"I wish I had seven dimes," announced a first grade boy to me a few minutes ago. He went to the water cooler, filled up his cup, and sat back down. He is now tearing two pieces of paper apart over his head. I suppose he wanted seven dimes so he could buy some candy from the vending machine in the break room.
The tutoring center where I work is especially calm, not like the mild chaos it usually is when the director is out. Well, except for the skirmish over the green eraser that just subsided a few moments ago.
The world of children is often sentimentalized because most (or at least many) children are cute. But a realistic look at children is also commonplace, despite popular children’s movies (including child romance which I’ve always thought was either suspicious or futile) and Disney culture (same thoughts about this, too). Children have their own economy, moral systems, languages, and logic. And I’ve seen children in groups more brutal than a pack of thieves (even though I’ve never knowingly seen a pack of thieves).
And one thing they seem to be able to do well is forget. One minute they will be verbally pummeling each other and the next minute they will be laughing at each other’s jokes.
Today, also as I worked, I drove a van to three schools. Two of them are in Castaic. On the 5 northbound, going to Castaic, a big highway sign read, "DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS".
And when I got to my first stop, the routine was different. All of the children were behind the fences, instead of milling around on the sidewalk like they would on any other day. But today there were twice as many adults around as usual.
As the students got into the van, the first one, a fifth grade girl, said, "We had a lock-down today. Some man escaped from jail." So that was it.
And at the next school it was the same scenario: the fourth student didn’t show right away–he was behind a gate, supervised by several yard-duty ladies and his teacher.
Soon after I drove away from that school, I was headed back to Santa Clarita and all but one of the students were asleep. They slept while an escaped convict was loose somewhere–anywhere. I looked into the dry river bed I was driving over–just in case I saw someone suspicious sneaking around in the tumbleweeds. At the bottom of a hill I saw a small group of people parked on the street and talking to one another in a solemn way. And the children slept in the back of the van.
When the first student told me, "We had a lock-down today", there was no fear in her voice at all. I contrast that with what another of the children just said to me, concerning some loud noise (probably a dumpster slammed shut) in the alleyway behind the tutoring center: "That was loud and scary!"
Sometimes fear comes at the wrong times. Sometimes it doesn’t come at all. Fear is the unexpected vagrant relative showing up when you’ve got company over, expecting a shower and a meal just because you’re family.
Hidden turmoil provokes no fear in friends, except for the sensitive, perceptive ones. Is it a wonder that someone can feel completely safe in the middle of a potentially horrifying situation? There are three reasons for this: one is that there is no sense in the one who’s supposed to be fearful; another is that there is absolute hope in that person; and the last reason is ignorance or lack of knowledge.
At the stoplight I turned around to check on the three sleeping children. They looked peaceful.