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Authors: Robert Crayola
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conferences.
His father came in around five p.m. and looked serious. He wore a 1980s jacket and pants too short – floods – and sporty but unpleasant sneakers. I'm not trying to judge, just to point out what I saw when that man came in. He looked around 40 and had gray hair and a gray mustache, bronzed Hispanic skin, even though Eric looked paler. Perhaps the mother –
But she was not present at the conference, for whatever reason.
I smiled as best I could and tried to explain the situation, that nothing was wrong and Eric was doing fine, not in trouble at all. The father had some trouble understanding. And not because of his English, which was fine, only a minor accent, a plain vocabulary that worked like hammers and nails, getting the job done.
"So you see, I just wanted to show you some of the work we've been doing."
"That's okay," he said. "I trust you. Long as my boy's not getting into trouble, we don't need to talk."
"Well, we at the school think that good communication is essential for a good learning environment."
He snorted just above the threshold of detection. I smiled and pressed on.
"We've been learning about the continents and your son chose South America for his presentation."
"Okay."
"Here's his diorama about Che Guevara."
"What? Are you kidding me? Why on earth is he wasting his time with this stuff? He should be learning about George Washington and you're teaching him about Che Guevara?"
"We think that a variety of influences is important. Another student did a George Washington biography and presented. We strive for diversity."
"Che Guevara was an anarchist."
"Che Guevara is dead," I said. "Whatever he was, we can learn about him."
"I don't want my boy influenced by anarchists. They're uneducated, fat, ugly, and stupid. And if you cared about your students you wouldn't allow this kind of garbage to be learned."
I smiled. The rest of the conference trickled on through inertia. I changed the topic to other subjects, and Eric's father said little else.
A few weeks later I learned that Eric had joined a baseball league and played short stop. I only learned because I had the students keep journals and didn't tell them that I read all of them. I never heard Eric mention it to the other students. When I asked him about it, he admitted it, almost ashamedly. I asked him when his next game was.
"Mrs. Marz?"
"Yes?"
"It's Saturday."
"Do you mind if I come to watch?" I said.
"Ma'am?"
"Yes, Eric?"
"Okay."
I went with my husband and we found good seats. Everyone seemed to know everyone, the parents, and Eric's father was there but he kept his eyes on the game and said little. However, every time I looked his way, I noticed he moved. I looked in the opposite direction at one point, and asked my husband to see what he was doing. Jim said that Eric's father was watching me.
I tried to forget about it. I watched the game.
Eric's team didn't really gel. It was only their second game together, and there wasn't much sense of direction. They lost, 10-2.
The next day in class I asked the students to write a story. Here is Eric's story:
Once there's a girl who is a slave in China. She makes clothes for Americans. She is poor. Her family hits her and her father is always gone. She has a dog and likes to dance. One day she is walking and sees a magic man. The man says she can be free and rich if she does one thing. She does it and the man says she will be rich and free tomorrow. She goes to bed that night happy. She thinks in the morning she will be rich and free. Next morning she wakes up. Everything is the same. She cries and goes to work.
At recess time I asked Eric to stay and speak with me a moment. When the other students had gone, I said, "Eric, I wanted to talk with you about your story. About the girl in China."
"Oh yeah."
"I just wanted to tell you – I love this. Seriously, it's hilarious. I love it."
"Thank you, Mrs. Marz."
"How did you ever come up with this story?"
"I just wrote
His father came in around five p.m. and looked serious. He wore a 1980s jacket and pants too short – floods – and sporty but unpleasant sneakers. I'm not trying to judge, just to point out what I saw when that man came in. He looked around 40 and had gray hair and a gray mustache, bronzed Hispanic skin, even though Eric looked paler. Perhaps the mother –
But she was not present at the conference, for whatever reason.
I smiled as best I could and tried to explain the situation, that nothing was wrong and Eric was doing fine, not in trouble at all. The father had some trouble understanding. And not because of his English, which was fine, only a minor accent, a plain vocabulary that worked like hammers and nails, getting the job done.
"So you see, I just wanted to show you some of the work we've been doing."
"That's okay," he said. "I trust you. Long as my boy's not getting into trouble, we don't need to talk."
"Well, we at the school think that good communication is essential for a good learning environment."
He snorted just above the threshold of detection. I smiled and pressed on.
"We've been learning about the continents and your son chose South America for his presentation."
"Okay."
"Here's his diorama about Che Guevara."
"What? Are you kidding me? Why on earth is he wasting his time with this stuff? He should be learning about George Washington and you're teaching him about Che Guevara?"
"We think that a variety of influences is important. Another student did a George Washington biography and presented. We strive for diversity."
"Che Guevara was an anarchist."
"Che Guevara is dead," I said. "Whatever he was, we can learn about him."
"I don't want my boy influenced by anarchists. They're uneducated, fat, ugly, and stupid. And if you cared about your students you wouldn't allow this kind of garbage to be learned."
I smiled. The rest of the conference trickled on through inertia. I changed the topic to other subjects, and Eric's father said little else.
A few weeks later I learned that Eric had joined a baseball league and played short stop. I only learned because I had the students keep journals and didn't tell them that I read all of them. I never heard Eric mention it to the other students. When I asked him about it, he admitted it, almost ashamedly. I asked him when his next game was.
"Mrs. Marz?"
"Yes?"
"It's Saturday."
"Do you mind if I come to watch?" I said.
"Ma'am?"
"Yes, Eric?"
"Okay."
I went with my husband and we found good seats. Everyone seemed to know everyone, the parents, and Eric's father was there but he kept his eyes on the game and said little. However, every time I looked his way, I noticed he moved. I looked in the opposite direction at one point, and asked my husband to see what he was doing. Jim said that Eric's father was watching me.
I tried to forget about it. I watched the game.
Eric's team didn't really gel. It was only their second game together, and there wasn't much sense of direction. They lost, 10-2.
The next day in class I asked the students to write a story. Here is Eric's story:
Once there's a girl who is a slave in China. She makes clothes for Americans. She is poor. Her family hits her and her father is always gone. She has a dog and likes to dance. One day she is walking and sees a magic man. The man says she can be free and rich if she does one thing. She does it and the man says she will be rich and free tomorrow. She goes to bed that night happy. She thinks in the morning she will be rich and free. Next morning she wakes up. Everything is the same. She cries and goes to work.
At recess time I asked Eric to stay and speak with me a moment. When the other students had gone, I said, "Eric, I wanted to talk with you about your story. About the girl in China."
"Oh yeah."
"I just wanted to tell you – I love this. Seriously, it's hilarious. I love it."
"Thank you, Mrs. Marz."
"How did you ever come up with this story?"
"I just wrote
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