Infanticide

With hundreds of students bringing in six periods worth of other class materials, I feel somewhat isolated in the English building. I see enigmatic Chemistry books under their arms and esoteric History books peering out of unzipped backpacks. Earlier today, in a vain attempt to feel connected, I read the cover of a student's math book and said, “What's 'cal-KOO-luss'?” She was more confused than amused.

The grass is always greener...On my side of the fence, King Zeus and Kobo Abe sulk with me as wonderful experiments, exciting projects, and intriguing homework from other classes parade around, flaunting their grandiose mystery.

And the Grand Marshall of the parade, the most educational and most entertaining project, the Flour Child. High-school students are asked to be “simulated parents” by carrying around a sack of flour everywhere they go. The Life Skills teacher at my school took it step further by having the students put faces on their flour sacks.

Some keep their flour sack in their lap all period. Some coddle their faux offspring. Some even made clothes for their simulated child. The simulated parents are passionate parents. With their general apathy for my forced English assignments, seeing their enthusiasm birthed a faith in me that students do have fortitude and “stick-to-it-ness.”

I've grown so accustomed to the flour children that I, too, have now started to personify them. I know Julia has a “child” named Pearl. I know Ivan had his “son's” ear pierced. Though I sometimes lose hope in my students desire for their own education, I've put my deepest trusts in the flour children to teach ultimate responsibility, honesty, and mental toughness. In that way, maybe the simulated parent assignment was more important for me than for the students.

But to my horror, this morning I stumbled upon the scene of the crime. A tiny child brutally torn open by the blunt force trauma of a shoe tip. Smooth baby flesh could not repel the rage and irresponsibility of a failed parent.

The murder fled the scene, leaving the gutted carcass behind. The callous parent tracked sneaker grooves unceremoniously through the white powder during their cowardly escape. Still smiling, the infant looked up at me. Love for one's child or education was not universal. My childish belief curb stomped to death: students cared no more for this beautiful project than they did for any of my sterile essays.