Other people's children

There is a very interesting book by this title by Lisa Delpit, which discusses the responsibilities of teachers to theiir students, and matters of educational equity.

I am reminded because the title that I wanted to write was: "other people's sadness" and that popped out instead. It is really more appropriate because the deep sadness of today, beyond my own, which will by now be boring to all who know me, or care to, or don't care to... No, this was someone else's sadness and I couldn't do anything to make him feel better.

One more example of my ultimate failure as a human being. Or as a teacher. He didn't show up for his exam, and upon return I found him hovering, leaving the building, looking pained. He said it didn't matter. That he had a vision for the world, for the way things should be, and that (no offense - and none was taken) Spanish only seemed like it would be useful when he was contemplating graduate school, which he wasn't anymore. He didn't want to waste his time in grad school complaining about things that he couldn't change. You see, this vision, of how the world should be, was diverging so far from the way things are, you know? This is where the wobble entered his voice, and his neck strained upward. This is where the dog-eared, maroon-covered copy of Salinger's masterpiece wandered back to my mind. He was standing across the hall from me. A safe distance. An academic distance. A diss - stance.

I couldn't reach out and hug away his pain. And it pained me that my own sorrow and frustration were mirrored, in the defeat of this student. The one whose eyes would spark flame when I went off on my random political social justice rants (a bit out of line for an intro language course, but then, you can't teach language without the culture and you can't teach the culture without recognizing systems of cascading injustice, marginalization and upheavals).

He missed a week of class, he told me, trying against all reason to sway the swing state of Nevada. I worry that he might hurt himself, but my worry is probably unfounded. I hope. That wobble enters my heart only when I am seriously contemplating self-destruction, but of course, I am just extrapolating, as I am absolutely incapable of reading boy-pain - a language so far removed from my own, I don't even know where to begin.

So many other things to be sad about, and yet, the sadness has a limit. The breaking violin can only hold so much water before it caves in. And it will cave. It just doesn't know how, yet.