All those who know me well know that. They know how in love with my students, how great is the love that binds me to them, the better at the more listless. They are, for better or worse, they are my boys. And as we adults like to complain about them, with the usual phrases like "there are more young than once," they always surprise us and prove better than silly simplification wants us to believe. Surprise us, even here, for better or for worse. The day of the funeral of my mother just got out of that church took me in the hospital of Grosseto, my eyes, as if hypnotized by that coffin from the hearse and I knew to be his, immediately moved to them, without knowing my mother, nor ever having seen, have digested two hundred kilometers to come and give her a final farewell and give me a sincere hug. Back in school I thanked them for their sincere and deep sympathy, and that of the bodies of thought, less immediate but no less profound. I understand that this was a time when the fence needed of roles in which each of us is always caged should crumble under the weight of feelings and where, finally free, take a breath and voice to the unsaid. So my "babies" as I call them love, they sweetened the most painful day of my life, so my students, with their presence and their proximity, were stitches to a deep wound and their genuine affection is still a balm that soothes and reassures, which warms and supports, perhaps the most effective drug for pain like this.
always surprises, for better or for worse. Disconcerting at times with their inherent inability of the merger, with their lack of cooperation with their difficulties you know when it's time to give something, instead of star always there to take as octopuses. Amaze us with their cries, with their constant "prof. can move the question? ", with their yawning, with that load of breath of nicotine, with those delays continue, with the chronic fear in the face of any test. We must get used to it, if you want to survive. My "babies" are well (and sometimes I think that some of them, with parents who find themselves, are too well ....).
surprising, as this morning. Register, once again, their complete inability to listen to classmates' questions, a sign of very low cunning and intelligence, because I, like all other teachers, I always repeat the usual questions, replicated so many times that even the mosquitoes of the lagoon of Orbetello know the process of the Hegelian dialectic. Oh well, did not enter into his head ...." there's no way ", as they say. They're hanging out on benches, chewing sweets, to roll a cigarette (speriamo. ...) to pause next to copy the version of greek, grumbling among themselves. And then, as this morning, we leave these wonderful childhood regression and back, unconscious, in the fifth grade, in a gray area, and indefinite that you, poor teacher, you do not understand if you're dealing with adults or brutalized with cavemen . So This morning my kids second, four girls and I wondered about Galileo and Descartes, were eclipsed, you are mentally away from class, and Carlo Maria, Samuel, Simon, and Carlo Alberto (well, always the "magnificent four") were made to make the balls of paper to pull the casing of the pen bic, surpassing ability to aim the target. And those balls, ably directed and down miraculously from the collar to your back,
going to slip in sweater Carlo Maria who, after ten minutes of "Battle of the blowgun," began to be impatient for this to show signs of undue violence and outbursts , moving convulsively on the bench, scratching at a steady pace, panting to his companions. Tired of this continual murmur, I began to raise his voice, silence to ask, to demand respect for the fellow asked. So Carlo Maria, in the clumsy attempt to justify his lack of discipline, looked at me with pleading eyes forgiveness and said: "I know, sorry prof. but I have full sweater Pippola. "Full": the verb "full". Oh God I feel sick.
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