To The Kids Denied Talking and Recess

Today we are hanging out in the hall, me and some first graders. Friday afternoon, waiting for the bell.

I’m helping kids with jackets and bags and shoes. He says to me, “Today was a bad day.”

I love to come see the kids on Friday because no matter my week, these few minutes of kid time cheer me up. We talk about Batman versus Spider-Man and how heavy their books are and what their favorite colors are. My favorite colors are always theirs, too. And I’m not lying.

I think he is reading my mind. Today was a bad day. But I can see in his eyes that his day was a bad day in a way that was different from mine. He slumps against the wall.

I ask him why today was a bad day. And then I slump with him.

The other kids were talking. A lot. It was breakfast. The kids were talking. They were loud. 

I think he is about to cry. I bend my head closer to his. We are still slumped.

The teacher said they can’t talk anymore. They can’t have recess anymore.

That’s not fun, I say. That would make me sad. For how many days?

“For all the days,” he says.

All the days. He can’t talk for all of the days.

I tell him that would make me angry. I ask him if he likes to talk. He does. I tell him I do, too. I say I would be sad if someone told me I couldn’t talk anymore. He nods. I tell him I like when we talk. He nods. I tell him I will talk to him next week.

So, young man, we will talk. We will talk about the teachers that tell you not talk. We will talk about our favorite cereals, about why math is fun, why the librarian looks like the teacher in Captain Underpants. We will walk out the door and keep talking. We will talk about fairness and trouble. We will talk about wanting both but always only finding one. We will talk about our mothers, how they don’t take shit from us and because of that, we trust them more than anyone. 

I want to talk with you for years. I want to talk with you when you’re in middle school and trying to walk that line between being independent and wanting everyone’s approval. I want to talk with you when you write that first essay when you take a real risk and it pays off. I want to talk with you when you ask out your first date and get rejected. I want to hear you talk for hours when you try to decide if you can live with your parents anymore and talk with you when you finally have to leave and are terrified.

You will talk. You will talk all the days. You will be at a microphone. And you will be heard.