“Aren’t you sick of being here?” she asked me. School hadn’t even started yet, but she managed to get into the building for the new student event and was making the rounds with the rest of her classmate-pack.
“Sick of being here? In Jakarta? I just got here four days ago!” I knew she wasn’t talking about Indonesia, but I wanted her to show her cards and say what she really meant.
“No, Miss, aren’t you sick of being a teacher?” I laughed at her — good-naturedly, I hope.
“No,” I replied. “Of course not.”
“I love books.
I love learning.
I love stories, and I think that stories are powerful because they can teach us new things about who we are, who other people are, and the world we live in.”
Learning and books– few things are better than that!
New requirements in the American standards insist that books aren’t important; novels can be appreciated in small, dissected chunks. This is not true.
Stories are important. Your story is important. My story is important.
The story of Ponyboy, who is searching for a bridge between who society says he is and who he wants to be. The story of Radhika, who moves to Kathmandu to work and send money to her family, but finds herself trafficked. The story of Henry, whose best friend is swept away into a Japanese internment camp during World War II. The story of Stargirl, who brings out the best in herself and, sometimes, the worst in others.
I am blessed to be in a school with coworkers who believe in books like I believe in books.
And I am not sick of that yet.