Epiphany

.


I don’t know what has happened to me, regarding writing. I suppose there is a fine balance between work and reward, and, of late, to write has been more work than reward.

But I have a small story to share.

A boy in my class (I’ll call him Aaron) lost his dad a few weeks ago, suddenly. I don’t know if there can be a worse time for a boy to lose his dad—the kid’s 11—not that there’s any good time, but I grieve for this kid, and I am at a loss as to what to do for him. My gut feeling is that it might help him to concentrate on school work, to put his grief out of mind momentarily. So I’m pressing him, gently.

Just before the winter break, we were wrapping up a months-long study of Rodman Philbrick’s wonderful novel, Freak the Mighty. We were all in love with the book and it’s rough-cut protagonist, Max. As a final assignment, I asked students to imagine that the book was being remade into a feature film, and that they were under consideration to play one of the two main characters. I asked them to explain which character they would play best, and why—how did they see themselves as similar to that character, and how could they relate to the experience of being Max or Kevin.

Aaron was struggling, knowing which character was closest to him, but not having a clue what to say about that. I asked him if he could see any similarities between Max’s experience with his dad and Aaron’s own. (Big risk, I know, but I want Aaron to know it’s okay to talk about his dad’s death, that it doesn’t have to be private or hidden.) Aaron saw the connection and started to write about it.

Meanwhile, another boy in the class had discovered a flip-chart I have, aimed at students, filled with tips for improving writing; he had found the page that gives alternative words for dull, overused ones. You know—you remember those teachers saying, “Don’t say ‘said’, don’t say ‘went!’” —same old thing. This boy made lots of noise about his discovery, excited to look for interesting language, making sure everyone else heard about it too. (Sometimes these “disruptions” are the best thing that can happen to a classroom!)

Aaron picked up on it. He came up to me, wanting to find a better word for “sad”. There was nothing in the flip chart. I showed him how to use a thesaurus. We found “sad,” with a long list of wonderful substitutes: devastated, wretched, miserable. I left it with Aaron to make his choice.

Some time later Aaron came up to me again, his face bright with excitement. “I found the right word!” he said. I was thrilled.

“What’s the word?” I asked him.

He burst out, “Unhappy!”




“Wow, great,” was all I could say, “Good for you!”


And eventually, there was Aaron’s paper, a short paragraph with that one special word. “I’ll never see my dad again, and that’s very unhappy for me.”


Who knows what’s in the hearts, or the heads, of children? Who knows how a boy grieves for his father? Who are we to say they need flamboyant expression for their feelings?

For Aaron, “unhappy” was an epiphany. Now he has more than one word to describe how he’s feeling.




.