Each day brings a dozen little incidents which are funny or endearing or deeply moving and which I wish I could etch into my memory and never forget. Third-grade children flinging their arms around their teacher, Fathima, whom they haven't seen in two weeks because of a family emergency. Kanmani crying, head buried in his hands, when she had to leave again.
Kindergartners trying so hard to tell me something with the three words which makes up their entire English vocabulary.
Basha in his blue mood with me trying to get him through his homework. He won't look at me or talk to me. Let alone hold the pencil. But he knows I won't let him off the hook. So I ask the questions for each step of the long division problem, and he draws the answer with his finger over his pant leg. I write it down and move on to the next question.
It is a slow process but eventually we slog through most of it. It breaks my heart that it's such a painful trek for him while most of his classmates just skip through it.
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