It’s 6:45 am on a balmy Honduran morning. You know those days; when you wake up and can taste the droplets of humidity on your tongue. The wisps of clouds that snuck onto the sky during the night persist into the morning; giving you hope that perhaps today will be just a little cooler. But as you wipe the sleep away from your groggy eyes, you notice the rising sun chasing your clouds of hope away, burning through them with an intensity that can only indicate the onset of another blistering day.
I stand among my peers on this soon-to-be-sweltering morning, looking upon a newly decorated classroom from my perch on the shelf. The posters stand quietly on the walls, the centers in their baskets sit patiently, their crisp contact paper still unmarked by small fingerprints. I glance nervously at those surrounding me and I wonder if they share my anxiety. I find them expressionless, standing upright and tense, waiting to serve their classroom duty. As I study them, I shift anxiously and I wonder what will become of us within the hour. We have a specific purpose, this I know. But I have heard the rumors. Horror stories of former peers being bitten and broken, of their erasers being torn clear off, of being discarded haphazardly on the floor and quickly replaced. Of the sweaty, dirty hands that would grab us and sharpen us ruthlessly whenever our owner became too bored during writing class. Get a grip, I mumble to myself.
The lock clicks and the door creaks open. I shift my gaze to the entrance, where I find my first wave of release. The expression on her face is a reflection of my own; of having no idea what to expect. She makes her way over to the corner where I stand and sits in the small plastic chair closest to me. She takes a deep breath. We all remain motionless, enjoying the calm before the storm.
And then, out of nowhere, a sound. The teacher stands and wipes her hands on her skirt. The sound comes floating down the hallway, finding its way into the classroom. The noise is soon accompanied by a body in the doorframe, a mischievous smile spread across its small face.
“Helloooooo,” the sound rings throughout the still of the classroom. The teacher is quick on her feet.
“Hello! How are you today?”
“I am happy!” the small voice responds.
The child meanders throughout the classroom, his hand gliding across the smooth walls. He stops at a poster and silently mouths the words “Classroom Rules” written across the top. Then his gaze falls upon my shelf. I stiffen, holding my breath. Has he seen me? Will I be the first of my comrades to go? Will I be pocketed before the day has even begun, denied of ever having the pleasure of seeing that starch white paper? He approaches the shelf cautiously, checking over his shoulder to see if the teacher is looking before touching. But we, the fresh out-of-the-box school supplies, prove to be too much of a temptation.
I see the hand closing in and I shut my eyes, hoping that he will look past me. From behind closed eyes, I hear a shuffling and I open a tentative eye to observe. To my right, the hand sifts through the basket of vibrant colored pencils, the fingers delicately strumming them like the strings of a guitar. I exhale with relief, silently, so as to not draw his attention to me. Next his focus falls on the scissors and he seizes a pair by the handles, brandishing the metal part as if to stab the air. It’s only a matter of time until this too bores him and he notices me…
Suddenly, impulsively, he replaces the scissors and turns to the teacher. “I can play?” Half statement, half question.
“Do you mean, ‘May I play?’” the teacher corrects him, looking up from her desk.
An exhale. He’s heard this before but prefers his way. “May I play…please?” The mischievous smile again, proud of its polite addition.
“Yes,” the teacher answers, smiling back.
He bolts from the classroom into the hallway and the teacher walks briskly behind him, calling “No running in the hallway!”
By now the hallway is filling with more than the teacher’s scolding. The sound of many excited voices seeps into the classroom, threatening my brief moment of relief in seeing the child go. But he is soon replaced by more children filing into the classroom, hugging friends they had missed over the summer, eyeing up potential new friends. A few girls gather in the corner, dangerously close to me. I overhear them asking each other hopefully if they think the new teacher will let them play soccer against San Jeronimo this year. One girl, smaller than the others, remembers last year’s teacher fondly and simultaneously wonders if the new teacher will let them get away with more. They leave the classroom to enjoy their last few minutes before the day begins, their arms draped across each other’s shoulders.
As I watch them, I wonder if the rumors could really be true. The children seemed kind, excited. They didn’t seem to be the erasing-ripping type. Maybe this year would be different. Maybe this would be the Year of the Pencils, maybe we would reach our full potential. Maybe, just maybe I could help a child write a story or solve a math problem before I am sharpened into oblivion. I felt a swell of pride and hope for what was to come. Then, a long ringing wailed throughout the school, accompanied by the shuffling of squeaky new shoes.
“One! Two! One! Two!” rings throughout the hallway. Slowly, one by one, the children file into the classroom, taking a seat in the chair marked with their names. They are eerily silent, waiting, expecting.
“Good morning boys and girls! Welcome to Third Grade!” the teacher says.
“Good morning!” the boys, girls, and I respond.
MEET BECA’S 2014-15 TEACHERS!
