Two Sets of Kids

I love teaching. And I think I like my job. Today, I convinced a kid to get on his feet and climb the stairs to his classroom. He is a particularly troubled kid that I've spent all my brief time at the school developing a rapport with, and so this tiny feat meant a lot to me-- that I was able to convince him to get up from his obstinate crouch when no one else could. Later, I passed by him as I was going up those same set of stairs, and he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me on the cheek, saying that he loved me. I was so mentally thrown off by the kiss that I drew my head back in surprise and knocked it against the wall. I am fairly certain that "I love you" was not a phrase that this kid regularly tossed around.

To think that yesterday, I was ready to quit my job. I was suddenly so sick of being at the receiving end of all this bitchy behavior from a bunch of 7-year-olds. Why was this my burden? I asked myself. But later I was reminded of where these kids were coming from, and it was enough to keep me on board for the time being.

Today, after a super-challenging ballet class, which was more like a counting class, Sarah and I sat at Capogiro's until nearly midnight talking about ballet, teaching and work. During a lull in conversation, I heard MGMT's "Kids" playing and the song reminded me my kids in Kurdistan. Suddenly I missed those kids so much. I recalled the way they were so openly affectionate with me, and so happy in general. Then I thought about the faces of the kids I teach now-- mutinous, angry, sullen, and insolent being the base-level expressions of choice for far too many of them. Today, though, I drew a smile from one of the especially insolent faces, and it meant a great deal to me as ephemeral as it was.

I realize this now that I have something to compare it to: My kids in Kurdistan knew how to love and laugh easily, and their hearts were unbelievably pure. My kids in West Philly on the other hand are apparently hardened to feelings like love, their laughter is mean-spirited more often than joyful and childlike, and their hearts are prematurely sullied by the grime of their much less sunny reality. One needn't look very far to find an explanation for the disparity between these two groups of kids. One set grew up in wealthy homes with overbearingly loving parents in the isolation of Erbil, Iraq; while the other set grew up in entirely different socio-economic and cultural circumstances in West Philly. In the first set, it is the parents who suffered by the hands of Saddam, while the kids grew up in relative peace; while in the second set, it is the parents who suffer, and the kids continue to suffer with them. The two sufferings are also of an entirely different, incomparable nature.

An "I love you" from Liya in Kurdistan is an entirely different beast from an "I love you" from K***** in West Philly. Both are equally heartwarming, but one is given freely, while the other is earned. Hugs on the other hand are easily doled out by both sets of kids. I was amazed at how quickly the kids in West Philly started throwing their arms around my waist. Strange for someone like me...when I was young, giving a hug was the biggest fucking deal.