Just Teach: Chapter 6, Kumbayah

It’s always shocking how quickly October comes. One day I am meeting my students for the first time, and the next I am up to my ears in assessments and preparing progress reports for the first quarter.

The day Angela destroyed my library, Mr. Wright called her mother to come pick her up. I found out from Mrs. O’Malley that mom didn’t say a single word when she retrieved her daughter, just took her and left. “That woman is a child herself. She don’t know what to do,” was Mrs. Truman’s analysis.

We didn’t see Angela for two days. When I called home, there was no answer. She returned on Thursday, silent and fragile as blown glass. Somehow we made it to the weekend without another tantrum.

Her mother did not show up to the meeting on Tuesday. Another week passed. Maybe the phone call home was enough. Maybe she has settled.

Meanwhile, the oceans are warming and each successive hurricane seems stronger than the last. Two weeks ago Hurricane Fernando battered the Caribbean and the Keys. Now Hurricane Hester is barreling towards the east coast. This far north and inland we won’t see more than a few inches of rain, maybe some downed trees, but still, the whole region is on edge. There is talk of cancelling school. The news anchors encourage us to clear out the grocery stores over the weekend. I buy an unreasonable quantity of flour and 64 rolls of toilet paper.

On Monday Hester makes landfall.

I wake up to a somnolent rain thrumming on the window. The storm changed track and was downgraded to a tropical storm overnight, so schools are not cancelled. I consider calling in sick, but the aftermath of a substitute teacher would erase any benefit of a day off. My drive to work is slow, the visibility poor. The city’s gutters are swollen rivers. I forgot to put on my rain boots, so by the time I reach the building, my shoes are soaked through. I place sweatshirts from the lost and found by each window to soak up the water that seeps through the rusty sills. The forecast is for rain all day. That means indoor recess.

I fucking hate indoor recess.

Recess is a much needed breath above water during the school day. The whole point is for children to move their bodies and yell at one another and exhaust themselves so they can actually behave like civilized human beings in the afternoon. You cannot reasonably do this in a classroom. Last year after a full week of monsoon rains I basically gave up and let my students do whatever they wanted, which was a huge mistake. They managed to break two computers and one window in less than twenty minutes.

Indoor Recess is to Outdoor Recess, as tofu dogs are to hot dogs. There’s no way to pack enough flavor, calories and protein into a Tofu Pup to make it a fair comparison with a Hebrew National. They just aren’t the same thing. But if all you got is tofu, you have no choice but to use lots of ketchup and make the best of it.

At the Morning Meeting circle, I warn them. “Ok, I assume you have figured out by now that today we will have indoor recess.”

In unison, half of the class groans, and the other half cheers. Some kids love indoor recess. Some people just prefer tofu, go figure.

“Regardless of how you feel about indoor recess, it is a fact of life. We will not go outside on rainy days.”

“Or cold days!” adds Tyson. He turns to explain to Perfection, “They don’t let us go outside if it’s too cold, cause we might freeze and die.” Perfection nods his head as if this makes complete sense.

Tyson’s observation reminds me that we will also spend most of January and February inside, which is why I hate January and February. I continue, “So we need to set some rules and expectations. Today during recess you will get to choose an activity, and you can have fun, but you need to make sure you are quiet. There will be no running or shouting. Any questions?”

“Can we play on our phones?”

“No.”

“Can we play on the computers?”

“Yes. Only educational games, and only five people at a time.” We make a long list of acceptable games and activities: drawing, reading, playing board games, playing cards, Just Dance, Legos. I feel satisfied that we are equipped to have a successful indoor recess.

I have heard that Mrs. Hardy has two options for indoor recess: read silently at your desk, or play 7-Up, a game where most children are silent with their eyes closed and heads on the desk. I loved it as a kid, but now the idea of keeping children silent and still during recess seems both cruel and self-defeating. If this is going to be a beefy recess, they will need some free choice.

By lunch I am worn out from raising my voice to be heard over the rain. I spend my lunch block at the copy machine. When I pick the class up from the cafeteria for recess, I am praying for a peaceful half-hour of quiet games so I can catch my breath, eat my lunch, and read my email. They have other ideas.

I put Just Dance on the projector, vaguely monitoring the content for suggestive choreography, until I notice Hope is grinding in a way that would go viral and/or get me fired, so I turn it off to much protest. I keep an eye on the Legos, which seem to be going well, until Tami complains, “Hey! There are no people!” so I have to shut down that operation until someone fesses up to hoarding the little Lego guys.

