I am still not quite sure what happened. I had a great lesson going today during reading intervention block time. My objective was to illustrate the importance of mental pictures when reading and how they aid in comprehension. Just think how boring reading would be for all of us if we did not manufacture mental images as we read a story. Maybe you have never thought about it that way, but we all do it.
I have watched movies based on books I have read, and upon seeing the main character, thought to myself, “That’s not what she looks like!” My brain had created an image, based upon the author’s descriptions. I had filled in whatever detail pleased me and made sense to me.
So our exercise today was to listen to four different genres of music, and then draw a scene similar to whatever image popped into our young brains. Music is such a powerful attention-grabber and I knew that it would help drive my point home. The first selection was a minute or two of Manheim Steamroller’s "Faeries.” Most of them typically thought of Christmas right off, as I had hoped. The second selection was Kenny Loggins' “Danger Zone.” Of course they wanted to get up and dance, and in Mrs. Dahl’s free-spirited, quasi-hippie classroom, dancing is an embraced part of our day. So we danced.
As a side note: I do have solid reasoning behind this philosophy. When you were a kid, how many times a day did you get sleepy during the school day, and then bored because you were sleepy? Getting them up and moving gets the old ticker pumping blood back into their brains and wakes them up. Sleepiness is not a big problem in The Magic Tree House.
My third song came from a Michael W. Smith instrumental CD. It sounds very majestic and suspenseful. Most thought of something militarily themed, and I always do as well when I hear it.
The fourth song piping out of my itunes application, was “Dust in the Wind,” by Kansas, a beautiful oldie that waxes philosophically about the meaning of life. We only listened to a short clip of the beginning, and the aide and I were lost in the reverie of the ‘70’s. I called on the first child to share what he had drawn on his sheet of paper and what mental images had popped into his brain when he heard it. Well, he thought about the time his dog died. I felt the emotional barometer drop with a thud. Suddenly all faces turned somber. I called on the next child. “My mom,” was all he said, eyes on the floor. Now there is a lump the size of Omaha forming in my throat. This poor lamb had lost his mother to a tragic car accident when he was in kindergarten. Her funeral was held on his birthday.
I laid a hand on his shoulder and said something to the effect of, “I know it’s hard, sweetie, and I know you miss her.” What else do you say? You can’t just cut off raw grief with a dismissive wave. I can’t anyway. I called on the next child. I stare in amazement as I watch his face. This one is fighting hard to keep it together. His big eyes are filling with tears that threaten to splash down over his freckles any second. With quivering lips he manages to squawk out, “My horse died.” Holy cow, what had I started? He loses his battle with the tears and now his little face has rivulets of salty streams dripping on the floor. Dear Lord Almighty, I have got a mess here. These kids are dropping like flies.
More pets, more sorrows shared, more broken hearts laid open for viewing. I am standing in the middle of the floor agape with astonishment. What is going on here and WHY? And more importantly, what do I do NOW? I look at the aide sitting at the table and implore her with my eyes to guide me. I am at a total loss. She shrugs; her own eyes getting misty. Goodness gracious, I give up. Reading is going out the window faster than the warm air being pumped by our ancient furnace.
My Horse Mourner wants to be excused to go the bathroom to collect himself. Of course, yes dear, go. Motherless son is still staring hard at the floor, trying mightily to not dissolve into the weeping mess the Horse Mourner has become.
More hands raised, more sharing, more tears. More hugs from Mrs. Dahl and a few vain attempts to pull attention back to reading. I sigh. “I think we need a group hug,” I finally concede. Twelve heartbroken little bodies crowd around me, all vying to bury faces in the sappy teacher with the poor song choice. I hug. They cry. I whisper words of comfort and encouragement. I am both teacher and pastoral staff in that moment. Platitudes are useless.
Sometimes life just hurts and there is no solace. Sometimes we all just need a warm body to bury our face in and have a good cry with.
I have pondered all afternoon why they fell apart as they did today. I have walked all around the thing, trying to look at it from all angles, and still can make no sense of it. Weather front moving in? Over tired from a long week? I just don’t know. I do have just one little thought. One out-there idea that has been niggling away at my middle-aged brain, and I will throw it out there for your perusal.
I wonder if societally, we are sometimes dismissive of children’s grief, and therefore force them to stuff their hurts into inner closets and drawers in order to be more acceptable to we, the oh so intuitive adults. Let’s face it. Kids cry a lot. They cry over not getting the biggest piece of cake, they cry when they are told on the playground that they can’t build a snow fort with the cool kids.
Life is hard, when you are six, or eight, or eleven. But we adults forget that, because we are so consumed with making mortgage payments and getting our children to all their soccer games. We may spend a few moments comforting these little daily crises, but the overtone often is, “suck it up, junior. Life only gets harder.” So they do, because they are told to, but they really weren’t ready to be done processing their emotional damage, and so things get a bit short-circuited. Maybe this little theory has more holes than my husband’s favorite work shirt, I don’t know. I just know that my adult children have casually mentioned things from their childhood that were troubling to them at the time, and I had no idea it was such a big deal in their childhood world. I think maybe that’s because I was too busy worrying about the mortgage payments and getting kids to soccer games, you know?
I just wonder, that's all...
Anyway, the period mercifully ended, and as they filed out with splotchy faces and red eyes, many of them leaned into me for one last hug and whispered word of comfort. All would be well, I assured them. They are loved and cared for. If ever they need to talk, I am here.
I was drained.
I pity the parents who have spent the evening picking up the pieces in puzzled wonderment. Really, I had no idea… sorry.
All I know is, next time I am picking something from Alvin and the Chipmunks, and having grief counselors on standby, just in case.
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