Every story (as told by my friend, Anna Myers) should start with the day that is different.
If you are like me and believe that writing mirrors life, than you probably look to the new year like a new story. You make resolutions – some small and reasonable, some grand and eternally hopeful – in the thought that like a new story, the new year will start with the day that is different. I like to think that resolutions are like wishes. If you really believe in them, you will talk about them often, and when you talk about them often, you begin to own them. Owning them means you have to care for them, nurture them in the way they deserve and in doing so, you greatly increase their odds of survival, and if you are diligent, they may even surprise you.
This year is five days old as I write this and I have made a few resolutions I hope to keep – get out of my pajamas more often (the curse of a dedicated writer), eat healthier foods (I plan to start by dipping them in my new chocolate fondue pot), and get at least two pieces of my writing out there in the real world. Unfortunately, I cannot yet tell you more on this story because although I feel different, I have yet to experience the day that is different (I am still in my pajamas, chocolate covered celery is much better in theory, and map quest refuses to tell me the location of the real world.)
As I ponder ways to make my resolutions real, my mind wanders a lot to two of my former students and the days we shared that were different than all the others – the days they walked into my life, and the days they walked out. I will tell you about one of those students now and one of them in my next blog.
My third year of teaching was wonderful. I looped from fourth back to fifth and kept the same class, all except a few spots that seemed to have ever-revolving students in them. One of those students was named Iankel, and if I were an artist, I could draw every detail of his friendly,inquisitive face. The funny thing, though, is that it isn’t his face I remember most, it is his voice – a voice he only used once.
One Monday morning, Iankel walked into my classroom, nervous and silent. His eyes scanned the faces in the room and his slow exhale showed a small amount of comfort at the thought that half the class probably spoke the same language he did. I had been told that the previous Friday he had been in a completely different world, hundreds of miles away, with no idea that Monday he would be in a school in America. I could only imagine how he felt.
I sat him next to a friendly boy named Edgar who was an amazing translator, and although I could read and do small math lessons in Spanish, most of the day was in English, a language he could not speak at all. Edgar whispered as I taught and Iankel nodded and wrote his answers the way he would have in his old home. I read a bit of his work as I passed his desk and was very impressed. Edgar spoke great Spanish, but he struggled as a student. I knew the answers Iankel gave were those of a top student and were his very own. Not once that day did he smile, speak, or make eye contact with anyone. I said what I could to welcome him in Spanish, but if he wouldn’t look at me, he couldn’t see me smile – couldn’t see how happy I was he joined us. When he walked out at the end of that day, he was in a line of kids who wanted hugs. Uncertain, I reached out to pat his back and say goodbye, but he hurried out the door. My thoughts began to spin with things I could to do to make sure I was the teacher he needed.
That day was different for me because I had never encountered anyone like Iankel before. Pulled from his home, his country, his language and friends and placed in my care mere days after the event. I now felt responsible for helping him feel happy and connected to his new home.
Over the next few months, many things began to happen for my nervous, brilliant, silent student. He was ahead of the class, so I often gave him more challenging work. He devoured it. I used the best Spanish I could and soon he began to nod in understanding for me the way he did for Edgar. He began to play soccer with the boys and stopped for his silent goodbye at the end of everyday, and though he never reached out for a hug, and he never spoke, he was a new and happier person.
And then the unexpected happened again.
One day, after a lesson, I joked around with one of the kids and the others all giggled, but when Edgar went to translate…Iankel was already laughing.
He understood me.
Edgar and I didn’t share this news, for it wasn’t ours to share, but both of us enjoyed the comfort our humble friend seemed to feel at his newfound knowledge of English.
For two more months we enjoyed this new side of Iankel. The one who laughed, began to look the kids in the eye, helped them work out math assignments when they didn’t understand – all while remaining silent.
Then came the second day that was different. Iankel came into class, with the hint of a smile we saw more often upon his face. The bell rang, and as I took attendance the phone rang.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello,” said the secretary. “Does Iankel have his things ready?”
I looked at Iankel, who was always ready, but knew that couldn’t be what she meant.
“He’s ready for class, but what do you mean?”
“Is he packed? His parents are coming to withdraw him.”
“What?!”
She went on to explain that they were moving. That morning. I looked at Iankel, head bowed, writing answers in his journal for the questions on the board. Nothing had been different about that day until that very moment and I had a sinking feeling that Iankel did not know what I knew. I hung up the phone.
I went to Iankel and in the kindest, least trembly voice I could manage, told him about the call. His pencil stopped in the middle of a letter. His hand shook much like my voice. No, he had not known. Much to everyone’s heartache, we packed his things. The other students, his friends, said goodbye as he walked to the door with his his head hung low. When I reached out to pat his back, Iankel surprised me for the last time. He lifted his head, looked me right in the eye and hugged me, hard. With his face on my shoulder, I heard the softest of sobs…Iankel’s voice. It is a beautiful, sincere, voice, and I shall never forget it.
The day he walked into my life, was the day I began to really learn that language differences are not barriers, they are opportunities to learn to speak with your actions, and I hoped with our help he would survive the upheaval his life had thrust upon him. The day he walked out of my life, was the day I realized that through our experience together, I learned more from him than he did from me, and though his sadness was deep, I knew he would survive this new upheaval that was thrust his way, because I knew him.
The stories, like Iankel’s, that I like most always start on the day that is different. Harry gets his letter to Hogwarts, Prim’s name is called at the reaping, Artemis finds the fairy, Reynie reads the ad in the paper, a plane full of only babies pulls up to the airport gate, and Luke watches the trees in the forest around his house being cut down.
Today is the perfect day to to have something truly different happen – I hope you are ready!
What are your favorite stories and what is different about the day they begin on? In the stories you write, or want to write, what is different about that first day?