Sweet

 Being on strike provided me with a few extra hours to fill. Instead of writing lesson plans and preparing for the following day, I found myself taking up the rhythm of not working, but rather showing up at the appointed hour that my work might commence, erecting a canopy for those of us on the picket line, helping others bring the signs from their cars to the sidewalk and then begin the lonely business of not teaching school. 

The bright spot in all of this was the kids who did show up, not to cross the line or go inside the school, but the ones who showed up to take the hike over the hill to our solidarity school at the nearby branch of the public library. These interactions were seeded by the ones we had with parents on that first day of the strike where we explained our position and gave them the option of spending the day with their teachers or sitting inside a mostly empty building being attended to by grownups with whom they might not be as familiar. 

For more than a week, we had a dozen kids who showed up a little after their own traditional arrival time, ready to play games, snack, catch up with one another, and make the occasional loop with a picket sign. By the third day, we began to hear some of them complain that they "missed regular school" in spite of the influx of material and instructors ready to take them through a mock-up version of their day. 

That was about the time Dulcinea showed up. Her mother dropped her off, and as with many of our parents, she needed a safe place for her daughter while she went to work. I learned this by hanging to the side while a colleague of mine used his far superior Spanish skills to inquire and encourage mom into supporting our cause. Dulcinea is in kindergarten and as a late arrival this year has had little time to absorb much English. But she recognized me, her computer and PE teacher. Once she climbed out of moms' car I took her hand and walked her over to the sidewalk. Several other kids were playing a raucous version of tag on the grass in front of the school, including a classmate of hers who had been dropped off with her brother and sister. 

Dulcinea showed no interest in joining them, preferring instead to stick with the guy she knew. We sat down on the steps in front of the school and I quickly used up all of my conversational Spanish, asking how she was, did she want a snack, did she want to play? Fine, nope, nope. And so we sat.

Then I asked if she would like to go on a Lion Hunt. The Lion Hunt is a special favorite of kindergarten PE classes, and Dulcinea was thrilled at the chance to have something that felt "normal." Off we went. Through the tall grass. Across the river. Up and down the tall tree. When we came to the cave, she admonished me: "Not a kitty! A lion!" She was right of course, so off we raced, patting our thighs furiously to simulate our retreat. The English Dulcinea did know as contained in that Lion Hunt. To say that I was happy to have played the game with her would be the understatement of the month. 

A short time later, we did a command performance of Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes, and she came alive again. Dulcinea was safe and happy. She belonged. 

And that's the story I will be taking away from this teacher's strike.