Working with the high
flyers...
The slight breeze made the heat bearable as the folds of my dress
fluttered in the wind, sending coolness up my spine. I leaned against a rugged pole that held the
aluminum roof of Olive’s in the air and watched the four boys sitting on the
dust covered ground in front of me. Some
of them sat with their knees crossed, some with their legs stretched out, but
all of their necks were strained with the weight of their head as they intently
scribbled stories in the pages of their worn notebooks.
Having a gradation of English talent in my Standard 5 class makes
individual attention difficult. The kids
with strong English skills are often pushed aside to allow those with
struggling English to learn. However, my
group of four boys, who call themselves ‘Four Brothers,’ is my chance to give
the four strongest English speaking boys in my class my undivided attention.
I began working with the Four Brothers when I first started the
project. After a few group books and
collaborative stories, I realized that the boys needed much more of a challenge
than simply reading books and comprehending stories. The boys needed to write.
The fists in the air and the four excited faces smiling at me was
more than I expected when I told them one afternoon to sit down with pencil and
paper and let their imagination go wild.
“We can write about ANYTHING?”
“Anything you want,” I grinned.
 |
| Emma with her reading group. |
They wasted no time.
Within the minute, the Four Brothers had settled down with their pencils
dancing in the air. The subtle winds
carrying hums of voices in the classes next door and the obnoxious crows that
paraded the area were the only two interruptions of the meditative
setting. With their minds distracted on
their stories in progress, I let myself study my students properly.
Separately, they are all as different as the compass
rose. Together, they hold a sense of
completion, somehow, almost as if one of each is a direction of north, south,
east and west: the Four Brothers.
Enoch, the highest in the class, is of average
height. Short hair tuffs cover his head
in a subtle black while the sweet features of his face give away his loving
charm and direct personality.
Periodically, his face would pop up from his notebook in wonder, and a
sudden light would spark in his eyes as his lips moved to voice an idea, a new
spontaneous thought, for his story in creation.
Omari, a tall and lean fella’, wears shoes that look
to be twice his size. His bald oval head
is suited by his thick, black, oval glasses that prevent him from looking
directly at any angle. I found him
repositioning frequently, as though he was still adjusting to the growing size
of his body. His head swayed to and fro
as his hand crossed the page, back and forth, back and forth, so
matter-of-fact.
George Mwuiri.
Oh, George. His upside-down,
triangle head is always voicing his blunt, not always needed, opinion. Though average in size, I would say he was
taller just because of his personality.
I can’t picture him in my mind with his mouth closed… His teeth are
always a feature of his face, whether if they are smiling, or gawking in
confusion. I caught him staring into
space, obviously stuck on what to write.
When his pencil began making big curves on the page, I told him to stop
making a picture of a madman and to keep writing.
Carlos always carries a serious face. He only talks if spoken to, his big eyes
always holding a spice of sadness or thought in them. I catch myself looking at his thick lips that
center his bold features, wondering what he is thinking, what far place his
mind is in. Sometimes, he stops writing
and stares into space, thinking about… something. Then he writes for a while longer, then back into
space.
At the end of the thirty-five minutes, they all
protest.
“Madam, that is not enough time.”
“Madam, I want to finish.”
“Madam…”
I tell them to finish their sentences, then haggled
their papers and hurried them off to class.
Walking to the staff room, I begin reading their
papers. The sense of warmth inside my
chest grew as I skimmed their work; proper verb tense, scattered punctuation,
descriptive words, adequate spelling, VOICE.
My kids used VOICE! I could
hardly keep my excitement personal as I began showing off my kid’s work, MY
kid’s. The papers were passed around the
room, my fellow teachers and I analyzing and discussing.
Enoch titled his, “Rumpleistarlisical.” Sure, a spinoff of “Rumplestiltskin,” but
complete with similes, dialogue, and appropriate magical nonsense. Omari began a story about a cat and a mouse,
straight forward and matter-of-fact, elaborated with pictures. “Do you remember the story of Jack and the
Beanstalk?” George Mwuiri began, while Carlos wrote about a hungry cat that
learned KungFu one day.
The following day, I called the brothers and handed
back their stories to continue their wave of imagination. They plopped themselves on the dirt ground
with their pencils in hand and were silenced to the winds of humming voices and
screeching crows.
By Emma Werntz
Working with the high flyers...
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