Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Springtime visit
The boys and I had a moment today. Lately, our moments have been made up of kindly (and not-so-kindly) reminders that we've still got three more weeks of school, exams loom, it's too early to throw in the towel, etc., and we were headed in that direction today. But we had an unexpected visit that completely changed our focus.
I'm not sure how he found us, but somehow a frantic little yellow bird made it into the school, down the hallway and into my classroom. He flitted under my projector, which I was warming up to show an installment of Julio y su Ángel, a Mexican film that I use as an authentic text at the end of each year. He then proceeded to fly over the lights and toward the back of the room, hitting the windows repeatedly in an attempt, I'm sure, to reach the familiar green and blue that seemed oh, so close.
A not-so-distant memory came to mind. Years ago, during my first week teaching at this all-boys' school, the headmaster walked in and sat down. I felt confident: I had the boys' attention, they were learning, I was teaching, just the things you want your boss to see. With the chirp of a cricket, though, my fortune changed. The cricket called just loudly enough for the boys to notice. It jumped out into the middle of the room, and in a fraction of a second my classroom was bedlam as every boy tried to be the first to stomp the poor creature. After I'd quieted the boys and gotten them back in their desks, I looked around to see that my headmaster had quietly left the room.
This time, however, the boys were great. One ran to open the windows, which unfortunately wouldn't budge, and another tried to protect the little fellow by steering him away from the glass. Finally, one boy was able to trap him against the blinds, cupping him in his hands. My worries of avian flu aside, all of us quietly followed the boy and the bird outside, where my student, whose favorite pastime is shooting quail, gently set the bird in the grass.
There were a few moments of silence (which is a rare event among a group of 8th grade boys) as the bird remained perfectly still. Two boys bent down and softly stroked the bird's feathers, and I felt a lump start to form in my throat. A couple speculated as to whether he was in shock or perhaps suffered from a broken wing. Then, as if scripted, the bird sailed into the air and disappeared into some tall bushes lining the basketball court.
The boys filed back into the classroom, and sat down. I felt euphoric, and I could tell that the bird's visit had touched the boys as well, as they sat quietly discussing the bird's coloring and speculating as to whether it was a goldfinch or a warbler.
I shelved my lecture. Somehow it didn't seem necessary anymore.
I'm not sure how he found us, but somehow a frantic little yellow bird made it into the school, down the hallway and into my classroom. He flitted under my projector, which I was warming up to show an installment of Julio y su Ángel, a Mexican film that I use as an authentic text at the end of each year. He then proceeded to fly over the lights and toward the back of the room, hitting the windows repeatedly in an attempt, I'm sure, to reach the familiar green and blue that seemed oh, so close.
A not-so-distant memory came to mind. Years ago, during my first week teaching at this all-boys' school, the headmaster walked in and sat down. I felt confident: I had the boys' attention, they were learning, I was teaching, just the things you want your boss to see. With the chirp of a cricket, though, my fortune changed. The cricket called just loudly enough for the boys to notice. It jumped out into the middle of the room, and in a fraction of a second my classroom was bedlam as every boy tried to be the first to stomp the poor creature. After I'd quieted the boys and gotten them back in their desks, I looked around to see that my headmaster had quietly left the room.
This time, however, the boys were great. One ran to open the windows, which unfortunately wouldn't budge, and another tried to protect the little fellow by steering him away from the glass. Finally, one boy was able to trap him against the blinds, cupping him in his hands. My worries of avian flu aside, all of us quietly followed the boy and the bird outside, where my student, whose favorite pastime is shooting quail, gently set the bird in the grass.
There were a few moments of silence (which is a rare event among a group of 8th grade boys) as the bird remained perfectly still. Two boys bent down and softly stroked the bird's feathers, and I felt a lump start to form in my throat. A couple speculated as to whether he was in shock or perhaps suffered from a broken wing. Then, as if scripted, the bird sailed into the air and disappeared into some tall bushes lining the basketball court.
The boys filed back into the classroom, and sat down. I felt euphoric, and I could tell that the bird's visit had touched the boys as well, as they sat quietly discussing the bird's coloring and speculating as to whether it was a goldfinch or a warbler.
I shelved my lecture. Somehow it didn't seem necessary anymore.