Then Bradley asks about poker, which seems like it could be career development, so I sit down to show him and a small group five card stud, until I hear commotion by the computers.

“Ms. Martin!” Claudia screams. “Adam’s looking at something nasty!” There are more gasps and screams from the other children at the computers. I race to the back of the room to see a woman in a wet t-shirt with monstrously large tits washing a motorcycle.

“What?” he protests. “I’m learning about motorcycles.”

“That’s it!” I command. “No more games! We’re playing 7-Up!” I kick them all off of the computers. They abandon their games and toys and within a minute there are 24 children sitting at their desks silently with their heads down and eyes closed. It’s gloriously quiet. I choose seven students to be “up.” They will tiptoe around the room to tap their friends.

I sit back and watch them, monitoring for cheaters, and I remember the electric anticipation of playing this game when I was in Mr. Freeman’s third grade class, eyes closed, the sensuous arousal with the anonymous touch of a classmate. How I longed for that gentle press on my thumb to say I had been chosen. If I was so lucky, then I would get to stand up with the other six who had been selected. We were each allowed one guess from that single caress to name the person who had touched our thumb. And if we guessed right, we would be the ones to glide down the aisles past our vulnerable classmates and do the choosing.

They are practically silent for eight glorious minutes while I scarf down a leftover burrito and skim my email. Whoever invented this game should get a fucking Nobel Prize. Maybe it’s not recess, but it is just enough of respite to get us through the afternoon.

At the very end of the day, when I return to the classroom, there is a gift from Angela on my desk. I often find presents from Angela after dismissal. Artifacts she creates at home and sneaks onto my cluttered surface when I am not looking. Sometimes they are attempts at homework, scrawled on crumpled scrap paper with markers or crayons. Sometimes they are forms we sent home weeks ago, partially completed. Most often they are notes or drawings. I love you, Ms. Martin. Ms. Martin is so pretty. When she draws faces, they are almost always crying.

Today I find a pile of lists. It is just a string of numbered sentences.

1. I care about my baby sister.
2. My sister’s hair is like my mother’s hair.
3. My mom and sister and me were looking at the stars.
4. One time my uncel dropped me on the floor hard.
5. When I stare at my uncel he says stop and then hits me.
6. My uncel said he was going to hit me on the head with a hammer.

My heart palpitates. My palms flood. What is this child telling me? Why this note today? The sentences continue for two pages.

At last, on the third page, I come to a list of spelling words: hair, hard, star, stairs, stare, head… Then it hits me, like a hammer on the head: this relic is a completed homework assignment.

I tuck the pages into an envelope and make a mental note to see Ms. Lazarus after school. I will fill out the paperwork. I will stay late to make the phone call, leave a message on the Child Protective Services hotline, as is required by my contract, although I know nothing will come of it. And then I will call her mother, and hope that the number is now working, even though I am pretty sure neither one of us knows what to do about Angela.

The storm passes without incident overnight. We were spared the worst of the high winds. No harm done, except a damp basement and a ridiculous surplus of toilet paper.

***

On Thursday afternoon Ms. Frank is standing next to an impossibly small boy and his mother on the blacktop at dismissal. She calls me over and asks, “Ms. Martin, do you mind helping me out here for a sec?”

Louise has a doctor’s appointment after school and it’s my turn to take her, but I can spare a few more minutes in the sunshine. “Sure thing,” I say. “What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you could help me translate something important to mom here. I speak some Spanish, but I want to make sure I get this right.” Here eyes are narrow and serious. This is not a “your kid did such a nice job in reading today” conversation.

I tell her I can’t be so sure my Spanish is any better, but I can give it a shot. I smile at mom who has a toddler on her hip and a baby in the stroller and looks somewhere between concerned and furious. The child has his eyes fixed on the asphalt. “Mucho gusto,” I say, continuing in Spanish. “I am a third grade teacher. I’ll try to help explain the situation.”

Ms. Frank starts in. “Well, explain to mom that yesterday Diego tried to kiss a girl in the cubbies.” I translate. Mom shoots Diego a look to kill. “He has been chasing the girls at recess.” I translate. Mom is silent, but her stare speaks clearly. “And then today I found this.” Ms. Frank picks up Diego’s hand and turns it over. On the back of his hand he has written, “I wan to haf sex wid you.”

“At least he used a capital letter and period,” I say, but Ms. Frank is not interested in the compliment. Then I translate the sentence for his mother.

