excited about this trip, that we would embrace the intensity of it and enjoy the opportunity to spend time together. And we
had
been excited about it. But that was the thing about teaching—it could be a tightrope. The slightest fumble and you were falling, falling.
“Jose, come on,” I said, as we headed toward the lake, which had a wide wooden dock that crossed over and around it, so that you could observe the wildlife almost as if you were walking on the water. “We have to find a marsh wren and a water lily and see if we can spot the beaver dam.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said, falling into step next to me. The kids were darting alongside and in front of us, shrieking and laughing.
When we got to the shore, Margo motioned for us all to gather around. She shushed everyone with a finger to her lips, like magic. “Listen,” she whispered. “Look.” She pointed, and forty-two ten-year-olds lifted their faces to the sky as a great blue heron glided overhead. We all watched it swoop and soar. Suddenly the sky was a cathedral, the children silent worshippers. The heron landed in a tree, and then four more of them appeared, elegant necks, crooked legs, a prehistoric convention. My breath caught.
“OMG!” Claire Whitley said loudly, and she did a wiggly little dance in place, throwing her shoulders and hips about. Claire was tiny and redheaded and wiry, pale as a cloud, and she liked to rile things up. Her social studies presentations were stand-up comedy routines. She could turn quiet reading time into a hoedown. She was a walking disruption. It was physically impossible not to like her.
The kids around her started laughing. “Shhh,” Kelly whispered, laying her hands on Claire’s shimmying shoulders. “Hush.” And like a miracle, just for a moment, everyone did.
For the next half hour, we wandered around the shore and across the dock, searching for the wildlife on our list. A turtle. A lily pad. A pussy willow. A school of fish.
“It’s a fun game,” Margo told us, “and being quiet is the only way to win.” I was liking Margo more and more.
For many of our students, this weekend was their first experience of nature beyond the brightly colored playground at school, with its giant slide and its one perennially broken swing and its wood-chip-covered ground that was meant to cushion their falls but probably hurt worse than concrete. They were soaking up the day’s brilliant sunshine, unfettered and free as the swooping heron. It made them bonkers.
Which is why, when Brady Kieslowski shoved his best friend, Kyle Gilson, into the lake, no one was surprised: not me, not Josie, not Kelly or Andrea or Margo, not even Brady. Not even Kyle. We heard the scream and the splash, and we went running, our feet making hollow clopping sounds on the dock.
“Stay here!”
we shouted at the other kids. “Stay right here!”
And of course not one of them did. They came tearing after us, a commotion of arms and legs and scrambling feet and fear and delight, and it was only sheer luck that no one else fell in the water.
“Help!” Kyle yelled. “Somebody help me!” He thrashed and sputtered in the four-foot-deep water, coughing and crying, looking tiny and terrified, and even though we all knew the water was shallow, we felt his terror.
Fleet-footed Margo got to him first. Josie was just a second behind her. They squatted at the edge of the dock, and Josie calmly extended her arm to Kyle. In truth he was only a few inches away from the dock in water he could stand in.
“It’s okay, buddy,” Margo said.
“Take my hand,”
Josie murmured. A breeze ruffled the wisps of curly brown hair that had escaped her ponytail. She rearranged herself so that she was balanced on one knee now, braced to pull Kyle up. Her T-shirt blew flat against her stomach.
Brady, who was responsible for the whole scene, hunched next to Josie, his face in his hands, sobbing. I put my arm around him. Some of the kids were screaming
had
been excited about it. But that was the thing about teaching—it could be a tightrope. The slightest fumble and you were falling, falling.
“Jose, come on,” I said, as we headed toward the lake, which had a wide wooden dock that crossed over and around it, so that you could observe the wildlife almost as if you were walking on the water. “We have to find a marsh wren and a water lily and see if we can spot the beaver dam.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said, falling into step next to me. The kids were darting alongside and in front of us, shrieking and laughing.
When we got to the shore, Margo motioned for us all to gather around. She shushed everyone with a finger to her lips, like magic. “Listen,” she whispered. “Look.” She pointed, and forty-two ten-year-olds lifted their faces to the sky as a great blue heron glided overhead. We all watched it swoop and soar. Suddenly the sky was a cathedral, the children silent worshippers. The heron landed in a tree, and then four more of them appeared, elegant necks, crooked legs, a prehistoric convention. My breath caught.
“OMG!” Claire Whitley said loudly, and she did a wiggly little dance in place, throwing her shoulders and hips about. Claire was tiny and redheaded and wiry, pale as a cloud, and she liked to rile things up. Her social studies presentations were stand-up comedy routines. She could turn quiet reading time into a hoedown. She was a walking disruption. It was physically impossible not to like her.
The kids around her started laughing. “Shhh,” Kelly whispered, laying her hands on Claire’s shimmying shoulders. “Hush.” And like a miracle, just for a moment, everyone did.
For the next half hour, we wandered around the shore and across the dock, searching for the wildlife on our list. A turtle. A lily pad. A pussy willow. A school of fish.
“It’s a fun game,” Margo told us, “and being quiet is the only way to win.” I was liking Margo more and more.
For many of our students, this weekend was their first experience of nature beyond the brightly colored playground at school, with its giant slide and its one perennially broken swing and its wood-chip-covered ground that was meant to cushion their falls but probably hurt worse than concrete. They were soaking up the day’s brilliant sunshine, unfettered and free as the swooping heron. It made them bonkers.
Which is why, when Brady Kieslowski shoved his best friend, Kyle Gilson, into the lake, no one was surprised: not me, not Josie, not Kelly or Andrea or Margo, not even Brady. Not even Kyle. We heard the scream and the splash, and we went running, our feet making hollow clopping sounds on the dock.
“Stay here!”
we shouted at the other kids. “Stay right here!”
And of course not one of them did. They came tearing after us, a commotion of arms and legs and scrambling feet and fear and delight, and it was only sheer luck that no one else fell in the water.
“Help!” Kyle yelled. “Somebody help me!” He thrashed and sputtered in the four-foot-deep water, coughing and crying, looking tiny and terrified, and even though we all knew the water was shallow, we felt his terror.
Fleet-footed Margo got to him first. Josie was just a second behind her. They squatted at the edge of the dock, and Josie calmly extended her arm to Kyle. In truth he was only a few inches away from the dock in water he could stand in.
“It’s okay, buddy,” Margo said.
“Take my hand,”
Josie murmured. A breeze ruffled the wisps of curly brown hair that had escaped her ponytail. She rearranged herself so that she was balanced on one knee now, braced to pull Kyle up. Her T-shirt blew flat against her stomach.
Brady, who was responsible for the whole scene, hunched next to Josie, his face in his hands, sobbing. I put my arm around him. Some of the kids were screaming
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