2003-11-11
Rain, rain, go away
The rain here casts a veil over everything so that even the slums smell sweet and look quaint.
It never rains this time of year, so only a few students came to class this morning. But that's okay because the ones that showed just happened to be my favorites:
Sebastian, who shaves his head about once a month and asks me questions about whether lions' lives have meaning.
He's low income, so I worry less about his financial future, but more about his mental health because he's so comtemplative.
(The impoverished ones share shoes with their siblings: one will attend class in the morning and the other in the afternoon so they can use the same pair; Sebastian, on the other hand, has two pairs plus a set of rainboots.)
Miriam, a spirited lass who asked me today how many years it would be until I had to leave (six weeks, Miriam, only six weeks left). She told me she only came to school today so she could see me (yeah, that's right, I'm the cool teacher).
Alexander, who has more energy than the rest of the kindergarteners put together, and whose cowlick I can't help but kiss. I'm lucky he responds better to a look of disappointment than time out.
On the bus this morning, every window had circles drawn with elbows, hands, and sleeves, to cut through the fogged up glass. Even at seven in the morning, human curiosity demands to see what's going on.
betholindo at 9:16 a.m.