She erupts. “What is this? I don’t understand. He must be getting this from school. He does not hear this at home.” Diego’s eyes, now leaking tears, jerk up to take on the full effect of his mother’s reaction.

Ms. Frank adds, “Ask her if David has any older cousins or siblings. Maybe he’s watching tv?”

Mom denies any exposure to sex. “We go to church, teacher. David, where did you learn this?”

Diego says, “I see it at school.”

Holy shit. How does a first grader see sex at school? Then I remember Adam’s motorcycle research, so I guess anything is possible.

Ms. Frank’s face goes white. “What? That is not true! That is not true. Where did you see that?” She is still holding Diego’s hand. It is changing color. She looks up at mom. “I swear I don’t know what he is talking about.”

I kneel down and look Diego in the eye and explain in Spanish. “Diego, you cannot say or write about these things at school. They are private and for you to talk about with your mom if you have questions. Where did you see this at school?”

“People do it.”

“But where?”

“In the cubbies. At recess.”

Ms. Frank looks like she is about to cry. Mom looks like she is about to kill someone, her kid or the teacher, I am not sure. I know I should send this to the office for mediation. This is not my student, and I have not been certified to teach anything other than the health unit in fifth grade which definitely skips intercourse. But I know no one will be available at this hour, and I feel a responsibility to prevent manslaughter.

“Diego,” I ask. “Do you know what this word means? What is S — E — X?” I glance up at mom. She is not protesting. Maybe she knows that I am asking this child what sex is with the assumption that he does not know what sex is. But if he does actually know what sex is, then I am fucking screwed.

“It’s when two people like each other,” he says, eyes back down on the ground.

“What do you see them do when they like each other, Diego?”

“It’s when the boy and the girl…”

I brace myself. There’s a 50/ 50 chance he will now use a four letter word or mention genitalia.

“They hold hands. Like this.” He takes his hand from Ms. Frank and puts his two hands together, gently. With all the beauty and innocence that God intended for Eden.

Oh, Diego. If only it were like that.

Ms. Frank lets out a laugh in a single burst of air. Mom visibly exhales and relaxes, her eyes are moist.

I tell Diego, “Well, I’m going to let you and your mom talk about this at home. Sex is not just holding hands. It’s private and it’s for grown ups, and you can’t talk about sex at school… At least until the health unit in fifth grade, ok?”

Diego, relieved that the grown ups have calmed down, agrees to not talk about sex in school ever again.

Then I remember Louise’s check-up. I leave Ms. Frank to collect her emotions, and take the stairs two at a time up to my classroom to grab my bag. If I leave now, I’ll only be fifteen minutes late. On the way, I plan the conversation for our ride to the doctor. I think it’s time to make sure Louise knows what sex is. She’s already in second grade, after all.

***

We do not celebrate religious holidays at University Street Elementary School, and this includes Halloween. I have tried pointing out at a staff meeting that Halloween is not a religious holiday, and dressing up is really fun, but the administration has no interest in fielding concerns about witches and devils from parents, so there will be NO Halloween references or parties at USE. So instead, we have the Literacy Parade.

The Literacy Parade is an annual event, but of course I forget all about it. Mr. Wright sent a logistics email last week, but I didn’t read it until this morning:

Get ready to shine a light on literacy this Friday in our Fifth Annual Literacy Parade! See list of requirements here. Find a suggestions for costumes and activities here. Study and memorize the parade map and schedule here. See the attached letter to send home to families about requirements, costumes, activities, parade route and schedule.

The ruse is that it is an opportunity for the children to immerse themselves in a book and revel in the boundlessness of the imagination while igniting excitement for reading. In reality, it is a public display of teacher creativity and work ethic. Last year my students just carried a book of their choice and a piece of copy paper with the title and author written in crayon. This year I need to redeem myself. I am up for tenure in June. I cannot fuck up the Literacy Parade.

I pick up two Little Caesar’s pizzas on the way back from the doctor where we learned that Louise needs glasses. When I get home, I tell Mark about the glasses and then ask him to take Louise to her Brownie meeting so I can go to the hardware store.

“I don’t like it when daddy goes,” Louise complains. “He doesn’t help with the crafts.”

“You know I hate Brownie meetings,” Mark adds.

“Boys need to know how to do crafts, too. You’ll like it. They’re working on the Bug Badge.” Then I promise her I will pick up her Halloween costume while I am out, so she goes willingly. I push them out the door to walk to the community center and load Iggy, who is psyched because he gets to go to Lowe’s, into his booster seat.

