Okay, so yesterday morning 7 sixth graders, two parents (a mom and dad of one of my students) and I headed to Columbia. We left at 10. It was a two hour trip one-way because I drove the speed limit the whole way, since I was transporting kids whose parents had put their kids' lives in my hands. Usually I drive... uh, a bit faster than the posted speed limit.
We were going to have lunch with Ibtisam Barakat, a Palestinian memoir author.
Backtrack to yesterday at 4. In the morning. The crack of chicken time. I'd had a rough evening the night before, so I couldn't cook then. And since I'm Princess Procrastination, I didn't cook a couple of evenings before. So. I had no choice but to cook--in a frenzy--yesterday morning.
I did cook. Everything got finished in time to load it in my car, along with students. That's not the slice of my life I'd like to look at today.
Today I want to reflect on the conversation we had, sitting in a big circle in the living room of my sister (the sister I've only known about for less than 20 years).
The kids were busily tearing off bits of pita bread to nibble on. They'd slurped up lentil and green wheat soups they loved. (Well, they loved the shorbet adas. The freekeh? Not so much.) They'd drunk way too much soda. Our guest of honor--Ibtisam Barakat--sat at the head of the circle, and she asked one single, mind-blowing question:
What book would you write that would heal you, and heal the rest of the world?
What had I expected when I planned this adventure? I expected my students would ask the author questions. I expected there would be some picture-taking and some book signing. What we got--so above and beyond that--was not at all what I expected.
My 6th graders answered her, one at a time. When they tried to skirt the issue with vagueness, she lasered-in on them and got them back onto the path of raw-and-honest.
The stuff the kids told about themselves. It. Was. Amazing. We laughed. We cried. We ate.
We connected...
