One Wordless Hug

` Every Christmas season it’s the same. I drag my thirty or so eighth graders down to a public grade school in Cleveland to spread some holiday cheer. It’s the second poorest city in the nation; we’ve got our work cut out for us. We leave our land of suburbia and mini-vans where the biggest problem most of my students face is what color I-pod to own. Twenty-five minutes can take us far far away from our world. We enter the building through locked doors and a metal detector, shlepping our boxes of candy to make gingerbread houses and wrapped books to bring as presents. We always bring a snack. It’s a big deal for all concerned, and I forget each year how my head spins by the time all is said and done. There are always a few moments that dance on my heart and steal my breath. This year was no different.
I always say that life is about moments. Let’s face it, in a typical day I face drudgery, mundane chores, and the lather, rinse, repeat of the endless cycle, all the while pulling out my hair. We all do. But it is the moments, those brief glimpses in my classroom or my home, that make the whole day shine. Today it was the look on Diamond’s face when she learned she got to make a gingerbread house of her very own, and the playful exchange of Katie and Romello as she rubbed his brillo hair. But mostly it was Alexander. He tugged at my legs as I walked by his desk, like all of these students tug at my heart. I stooped to him to see what he wanted and without a word, he grabbed me in a huge hug. I think it was the wordlessness of it all that really got me. I’m not what anyone would term stoic or unbiased to start with. Straight news is not my game. And I don’t live in a world of quiet, that’s for sure. But in such a brief, silent encounter, with his skinny arms wrapped awkwardly around my legs, I definitely got the message.
Then it’s time to go and we leave in a whirl-wind of wrapping paper and smiles and hugs and high fives. We traipse back out through the metal detector and my kids are glowing from ear to ear. I get so discouraged, some years, leaving Junie B. Jones and Dr. Seuss to solve the problems while we hop back into our warm cars to head for home. It’s like emptying the ocean with a teaspoon, really. It seems like a really small gesture that will have little to no impact. Saving the world one gingerbread house at a time? It is a lot to imagine, but it’s all I’ve got. And for Alexander and I and this moment, it’s definitely enough.