First we swing by Walgreens to buy the only remaining costumes. This year Iggy will be an Evil Knight, which is too big for him and not age appropriate, but he loves the sword. I find a ladybug costume that she should be able to squeeze into. I also get them two pocket flashlights that glow in the dark, compensation for getting less attention than my students.

Luckily Lowes is nearly empty and I score one of the carts with a kiddie car on the front so Iggy’s happy while I take my time. I manage to sweet talk a man in Kitchens and Bathrooms into giving me three refrigerator boxes. I buy three disposable drop cloths, a gallon of water based yellow paint, two quarts of black, and a bunch of cheap foam brushes.

Tomorrow we will make the Magic School Bus.

I have a love-hate relationship with Ms. Frizzle, the saccharine protagonist of the Scholastic book series. When I decided to become a teacher, I pictured myself like The Friz. I would wear outlandish themed clothing, take spontaneous field trips, and have a class pet iguana. I would not need classroom management techniques because my students would follow me enthusiastically into every lesson adventure. By November of my first year in the classroom, I knew that Ms. Frizzle was full of shit.

Honestly, most days I don’t feel like I am inspiring children. Instead, I trick or intimidate them into submission. On my best days, I resort to bribes instead of threats. I don’t take them on field trips, I take away recess. In the past two years, I have taken my students out of the building only twice, to see the symphony and to the middle school for Step Up Day, and both of those were arranged by someone in central office. The paperwork to apply for a field trip is ten pages long and must be submitted two months in advance. Magic School Buses do not exist.

So we will make one.

The next morning I ditch my “Compare and Contrast Two Texts with the Same Theme” lesson, and instead I read aloud The Magic School Bus Inside the Human Body. Their favorite part is when Ralphie sneezes the bus out of his nose.

I ask, “If you could go anywhere on a Magic School Bus, where would it be?” We make a list. I assign teams. “We have just over an hour to transform this pile of discarded cardboard into buses. A fairy godmother would come in handy about now, but I’ll have to settle for elves. “Just don’t spill the paint!” I offer as a final warning.

The room is quickly a sea of paper, paint, glue and glitter. They use the scissors to saw out holes for windows. Erica suggests making headlights out of red construction paper and assembles a small team to do so. At Tyson’s insistence, I find some aluminum foil in the closet for chrome fenders. Cynthia makes a sign that says, “How’s My Driving? Call 123–4567.” Alice helps Veronica and Anna make labels in English and Spanish for every part of their bus: tires, door, windows, bumper, lights.

Then, when the floor is completely covered with craft supplies and the room sounds more like recess than reading, Dr. Moore walks in with her laptop. This must be my unannounced informal observation. Shit. At the end of this year I will be up for tenure. Because it is the end of my probationary license, I will have two unannounced observations in addition to my two scheduled ones. I presume she will leave, seeing that this is obviously not a lesson but costume prep for a mandatory school event, but instead she sits down and starts typing. I check my board. The objective printed on the board still reads, “I can compare and contrast the themes of two texts.” The schedule clearly shows we are supposed to be in our guided reading block. There are no visible anchor charts or obvious signs of learning. All she can see is a bunch of happy kids working together. This does not look good.

I shout over their chatter, “And remember that we are studying THEME! Make sure your bus has a THEME!” I could stop them and attempt a real lesson, but it might result in mutiny. So instead I say, “Now I am going to come around and ask you about your THEME!” I grab a clipboard with a class list, circulate to the groups, and pretend to take notes while I whisper compliments on their team work. It is obvious, even from a distance, that these sloppy yellow rectangles do not have themes. But they do have windows and they are pretty cute.

Finally, after 30 painful minutes, Dr. Moore closes her laptop and leaves. The barometric pressure in the room drops. Why did she pick today? She must know that we are all preparing for the parade. Or maybe this is precisely what she was looking for.

Thankfully, Mr. Marshall is out of the building today and there is no substitute, so we can use the music block to finish up. I have Marc and Tami color and cut out a dozen sea creatures that I tape onto the solid blue summer dress I have worn specifically for today. I let Faith and Hope pin my hair up into a poofy ponytail and color it with orange crayola. I am already wearing the seashell earrings I got at the beach last summer. Erica draws an impressively accurate chameleon and tapes it to a ruler.

We leave the damp buses to dry in the classroom during lunch. It is still tacky when we get back from recess, but it’s showtime. Mrs. Dudley’s voice comes over the intercom.

