Little MS arrived three years ago, in first grade, climbing aboard well into the year. Not a word did he speak. Most often he put his head in his arms on the table, trying to make himself disappear, and sobbed. Rarely began a lesson, let alone finished one.
Small, slight, a baby bird not ready to leave the nest. Obviously frightened to death. Classmates tried to help; no response. He just looked down and cried. Upon investigating the situation upon the roiling seas beyond my good ship, it became clear I had to navigate this one myself. In desperation I moved a kid, A., next to him. Although not sharing the same verbal language, maybe A. could give this kid a ray of hope. A. had also been signed on for duty at the school the same year, without a word of English either. Maybe they could speak the language of heart.
A. and I hit it off from the beginning without English, using our eyes mainly and his ability to translate my Spanish into his native tongue somewhat. We formed a raw language of color, shape and materials, threw in some crazy body language and demonstrations, or the other way around, so he could fathom directions.
He taught me in his language what I said to him in Spanish. I repeated the words and he laughed wildly at my pronunciation.
We practiced till I got it right; the kid would not let me quit. Still a perfectionist with enough charisma to light up a ballroom, destined to be a painter and knows it. Says so all the time. It is life fact for him, as it should be. Here is the self-portrait A. created that year, in 1st grade:
Aboard ship, A. buoyed MS's spirits. They became friends and MS struggled a little less. But still did not speak.
The next year, grade two, A. shipped out to another assignment in a different class. MS was on his own again.
I seated him next to me and across from a girl, B., who was a pip of a personality. Inches translated into lightyears. The prospect of watching this kid float on his island another year was too much for this salty old seadog. My hands wanted to pull him back aboard ship or at least row him to another shore. I knew I was already overboard. Inside I had reached beyond the plank too far and lost my balance. Now I was in the water with him, flailing. And at that point, you can't really help.
this tale to be continued....
meanwhile, smooth sailing on your own good ship.
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