Twenty years ago, one of my community college students wrote an essay about a day so busy that she forgot to pick up her seven-year-old daughter at school.
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Twenty years ago, one of my community college students wrote an essay about a day so busy that she forgot to pick up her seven-year-old daughter at school.
We sat close on the lunch table bench and passed the pencil between us, writing quickly into a notebook, filling two columns with our invented words and their translations.
“A lion, a goat, and a bundle of grass,” said my teacher, her face like a shut gate. “A person has to ferry them across the river in a boat.”
Miss Harvey announced that Bobby’s parents wanted to dedicate a tree for him. He was in our class before he died.
Tantrum. We've dealt with her public meltdowns for years.
Even though I’d attended my proudly multicultural school for years, they cut up my name.
I saw the tiny bright pink pill slide from the pocket of his khaki pants and onto his seat, then drop to the floor next to his desk.
We reached the roof of the school unnoticed. Maggie was an expert at planning adventures and I didn't want to show her that I wasn't as fearless as she was.
Across the room, the most gorgeous and popular boy in school — tall, blonde, athletic and artsy. A damn Norse god come to life.
I always had to try something once. Just to see.
My first day came two weeks in. They had already shaken off their summer laze by the time I was being introduced, wearing hand-me-downs from someone else’s long time ago.
Education courses didn’t prepare me for the Freshman Who Still Hasn’t Discovered Deodorant.
Bus-stop hung like bee-hive over sleepy township. Two women and I, five junior school kids, someone’s grandpa. The girls, careful of their gait, ironed-skirt pleats. Boys, throwing sand over each other’s shoes.