From Peace, Love, and Harsh Reality
By Dylan Sexton
I've been thinking a lot lately about something I witnessed in my classroom when I was in third grade. It happened in the Spring of 1974, when I lived with my family in a U. S. Army housing area in Kaiserslautern, Germany.
Our school was spread out on the side of a hill, with first and second graders occupying a single story building at the bottom, third graders in a two story building a little farther up, and then fourth, fifth and sixth graders in a much larger two-story building at the top. Oh, and there was a small green building that sat next to the third grade building. The green building---little more than a couple of classrooms---housed the children with mental disabilities.
One sunny afternoon, our class was involved in an activity---maybe it was a quiz, maybe we were drawing pictures, I don't remember---when a young girl, maybe a little older than us, walked into the room carrying a message on a piece of paper for our teacher, Miss Bradley.
The girl was from the green building. Her long brown hair was tied back with a barrette, and she wore a simple red dress. Walking with a quick shuffling gait, she held her head slightly down, almost hiding a bashful smile. After handing the note to Miss Bradley---who thanked her---she turned and quickly walked out of the classroom.
Then, a blond little boy who held the distinction in our class of being pretty cool, shook his head and asked out loud to nobody in particular: "Why is she smiling?"
Read the rest of this entry >>
Our school was spread out on the side of a hill, with first and second graders occupying a single story building at the bottom, third graders in a two story building a little farther up, and then fourth, fifth and sixth graders in a much larger two-story building at the top. Oh, and there was a small green building that sat next to the third grade building. The green building---little more than a couple of classrooms---housed the children with mental disabilities.
One sunny afternoon, our class was involved in an activity---maybe it was a quiz, maybe we were drawing pictures, I don't remember---when a young girl, maybe a little older than us, walked into the room carrying a message on a piece of paper for our teacher, Miss Bradley.
The girl was from the green building. Her long brown hair was tied back with a barrette, and she wore a simple red dress. Walking with a quick shuffling gait, she held her head slightly down, almost hiding a bashful smile. After handing the note to Miss Bradley---who thanked her---she turned and quickly walked out of the classroom.
Then, a blond little boy who held the distinction in our class of being pretty cool, shook his head and asked out loud to nobody in particular: "Why is she smiling?"
Read the rest of this entry >>
