Finding our Rhythm

 

We're falling into rhythms at school, things slowly settling out, week by wild week.

Every week, the teachers carry more of the weight, and, every week, the kids are a little more at ease. They laugh and tease and tell me what I am going to say before I even get a chance to say it.

"You are smart."

"You are kind."

"You are a good listener."

"You are one of the hardest working kids in all of Haiti."

"Yes, you can play with the ball."

"Ask your teacher."

"I love you."

"Use your manners."

"Go to class."

Because, just like any other group of kids and teachers, we have good days and bad days, quiet moments and rowdy ones, times when we're the cutest thing on the planet and times when the cutest thing on the planet is flipping off the other kids from his perch on your hip.

"Do you know that I love you?" 

The twelve year old has his arms wrapped around my middle, and, when I tip his chin up to ask the question, he breaks out into a grin, "Wi, I know."

"Good!" 

We're actually looking for something for one of the teachers, a lost bean bag or a handful of pencils, and there are a half dozen little ones on our tail, because, of course, there always are.

"Carry me. Carry me."

It's almost always said softly, sometimes as a pouty lipped command. Six year olds, seven year olds, eight year olds. Kids who are "too big" to be held but clamber up anyways and bury their face in the crook of my neck while I squeeze them gently around the ribs.

Kinders who go on walks around the compound with the co-director, their little fingers hooked in his pockets like a huddle of baby chicks.

First graders who grin and run to their teacher every morning and, sometimes, if they are lucky, get hoisted up onto a shoulder.

Second graders who start each morning with art or science and who watch carefully as a fifteen year old boy draws an intricate flower.

A sixteen year old girl who races the boys through their work so that she can get to the soccer ball first.

A pair of brothers who bring their homework back completed for the very first time all year.

A little girl whose teachers thought that she couldn't learn, but who is rapidly proving everyone wrong.

Middle school aged boys who help me to pass out the lollipops and pencils that come with Friday's homework, because, they've been watching for weeks, and they know how this works. And, because, they are certain now, that they can read well enough to recognize these names.

And, of course, all of the opposites, because we are very, very human, and, sometimes, the fiery grit that allows a little girl living in a restavek situation to have some of the top marks in her class spills over into fights on the playground.

Sometimes the boy with the quick, funny tongue and feisty spirit unthinkingly spits out other people's hurtful, private truths, while carefully guarding his own.

Sometimes we are chests puffed out or rocks picked up to fight. Sometimes we are sassy to our teachers or insistent on climbing shelves just to test if we can get away with it.

Sometimes we run when we don't want to obey and sometimes we throw our little selves, kicking and screaming on the ground.

Sometimes the grown ups yell, and sometimes a teacher puts themselves in timeout with some worship music. Sometimes children are left in timeouts of their own for far longer than intended, and, sometimes, the big people speak truths that would have been better not said out loud.

Sometimes we give out stickers simply because it is harder to be grumpy at a child when there is a cartoon puppy grinning at you from the middle of their forehead.

And, sometimes, you walk around the corner to find nine year old girls singing worship songs while they sit under a table and sort the box of crayons that has been driving you nuts.

Sometimes we find things that we were certain were lost. Sometimes the kids can spend an entire recess passing my phone without a single whine or argument. And, sometimes, when we take exams, a quiet first grader who looks perpetually distracted dumbfounds even his teacher with everything that he knows.

Teachers jump in and help to spread everything in the sun after the rain has soaked one of our classrooms. They crouch in the dirt beneath the mango tree to count pebbles with kindergarteners and sing and dance for hours with our preschoolers. They have Friday dance parties right before lunch and count down the days until break, just like all teachers do.

The yard mamas make sure that little people wash their hands and their faces and that no one falls into the latrine while it is under construction. They shoo children back to their classes and occasionally stand as silent back up for a frustrated teacher.

Our security guard helps the kindergarteners organize themselves into a soccer game and makes sure that the tiniest people get safely onto the bus.

The cooks shake their heads at me and repeat instructions in slow and careful Creole, making me repeat it back until they are certain that I understand. And, every day, like clockwork, each and every child is fed.

Every day, Jessica's job becomes easier and easier. Greet children. Hug them. Tell each day that they are amazing. Give out bandaids and cups of water. Find the soccer ball. Answer questions. Sit and talk while a little person absently plucks grey hairs out of my head. Ride the bus with kids who sing and play and rock my water bottle like it is a baby.

Go home to correct work, to make art samples, to create packets or laminate worksheets, to prepare the curriculum for as far in advance as we can go.

Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Because, we're forty-five school days in, and, for all that we're still a half to a full school year "behind," we're nearly a full year ahead of where we started.

Making progress. Moving forwards. Some days crawling, some days flying. Some days little people and teachers alike falling asleep on the cool classroom floors.

"Can I play with your phone?" One of the middle school aged boys finishes his work and settles onto the classroom floor beside me, all of us off kilter and over tired from the time change.

"Not today."

"Can I have a hug?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he drops his head to my shoulder, watching our reflection in the laptop screen and leans closer, pointing out the answers to math problems, working the answers in his head, not on his fingers.

And, you would never know that forty-five days ago, he didn't recognize single digit numbers.

Today they're working on expanded form and learning to carry when they add.

By the end of June, they'll be ready for third grade.

Day upon day. Week upon week. Finding our rhythm.