You're All Grown Up Now

Today I heard too many stories of the kids I had to let out of my nest. "Fly!" I said.

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It was all dog-eared from too much wear, and it had only been two days. As he pulled it out of his pocket one more time, one of the corners disintegrated, soft from friction. Row after row, column after column. This number was where he needed to go first period, that number was second, over there was third (but only during the first trimester--the numbers changed during the second and third). That number was his locker. And the bolded number at the top? That was him. 6428.

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Caught between walls again. No matter how many corners he turned, he was never in the right place. When he opened the doors all he heard was voices: Irritation, Stress, Disillusionment, Weariness. They all told him he was in the wrong room. Try again. 

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He dropped his books. The wittiest tongue, the most wide-awake eyes. Done. They were done. 

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I fear for my children. How do I prepare them for their robotization, their impersonalization? I love their hearts, and so I break a little as I send them to the lions' den.

The System begins in 7th grade.

"Hope, hope, hope, hope..."

It has become my refrain.