Sticky notes

There was no hint of it when we went to school, but our teachers actually knew a lot. If they weren't so sick of dealing with us all day in class, maybe they would even have talked to us about some things, the way they talk to one another.

Mr. Perez knew why the esol boy would sometimes slump down suddenly in his seat and refuse to so much as say why. Fine one minute, the next he would have to be escorted out of class. In the hall, he was free to speak. It was nothing personal, just had to show the others he was tough from time to time. Why the girl wearing professional dress was suddenly humorless and uncommunicative and brittle, like a celebrity after a scandal, he had not yet discovered. But from calling home he knew her mom had noticed it, too.

Incredible how many Behavior Issues are caused by the whole class watching when the teacher picks a battle. Almost like when you are trapped in the line at Chipotle and a mom comes in screaming at her child PUt on that coat or you'll get NOTHIng to eat, and him keening in the most abject tantrum. Neither getting through to the other. All that delicious food turning to ashes in our mouths, those of us silent looking on.

The burritos are like learning, in this analogy, even if the situations are sort of different. That kid is not even in school yet; but when he is, woe to the teacher who has to try to wring any kind of reaction from him, desensitized to shouting matches and probably beatings, too, as he'll be.

Mr. Perez had met Gabriel Garcia Marquez one time. They were in Cartagena, Colombia, a town over by the sea, having a pleasant conversation about the weather, the people passing by, the military (how much do they pay you? he recalls the master asking). But then some enthusiastic reader came up and spoiled everything.

Oh my gosh, I love your books!

It was very nice talking to you. I have to go.

I sometimes am afraid I am always doomed to be that reader. But I have Mr. Perez' advice now, so I'll be careful not to come on too strong.