This is not easy work... I don't know how teachers do it all day long, after two or so hours I eagerly get into my car and actually yearn for the red lights and traffic jams to quell the headache.
The best part about being at this for, seven [wow, seven] weeks now is that the kids are ready to get real.
They tell me what hurts their feelings, what they're scared of, what they get excited about. They ask me if I feel weird being the only white person and then tell me they feel "shy, lonely, embarassed" when they are the only Hmong person in the class. They tell me they missed the bus, again, today and because there was no car at home, they missed school. They tell me stories and about the last time they got in trouble. They cry more often and wipe their snotty noses on my sweater; they stand on their tip-toes to give me back rubs.
I love telling them about what life looks like outside of St. Paul and telling my Hmong kids that peanut butter really is tasty; I love the impromptu dance contests and rolling on the floor laughter. I love when they ask to sweep the floor or pick up the pencils.
I expect a certain little boy to steal my snacks and a disgruntled teenager to complain about the relationship with her abusive mother. I feel the pain when the word "father" is mentioned. I see signs of 'being a man' coming out through violence and verbal abuse.
I see hungry mouths, wide eyes, diligent fingers on the computer, uncontrollable, silly little bodies. I see frustration, immobility, impossibility; I see anticipation, energy and joy.
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