bully was in some other part of the school, in another classroom, with a different teacher and his own set of peers. But, for whatever reason the bully decided that Tony would be his target for the school’s year. A target to harass, to antagonize, and, it seemed, to make Tony’s life miserable.

One afternoon, instead of hanging out with his pals, before each kid headed home for lunch, Tony left immediately after the bell, wanting to avoid the bully. He walked a half mile along the dirt road, anticipating lunch with the live-in helper. As he walked, he kicked a rock, just as he always did, using the big ‘ol boots his parents had bought him just for his rock kicking walks. Boots that held up to the beating they were given, regardless of how many time he scraped them through the dirt, aiming the perfect aim toward the rock, sending it flying far and away. As he walked and kicked, tears fell from Tony’s eyes. Tears from anger. Anger towards the bully who just wouldn’t leave him alone. When he walked into the house, the helper asked him what was wrong. He responded, saying Nothing. Changing the subject, the live-in helper asked Tony about his slingshot, the one he made during the past weekend with some of the other neighborhood kids. That’s when, consciously or not, Tony realized he should take the slingshot back to school with him. For fun. For whatever reason.

As he walked back, returning to school, pockets full of rocks, Tony played with the slingshot, flinging the pepples as far as he could. He even took the time to stretch the sling, expanded it as far back as he could manage. All the while he was carrying his heavy ladened backpack on his slight body. As he neared his classroom, he shoved his toy out of sight. After an afternoon of physical and other hands-on activities, after the final bell rang, as Tony was walking near the basketball court, he heard the bully and his friends laughing at him. Laughing so much that Tony’s anger came full force. He walked across the road in front of the school, and sat down. Just sat. And then he pulled out the slingshot, without any idea as to what his intentions were. He just wanted to practice flinging rocks again. Possibly curb his anguish. Then, out of nowhere, the bully came out of the school laughing, laughing, and laughing some more at Tony. Laughing and pointing. Tony had had enough. He walked up to the bully. Stood three feet away. And BAM! he slung a rock right at the bully. Causing him to fall to his knees. And then, still full of built-up anger, Tony kicked and kicked the bully with his big ‘ol boots. Just kicked him. Over and over. Breaking his teeth. Until someone grabbed him. Lifted him up and away from the bully. To stop any further damage. Tony’s feet kept kicking air. He couldn’t stop. Until he realized that whoever was holding him was grasping him rather tightly. Tight enough that Tony realized he needed to be released so that he could breathe. So he stopped kicking and was set back down on the ground. His anger subsiding.

Later, after his parents were told what Tony had done, and after a good spanking with a belt, and after they had to pay for a pair of new front teeth, Tony was stilled. Calm.

The bully never bothered him again. Because Tony defended his honor.

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daphne

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Me. A young girl. In third or fourth grade. A girl scout. Loyal. True Blue. Until the day I did the unspeakable. I used my collected girl scout cookie money to purchase a pair of Vans tennis shoes.

My co-conspirator and I were walking, going door to door, dropping off pre-ordered cookies, collecting $1.oo dollar a box? money, and stuffing it into an over-sized protective envelope. The money was safe there. Until we thought we could use some. Spend it. On ourselves. Without anyone knowing. Just one pair of gotta have shoes, for each of us.

We browsed. Looked at the various colors. Simple colors. Original colors. Like black, grey, dark blue, light blue, and white. I chose not dark, but light blue. We walked out. Big smiles on our faces. New shoes on our feet.

The plan. I would tell my mom that her mom bought them for me. And she would tell her mom that my mom bought them for her. Seemed simple. Logical. No big deal.

How nice! My mom stated. I really must call. To say thank you.

Oh, no, don’t worry, I responded. I already told her.

I watched my mom count the cookie money. And then. That’s when. I knew. I had made a big mistake. Just as I was coming up with a new plan. A new explanation. My mom looked up at me. Just looked. She didn’t say a word. But I knew she knew. And boy did I feel guilty. And bad.