It's a Heart Thing

When I was in grade school, September and the first day of school was my favorite time of year. The odor of freshly waxed floors and chalk was intoxicating. My brand new supply of No. 2 pencils, my Big Chief tablet, my pristine eraser and my see through plastic ruler seemed to assure me there would be an absolutely perfect year ahead. My heart was gladdened with virtue and resolution.

Excitement ruled. There was a rush of pure joy in seeing my classmates once again. They never changed in the small community of Lone Elm, Kansas where I attended school. First, second, and third grades were all taught in one room. 

Recess was wildly vigorous and mostly spent in violent running games; Red Rover, 23 Scadoo, Statues, Ante-Over, New Orleans and others that would not be permitted today. They were an outlet for pent-up energy.

Come winter, the girls switched to jacks. Then, an all school project of coloring the spaces on our Big Chief tablets seemed to emerge every February. These pieces were then taped and linked together into a huge chain until it circled the outside of the whole school. My heart was warmed by this friendly comraderie. It was a group thing. By the time this worthy goal was achieved, winter had passed and we gleefully rushed outdoors again. 

Our teacher read to us after lunch. Years later, people have told me their fondest memory of school was when the teacher read stories to them. Often it's a student's only exposure to reading for pleasure.

 Another highlight was the traveling music teacher. She went from school to school throughout out county and we learned about people through their country's songs. To this day, during the opening of the Olympics I recall the line "but other hearts in other lands are beating, with hopes and dreams as high and pure as mine." Right now, my heart aches for the people whose "hopes and dreams" are broken through war. Even the Olympics are tainted with controversy. 

Much of my interest of African American history can be traced to the stirring of my heart when Teresa Shurr led us in traditional spirituals. Music played a huge role in my educational experience. Folk music added to my understanding of geography.

Newspapers this week are filled with tales of little children terrified to go back to school. No wonder! As a highly sensitive child, I don't know how I would have survived emotionally if my school had been subjected to carnage. My heart would have stopped.

How can today's children focus? Is their terror lessened when they see armed officers patrolling the halls, or does their presence add to the children's unease? What about the mental health of the poor teachers who are expected to be brave, self-sacrificing, and ever alert to the threat of danger? 

The contrast between my school days and the experiences of today's children could not be greater. Each new school shooting breaks my heart.