The Smaller Events

I'm standing at the front of my classroom - it's breaktime.  On my left a group of boys is throwing something into the ceiling fan and it ricochets out the window.  The girls are somewhat more peacefully occupied rifling through my teaching supplies at the desk.  One of the kids is drawing a rather graphic war scene on the chalkboard next to another young rascal who is working on the finishing touches of a portrait - in other words, the boogars.  I'm in the middle of all this engaged in a paper-scissors-stone competition with one of the rowdier little boys - Arthur - and we're playing that the loser takes a levered flick to forehead - I've held my own, so I think we're both a little dazed.  This next class will mark what's probably 300 plus games of animal bingo I've played in a classroom this semester.  I love my job, but I just fell for this weekend.

Saturday I went to a 'dodgebee' (dodgeball, only with a frisbee) tournament for a school I taught at sometime this month.  I know the English teacher there and he lets me know when practice is.  I've gotten to join in a few days here and there for training so I've spent a bit more time with these kids than I get to with most.  

I sit on the sidelines talking with them until it's their match.  They line up and we all high-five before they go out on the court.  They're incredibly good at the game - I was so proud when they won.  I couldn't make it to the next match, but I got a text today telling me that they took third in the national competition.  I'm hoping to see them again soon.  

As I sat in that gymnasium on Saturday listening to all that little team, I realized - though not for the first time - that I was basically deaf.  The little boys chattered to me and laughed and commented on the game in front of us, and I smiled and strained to understand.  But it didn't matter...I wouldn't have mattered if I was deaf because I would have experienced the same feeling - an outsider trying to break into the circle where they would be so welcome if only they could get in.  I wonder how much they could have - would have said to me if only we could understand each other.  Child-eyes might speak, but I know now that they can never tell enough.

I went out to buy dinner the other night and as I stood waiting for my rice, the cook and waitress were having an animated conversation about something and laughing over it- maybe a customer, maybe a kitchen incident.  We exchanged smiles when they glanced at me, but I could see they realized I didn't understand.  They can talk freely because it is as if I never heard their lively banter in the first place.  I'm missing out on a world here...and one of the only consolations is the fact that I'm mostly unable to realize it.