Confessions of a Middle Schooler

I’m sitting here watching the tiny learners, tiny explorers, tiny dreamers mindlessly copying notes about Ancient Egypt. A few of them are present but most of them, it seems, are letting their brain tell their highly trained writing hand to mimic the precise curvatures they practiced years ago and now execute on autopilot. They’re rehearsing a dance of muscle memory while their focus is elsewhere.

What I don’t think they know is that I’m sitting up here – trying to figure out adulthood and life the same exact way they’re trying to figure out middle school and life. I’ve been learning social cues longer and I’m the one with the laminated name tag and bathroom key hanging from my neck, so they think we’re different. They’re sitting right there copying down words they’ll never remember and I’m up here copying down their little faces, trying to open my heart enough to tell their little hearts that we’re the same, them and I.

 

And most days, I’m pretty sure they’re teaching me a lot more than I teach them.

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