Don't lose your shoe!
Today, when asked, “What do you think the theme of Cinderella is?” a fifth grader answered enthusiastically, “Don’t lose your shoe!”
I was observing a service-learning student who is teaching creative writing in the elementary school. The fifth graders had been working on a short story for a couple weeks, and today, they were learning now to bring together all the elements of story writing, to make something of meaning. The idea that stories need to mean something isn’t a simple concept to explain or understand.
As soon as the kid shouted out, “Don’t lose your shoe!” several students kicked off their shoes and wiggled their toes. I had to keep from laughing out loud.
Later, the fifth graders diligently continued to work on their stories while my student made the rounds. One student sat at his desk, hands folded, not writing. My student approached this boy and said, “I’ve never seen you before. Are you in this class?”
He shrugged.
“Is this where you’re supposed to be?” she repeated, using the teacherly method of asking the same question in different words.
“No,” he said slowly. “I’m supposed to be in French.”
I’m pretty certain there is no French class at the elementary school in our small, rural town, but the kid got up and wandered out of the classroom anyway.
All day those two boys’ comments—“Don’t lose your shoe!” and “I’m supposed to be in French”—have been delighting me between meetings and classes and even during the somber Maundy Thursday service I attended today. In fact, I wasn’t going to blog today, but I felt compelled to play with those two sentences on the page, to see what sense or meaning I could make of them.
Now, as I write this, I realize there is a connection, clear as day. The story of Cinderella is about displacement. Like the confused fifth grade boy, Cinderella finds herself in the wrong place at the wrong time, longing for something more romantic, more appealing (French?). OK, maybe sitting through a lesson on theme isn’t comparable to scrubbing out the chimney, but still. Who wouldn’t rather be in French than practically anywhere else?
But there’s another way to look at the story. Perhaps it is not about displacement as much as it is about risk. Another student in the class was quick to point out that the lost shoe led Cinderella to finding her true love. It's not the losing, but the finding, that matters in the end. But who knows if the prince will really treat Cinderella any better than her wicked stepmother and stepsisters? Who says the fairy godmother won’t need to sweep into her life yet again at some later date to save her?
We aren’t capable of knowing our stories in their entirety any more than we are capable of remembering with any certainty what led us to the place--physically and spiritually--in which we find ourselves. There is something fairy-godmother-ish about making sense of one's own story, a mystery that can't be pinned down. And yet we must--if we want to be fully alive, if we want to keep growing, we must.
Today, in between observations at the elementary school and a campus meeting about ways to better partner to support struggling students, I was a guest speaker in a class, where I talked about intersections between feminism and lesbianism. In response to a student’s question, I found myself talking about how surprising it was to discover I had a place in a small, rural town in West Central Minnesota, where I am one of only three Greek-Americans and a handful of queers. What I tried to say (though probably without much clarity) was that this place has pushed me to grow spiritually and intellectually in ways other places likely would not have. I lost my shoe (left my last home-place) and ended up in Morris instead of in French, but, well, here I am.
But maybe there is some middle ground between “don’t lose your shoe” and “I’m supposed to be in French class.” Maybe, in fact, we are supposed to live in that middle ground. It is surely the place where we are most alive if not least afraid.
I imagine those two fifth grade boys walking carefully along a tightrope, their hands stretched out as far as possible, fingers spread wide. Below them is everything they fear and long for, and from this vantage point, there is no distinction. And so they just keep walking, steadily, until the tightrope ends and they find a trampoline waiting (fairy-godmother-like) to keep them safe when they take the plunge. On the way down, they pull off their shoes and toss them recklessly into the air. I imagine those worn sneakers falling fast, bouncing over and over on the trampoline and resting finally beside the boys, who by then are lying on their backs, looking up, still bouncing a little, red with the rush of adrenaline that accompanied the fall.
I can hear those boys laughing. I can see them wiggling their toes.
I was observing a service-learning student who is teaching creative writing in the elementary school. The fifth graders had been working on a short story for a couple weeks, and today, they were learning now to bring together all the elements of story writing, to make something of meaning. The idea that stories need to mean something isn’t a simple concept to explain or understand.
As soon as the kid shouted out, “Don’t lose your shoe!” several students kicked off their shoes and wiggled their toes. I had to keep from laughing out loud.
Later, the fifth graders diligently continued to work on their stories while my student made the rounds. One student sat at his desk, hands folded, not writing. My student approached this boy and said, “I’ve never seen you before. Are you in this class?”
He shrugged.
“Is this where you’re supposed to be?” she repeated, using the teacherly method of asking the same question in different words.
“No,” he said slowly. “I’m supposed to be in French.”
I’m pretty certain there is no French class at the elementary school in our small, rural town, but the kid got up and wandered out of the classroom anyway.
All day those two boys’ comments—“Don’t lose your shoe!” and “I’m supposed to be in French”—have been delighting me between meetings and classes and even during the somber Maundy Thursday service I attended today. In fact, I wasn’t going to blog today, but I felt compelled to play with those two sentences on the page, to see what sense or meaning I could make of them.
Now, as I write this, I realize there is a connection, clear as day. The story of Cinderella is about displacement. Like the confused fifth grade boy, Cinderella finds herself in the wrong place at the wrong time, longing for something more romantic, more appealing (French?). OK, maybe sitting through a lesson on theme isn’t comparable to scrubbing out the chimney, but still. Who wouldn’t rather be in French than practically anywhere else?
But there’s another way to look at the story. Perhaps it is not about displacement as much as it is about risk. Another student in the class was quick to point out that the lost shoe led Cinderella to finding her true love. It's not the losing, but the finding, that matters in the end. But who knows if the prince will really treat Cinderella any better than her wicked stepmother and stepsisters? Who says the fairy godmother won’t need to sweep into her life yet again at some later date to save her?
We aren’t capable of knowing our stories in their entirety any more than we are capable of remembering with any certainty what led us to the place--physically and spiritually--in which we find ourselves. There is something fairy-godmother-ish about making sense of one's own story, a mystery that can't be pinned down. And yet we must--if we want to be fully alive, if we want to keep growing, we must.
Today, in between observations at the elementary school and a campus meeting about ways to better partner to support struggling students, I was a guest speaker in a class, where I talked about intersections between feminism and lesbianism. In response to a student’s question, I found myself talking about how surprising it was to discover I had a place in a small, rural town in West Central Minnesota, where I am one of only three Greek-Americans and a handful of queers. What I tried to say (though probably without much clarity) was that this place has pushed me to grow spiritually and intellectually in ways other places likely would not have. I lost my shoe (left my last home-place) and ended up in Morris instead of in French, but, well, here I am.
But maybe there is some middle ground between “don’t lose your shoe” and “I’m supposed to be in French class.” Maybe, in fact, we are supposed to live in that middle ground. It is surely the place where we are most alive if not least afraid.
I imagine those two fifth grade boys walking carefully along a tightrope, their hands stretched out as far as possible, fingers spread wide. Below them is everything they fear and long for, and from this vantage point, there is no distinction. And so they just keep walking, steadily, until the tightrope ends and they find a trampoline waiting (fairy-godmother-like) to keep them safe when they take the plunge. On the way down, they pull off their shoes and toss them recklessly into the air. I imagine those worn sneakers falling fast, bouncing over and over on the trampoline and resting finally beside the boys, who by then are lying on their backs, looking up, still bouncing a little, red with the rush of adrenaline that accompanied the fall.
I can hear those boys laughing. I can see them wiggling their toes.
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