“Good afternoon brilliant, creative readers! Everyone may now head on out to the blacktop to strut your fabulous stuff. We’ll start the parade with our little Pre-K angels. Let the Literacy Parade begin!”

My third graders scramble into their buses, which now look more like bloody chunks of cheddar cheese. Their hands are quickly yellowed with paint. It takes them a few minutes to figure out how to move forward in unison while keeping the buses up off of the floor. I have Angela hold the chameleon and walk next to me. There is a fair amount of bossing and bickering. We are the last ones into the hallway. We shuffle down the stairs and out the gymnasium door onto the blacktop which is teeming with children of all sizes in colorful costumes. It feels more like a music festival than a parade, but finally Mr. Wright on his bullhorn manages to corral everyone into order and we snake around the blacktop in a whirlpool of flesh, cloth and construction paper.

The pre-K is dressed as letters from the alphabet, and their teachers are coconut trees from Chicka Chicka Boom Boom. Kindergarten has come as dalmatian puppies with Ms. Grand pulling off an impressive Cruella DeVille. Each class in the first grade has taken a different Dr. Seuss book. There are Cats in Hats and Brown Barbaloots, and Things 1–27. In second grade I see Paper Bag Princesses and Rainbow Fish, Wild Things and Hungry Caterpillars. There are several Fancy Nancies and at least one Amazing Grace.

Mrs. Cruz’s class has come as the farm animals from Charlotte’s Web. Mrs. Hardy’s class completed biographies of scientists this month, so each child is dressed as their scientist, carrying a copy of the report they have written. They don’t look like they are having much fun, but they they look proud, dignified. Mr. Lee’s class is an assortment of comic book superheroes and princesses. There is one Pennywise.Technically they are all book characters, although I have a strong suspicion they are just wearing their Halloween costumes.

Only Mr. Frank’s class stands out as disorganized. Each of her students is carrying a Dr. Seuss book, and a single sheet of paper with the book’s title is hung around each neck with a piece of yarn. They all look somewhere between pissed and confused. I am guessing Ms. Frank didn’t read the email until today.

It is one of those exceptionally beautiful fall days. The last hint of the humidity of summer has been wicked away by a stiff breeze, the trees are still fully festooned with foliage. The students of USE are brilliant, bright, quaking like aspens, all movement and light. For this brief moment, they are not students or scholars or statistics. They’re just kids.

***

Monday morning Ana approaches me with a picture of her grandfather. The picture is of an ancient man seated on a pale blue couch in front of a sepia wall. Lace doilies cover the arms and back of the couch which appears to be protected in plastic. A cowboy hat shades a thin, weathered face staring sternly at the camera. He is wearing a collared denim shirt, jeans, cowboy boots.

“Handsome,” I say. “Who is this? Grandpa?”

Ana nods. “My papa grandpa. He have one hundred and two years. He die two months. Yesterday is day of die.” Then she hands me a plastic grocery bag with a large, round bread inside. “Pan de Muerto,” she says. Ana’s mother works at a bakery. The Day of the Dead. I had forgotten.

At morning meeting Ana shares her picture and tells, “He very good grandpa.” Then everyone has something to share. I call on hand after hand.

“My grandma, she died of cancer because her hair fell out,” says Tyson.

“My grandpa died, too, but he was only 60 years old but his heart stopped and my mom cried for like two weeks,” says Gabriel.

“My baby sister died before she was born,” adds Claudia.

“My uncle, he was shot in front of our house, but I was only two years old so I don’t remember him. He was my daddy’s twin brother,” says Angela.

Then there is Daniel. “My dad died. He died in August. I really miss him.” Daniel’s father died suddenly in his sleep last summer. He was diabetic and had sleep apnea. He hasn’t talked about his father’s death at school. The teachers have been paying attention, watching for signs of distress or confusion. The counselor has a ten-minute check-in once a week when she doesn’t have a crisis. But mostly Daniel just seems like a happy, relaxed child. He rarely does his work without several reminders, but he is often smiling. Recently I have been forgetting that Daniel is an orphan. Like today.

Daniel repeats, “I really miss him.” Then his face ruptures and his smile collapses into grief. Tears stream from his eyes. Ana runs to him and envelops him like a mother. Then Harry leans over to join the embrace, andBradley crawls across the circle to put his hand on his friend’s leg. Soon the entire class is a single mass of compassion. Even Tami shows her concern by kneeling close by. One by one, Daniel’s classmates join his grief, adding their own, for lost grandparents, parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins. Nearly everyone is crying.

