“Every thought is a seed. If you plant crab apples, don’t count on harvesting Golden Delicious.”
Featured Story
week of February 29, 2020
Dolly and Me
by Anonymous
Looking back, I can see that I did hate her. But if at the time someone had accused me of hating Dolly, I would have been shocked and angry.
I didn't consciously hate her. It was the unsavory idea of her I hated—the way she looked, the way she was clothed, the way she smelled, the hopelessness of the poverty that she represented.
“
That which grows fast, withers as rapidly. That which grows slowly, endures.
”
J. G. Holland
Extreme poverty, thrust upon us in the shape of a walking, breathing human, demands a response from us—whether it be compassion, anger, or denial. There it is, and we must deal with it.
But during my first year of teaching my main concern was to get the children from one day's assignments to the next, as out- lined in the Course of Study.
I'm sure that during at least two or three of my college classes I'd been introduced to the abstract principles of being a humanitarian. But any such seeds planted in my brain hadn't yet sprouted.
I do remember a quotation from Emerson I found in one of my books. It went something like this: "I cannot hear what you are saying over the thunder of what you are." The words didn't touch my personally, though. After all, I was a commendable young woman aspiring to be a schoolteacher. I copied the quotation in my collection of wisdom that applied to other people.
I didn't scold or mistreat Dolly. I simply ignored her. I conditioned myself to ignore her sordid little presence the same way you condition yourself to ignore an unappealing object you have to keep around becuase it was a gift. When I did feel bound to include her in the recitation periods, I spoke to her politely.
“
Definiteness of purpose is the starting point of all achievement
.”
W. Clement Stone
I can picture her sitting on the long recitation bench with the other third graders—her feet not touching the floor, not swinging back and forth like the others, just hanging there. I can see her wan face turning toward me, her dark eyes with a look I couldn't bear to meet. And her mouth gaping open because she couldn't breathe through her stuffed-up nose.
Dolly was my most well-behaved student, the one who gave me the least trouble. All she did, day by day, moment by momen, was die. A tender little plant dying for lack of warmth and light and nourishment and a gentle rain now and then.
But since Dolly was so unappetizing, and looking at her filled me with a sense of reproach, i just ignored her. Except for her papers. My soul curdles with self-revulsion at the memory of those bold checkmarks I slashed across her faint and barely legible scrawls that bespoke a child hanging on the edge of malnutrition. In my very important gradebook, I recorded her scores. In looking back, I know she tried—at least until everything seemed to her hope- less. I never gave her an A for effort.
My cruelty wound like a scarlet thread, until one day in early spring, when I went too far.
I was explaining some new mathematical concept to the third grade when I noticed Dolly gazing out the window with the end of a pencil in her mouth. Rebellion.
“Dolly,” I said firmly, “will you look this way, please?”
Blankly, as though waking from a dream, she turned toward me.
I pointed to the chalkboard with my long pointer stick. (How teacherish I felt when I held this instrument!)
“Do you understand how to do this problem, Dolly?”
Dolly stared uncomprehending toward the board, her little brow knit with anxiety.
“Very well, I will explain it to you. Again.” My impatience was like a withering wind to Dolly. I could see her pinched face.
Becoming bored and restless, the rest of the students turned to other things. I tapped on the board with the stick.
I felt this was something so simple even Dolly could see it if she would! “Now look closely, Dolly. I will explain it one more time!”
Now the chill wind touched the other children. They all stopped what they were doing to and stared at Dolly and me. They had never heard me sound so angry.
And Dolly? Her face at that moment is frozen forever in my mind. Her eyes were wide with surprise and full of that dark shadow I now know is chronic pain.
Suddenly she put her head down on her thin little arms, and all the sorrow she’d been bottling up came pouring out in hideous, gulping sobs. In a state of shock and disbelief, I stared at her shuddering body.
Now you know what it’s like to have the power to destroy a child, I thought. How does it feel?
I knew I must get Dolly to a secluded spot. I went to her, drew her out of her desk, and led her outside into the brilliant sunshine. Parked not far from the schoolhouse was the old yellow bus, and I helped her up into it. We sat on the front seat, Dolly cradled in my arms. I let her cry and cry and cry, and I pressed my cheek against her unwashed head, which felt feverish and damp.
“Forgive me, Dolly, please, please, forgive me,” I murmured, and I suppose my tears added to the dampness of her hair. I will never forget the mingled joy and pain of those tears. How they freed me from the oppression of my sin against this child.
We both cried until the pain was washed away.
Then we went back into the schoolroom, and all was different—at least for Dolly and me.
—From Insight Presents More Unforgettable Stories
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