He had never seen the ocean.
We visited my parents in Myrtle Beach for Thanksgiving.
On the second day of our trip, we drove to the state park.
D. spent the first hour collecting every seashell within a 100-yard radius of the pier. He filled up three grocery bags with broken shells and other sandy "treasures" before I had the heart to cut him off. I asked him to select his favorite shells to keep. He picked out all but two shells from the first bag, and I capitulated.
Every shell was a story... a precious memory that he was determined to preserve.
His wonder was only paralleled by a sense of urgency. He consumed each new experience with a ravenous hunger-- he was too familiar with the fragility of each plot line. In 3 years, he knew four homes- four chapters, each with a different set of story elements- settings, characters, rules, and conflicts. The protagonists doubled as the antagonists, and self-preservation became the only theme, but I digress.
It was November, and the ocean was frigid and irresistible. I encouraged him to test the water with his toes. Minutes later, an especially large wave soaked his t-shirt, and we both relented. I ran into the water after him. He grabbed for me with each crashing wave. Laughter immunized us to the cold.
As we departed, Glenn's jacket replaced D's soaking garments, and he waddled to the car, looking small beneath Glenn's windbreaker-turned-trenchcoat.
My mind often wanders to that day at the beach. I pray that heaven feels like D's grateful embrace with sand between his toes for the first time.
This summer, I read somewhere that "we own our stories." As a teacher, I understand the premise for such a statement. By sharing our personal narratives, we are inviting others into the cathartic reprieve offered by articulating the emotions that are often lost in the plot lines of our daily lives. However, I hesitate to promote literary despotism among my students, when so many story elements are beyond a child's control. Their stories fall victim to circumstance, and even the pen fails to defend the desired resolutions.
As teachers... as adults, we have a responsibility to protect the fragile story elements that ultimately determine the character traits of our smallest and most vulnerable protagonists.
In a world that values convenience before communication, consumerism too often denigrates the integrity of childhood. I am convicted by the burden of their broken stories. I am Holden Caulfield at the carousel... instead of metal horses, I am haunted by bags of broken seashells.
Regardless of my personal failures, or perhaps in light of them, I consider it an undeserved privilege to spend another year as a protector of stories for twenty-two very deserving protagonists.
