Who Is This Child
1996; SAGE Publishing; Volume: 77; Issue: 5 Linguagem: Inglês
ISSN
1940-6487
Autores Tópico(s)Diverse Educational Innovations Studies
ResumoSometimes, Mr. Barr learned, you have to leave statistics behind and go back to the beginning--to the interaction between teacher and student--to have your hope restored. DURING MY spring vacation, visited my grandson Sam's first-grade classroom in Eugene, Oregon--home of author Ken Kesey, the University of Oregon's Fighting Ducks, and a T-shirt that proudly proclaims, Me Tarzan, Eugene. Eager to start the day, Sam and traded a couple of high-fives and sallied forth. He carried his books and an authentic Mighty Morphin Power Ranger lunch box; carried a note pad and wore a sappy grin. This was the essence of grandparenting: a bright spring day in Oregon and off to school, hand-in-hand with Sam. On arrival, Sam threw down his things and yelled over his shoulder, Watch my stuff, as he ran off to join his friends in a soccer game. Almost immediately, felt a small arm slide around my waist. Surprised, looked down into the face of a little gift. Who is this child? wondered. She flashed me a ragged smile that was missing half a dozen teeth. I am from Chicago, she said and buried her head in my side. Suddenly uneasy, looked around for some other adult. Having served on teacher licensure boards in two states and having sat through a dozen or so hearings to revoke the certification of child molesters, was well aware of the taboos governing interactions between old guys like me and this small child. As tried to disentangle myself, she looked up at me with huge, longing eyes. We don't have a father in our family, she said in her small voice. Then, as if repeating from a script, she whispered, father is a deadbeat dad. He ran away because he couldn't pay his bills. She blew her bangs up out of her eyes and sighed. They found him, though. He is somewhere, forgot ... maybe in Portland, but don't know where that is. She stared up at me with moist eyes. But it's all right. My mom says we don't need him. Once again she burrowed into my side. The longing and need of this small child caught me off guard. Her yearning for affection was almost palpable. And suddenly knew this child--not her name or her address, but her identity. In her ragged dress, with her dirty fingernails, she carried the staggering weight of research predictability, of statistical probability. had pored over the data far too long; knew where she came from, where she was bound, and where her sad journey would end. knew that a deep yearning for denied love can soon wither into anger--perhaps even hate --and that one generation will impose its tragic story on the next. …
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