I wish I had just thanked Ana for her picture and bread and made a casual reference to the Dia de los Muertos and moved onto the movement break as I had planned. I hope the catharsis will pass, the easy swell of emotion will ebb into relaxed acceptance of the inevitable. In an offering of comfort, I say, “Shh, listen friends.” They quiet, eager for my wisdom. “Everyone dies. Life is short, and the only thing we know for certain is that we will all, one day, die.”

This is the wrong thing to say.

Bradley, who had been the only one still composed, puts his head in his hands and yowls. The mass of emotion crescendos into outright moans and sobs. Alice gets up to get the box of kleenex and starts distributing tissues to her classmates. This is getting totally out of control.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Wright walk in the door. He raises his eyebrows. I shake my head and shrug my shoulders like, “Don’t ask me.” He turns around and leaves. I get up to close the door to deter any more visitors, turn off the lights, cue up some quiet music, and invent grief therapy on the fly.

“Ok, everyone. Calm down. Let’s sit in a circle. Come on, bring it in.” Thankfully, they respond. I will not try an existential approach this time. “That’s right. Come together, cross your arms, and hold hands. Everyone in. That’s right.” The moans subside to sniffles. “Repeat after me,” I insist. “We are all..”

We are all.

“…One…” One.

“We are all…” We are all.

“Whole…” Whole.

“Nothing can separate…” Nothing can separate.

“The world is together.” The world is together.

“Peace.” Peace.

“Kumbaya.” Harry says, “What?”

“Nevermind” They are calm. I keep going, grasping for summer camp rituals. “Now I am going to pass the pulse around the circle. When you feel a squeeze on one hand, squeeze your other hand. No talking. Just breathe in… and out…” They do. “And when you feel the squeeze, pass it on.” Miraculously they obey. I squeeze my right hand. I watch as the squeeze moves around the class. No one giggles or squeezes too hard. They need this. When Claudia squeezes my left hand I say, “Ok, no more tears. Only peace. Go to your desks and take out your notebooks and write for five minutes, anything you like, or draw. Then it’s time for math.” And because there is a benevolent god, they go.

We make it through the morning and by recess most seem to have forgotten the morning’s hysteria. I expect Mr. Wright to call me into the office for an explanation, but he, too, seems to have forgotten the scene.

The trees on the playground have gone full alchemy. The oaks are rusted, the maples glimmer gold and copper, and the dogwoods are on fire. Last night the cold front did a good job of helping the trees start the process of shedding their fall cloaks. An industrious crew from across all classes spends the entire recess moving leaves into big piles, forging rakes from the limbs that were knocked down in the wind, calling the mounds bonfires, and constructing flimsy fortresses that can be destroyed in an instant by giants with one swift swing of the leg. I made everyone put on a coat before heading outside, but within ten minutes the yard is scattered with parkas and sweaters, the sun warming us from the outside, and the play from within. The bright, cool weather casts an optimistic spell on our class. Today no one is fighting.

Then Aaron finds a dead starling by the back fence. “Hey guys, look!”

All production arrests. The laboring masses and superheroes run to see the headless carcass. From the safety of the blacktop, I call out an impotent, “Don’t touch it!” I should go over there and get rid of the thing, but something stops me.

Hope’s voice is carried to me on the wind, “We must bury him. Let’s bury him guys.” The others come to her compassion easily, agree, and set to work. They combine the leafy bonfires into a large funeral pyre, and surround it with a ring of cinder blocks from the old garden. Bradley and Julian are the pallbearers, placing discarded potato chip bags on their hands as makeshift gloves, and lifting the headless body onto a flimsy gurney of sticks. Cynthia starts to sing the song they have been learning in music, “I believe I can fly…” and others join in, repeating the first line again and again, “I believe I can fly, I believe I can touch the sky… I believe I can fly, I believe I can touch the sky…”. They form a procession, walking in a line towards the pile of leaves. I never knew they could move in such synchronicity. I drift across the blacktop, close enough so I can hear, and make sure they don’t touch the dead body, but keeping my distance. This is their ritual.

When Julian and Bradley place the body onto the pile, Hope takes the role of officiant with a quiet call and response.

“We are all..”

We are all.

“One…”

One.

“We are all…”

We are all.

“Whole…”

Whole.

“The world is together.”

The world is together.

“Peace.”

Peace.

And Daniel adds, “Kumbayah. Whatever that means.”