"Hugo said that to grow old was to possess all ages and the essence of each one, particularly that of childhood..."1
I reached into my desk in a huff. I hotly pushed markers and folders around until my fingers closed on a notebook. I brought it out: the special one. It was a big notebook that I didn't need for any of my classes. I filled it with doodles of flowers and underground fortresses, scribbles about teachers and friends, and ten pages that were the beginning (and end) of my great novel series called "The Z Men".
I ripped open to the section marked "Journal". I was a boy, so I refused to use the word "diary"; too girly. I angrily rifled the pages until blank looseleaf lay open to the classroom. I tore into my desk for a pencil. In my anger I pressed the graphite to the paper and immediately broke the tip off. This was a job for a pen. I clenched my teeth and ripped off the cap.
"I HATE MRS. KLUCZINKSKY!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I scrawled across the page, taking up 3/4 of the space. The rage wildly distorted my handwriting. I continued, but my letters quickly began to take a normal size as the exercise calmed my anger.
"Why does she teach us if she hates children!?!?!?! She just doesn't understand us! I will NEVER forget what it is like to be a 5th grader!!!" The bell rang and I glared at her for another second, then hastily packed for Social Studies. By the time I had crossed the hallway the rage was forgotten, and the angry journal entry would remain untouched until the day before I graduated from college.
A week ago I moved into a parish for the summer. Since school is still in session, I have been tasked with being a nuisance in the classrooms this week. The principal told me, "Really, just walk around from room to room and meet the kids and sit in on classes."
Yes. Maam.
I've never been so good at my job! And I didn't even want this job. Work in a parish? That's for someone else! Someone much less qualified to teach. No, I will write books and inspire seminars of bright minds to be a little brighter.
And then Sally hugged me. Day one, after school. Madhouse. Children running in every direction. A line of cars snaking in from the street to collect them one by one. Teachers yelling in one direction, then another, then back in the first direction again. I am lost. Then, out of the corner of my eye I see a green streak speeding toward me. A little kindergartner named Sally, dressed in her jumper and collared shirt, Disney backpack hanging from her shoulders, and she screams in like a Kamikaze and collides with my lower half. She wraps her arms around my waist and buries her head in my stomach. A goodbye hug. She lingers until I reach my carefully trained scandal-free left arm around her shoulders to acknowledge her love. Then she disconnects and tears away into the chaos. Not a word was said.
And suddenly I am in love. I'm in love with the whole thing. She has barely any idea who I am. I merely popped my head in her classroom before lunch, introducing myself as the guy who will be a priest like Fr. John, but that was it. It was enough for her. I am huggable.
It's funny how being huggable opens you up to a new world. Suddenly, having tenure seems horrendous. How could I give up something like this? A life inescapably intimate with the people I long to serve.
As time went on, the kids learned my name. And as much more time went on, I learned theirs'. I attended a parish picnic and hung out with the kids because they were the only ones I knew. And they let me tag along. Grace looked at me after I helped her figure out the product of 7 and 80, and she said, "I was friends with the last seminarian that came here; we can be friends too if you want."
When I found that notebook while I was packing up to move out of college, I realized that I have forgotten what it was like to be a 5th grader. I forgot so bad that I couldn't even imagine any more. But I have been filled with comfort to know that spending time with a 5th grader teaches you all over again what it means to be a 5th grader. And I am much better off for learning this lesson.
On our evening walks through the rose garden across the street, I lobbed story after story at the pastor about the kids. He never really responded, just smiled. He smiled knowingly. Suddenly, I knew what the sneaky bastard was up to.
Children are the gateway to a parish. They are simple, trusting, and pure in their love. They love you simply because you're there, and they love you just as much as they love everything else. I learned their names first, then their parents. The kids love it because the little rascals love the attention, and the parents love it because they like someone who's good with their kids (like a natural, built-in babysitter detector).
Then I remember what I wrote in 5th grade, in the brilliant rage that flashes into the eyes of a child recently scolded. "Why does she teach if she hates children?" I've seen it since then: teachers who just seem to hate teaching. No joy leaks out the corners of their eyes when the kids line up at the door. A raised hand is met with a sigh; the beginning of a story with an eye roll.
But this time I ask a second question that's even more important than the first. "How could someone hate children?" My favorite musical is Matilda, and let's face it the show won me over from the very first number. Children are miracles. Little canvases running around with no paint and they proudly show it off. They are hope, running around our legs and screaming in our ears.
Every child is a miracle. Come on, isn't it obvious?
1. Jean Guitton, Journals. I found the quote in the delightful book, Things as They Are by Paul Horgan.
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