When I asked my ten-year-old children to write down their biggest worry, I was expecting responses like “homework” or “monsters,” but I was startled by the heartbreaking responses I received.
I have been Mrs. Albright in room 2B with my fourth-grade class for thirty-nine years. I’ll be retiring in a year. I still think that cursive handwriting has a tenacious charm, and the posters I laminated in 1992 have remained on the walls of my classroom, which has become a time capsule. Admittedly, I still have some faith in the “good old days.”
I feel a weird grief when I see my students at pickup time, their little faces engrossed in their parents’ phones. I was born and raised in the 1970s. The drama of my early years was equivalent to a scraped knee. Today’s seem to have everything that the world has to offer.
I brought a memento from my early years one Tuesday: my bright red, astronaut-decorated 1973 metal lunchbox.
— “This is my lunchbox, kids,” I declared with pride. Whether mom packed peanut butter or ham was our major concern while I was growing up.
They silently glanced back.
These days, you all appear so serious. Let’s play “Then & Now,” then.
On a card, I wrote: “What’s my main concern? getting the last choice in dodgeball
The tension was relieved by a few giggles. It was pleasant.
It’s your time now. Unidentified. Write down your worries. After that, fold your card and place it into the astronaut’s lunchbox.
Suddenly there was silence. There was only the sound of pencils scraping. Normally quite chatty, Mark sat motionless, staring at the ceiling. Before writing, Emily brushed away a tear. They placed their cards one by one, making an oddly loud sound with the gentle thud of paper on metal.
— “All right! See what has changed!
I joked and took out my own card. No one chuckled.
My smile was halted by what I had just read when I opened the next article.
When the doorbell rings after dark, I get frightened. Mom tells us to hide under the blankets after turning out all the lights. The dude from the bank, I believe.
I gasped. I took another.
In order to avoid being heard, Mom sobs while taking a shower. I overheard her telling Grandma that she was “so tired” and that the “medicine” no longer worked.
One more.
“My older brother threatens to upload the “awful video” of me crying online if I tell him what he does in his room. I have no idea what video he’s referring to.
One more.
To appear like the females on Mom’s phone, I try not to eat. However, I’m constantly hungry.
One more.
Every morning, I go into Dad’s closet. He promised to return after he had time to “discover himself.” He still hasn’t found his shoes.
I continued. For ten minutes. Everyone in the class held their breath.
I’ve read tales of parents who were “asleep” and never woke up. Screams through the walls of an apartment. about being afraid of the news. And from a young youngster who only wrote, “I wait for the bus alone.” I never get a farewell wave from anyone outside the window.
My voice vanished after I completed the final card. I got back up.
A lie was told about the “good old days.” Or far worse: a given.
They were not kids in front of me. They wore superhero t-shirts and were small, scared survivors.
I witnessed Emily, the “ideal” young girl, subtly approach Mark, “the talker.” He gave her hand a really firm squeeze.
Looking at my own card, I saw that it said, “Being picked last in dodgeball.”
That brilliant, foolish, trivial terror. Only in a world that is mild enough to let a youngster worry about so little can there be such a fear.
I squeezed my fist around the card. I didn’t discard it. I put it back in the lunchbox along with everything else. And now it was theirs.
— “The good old days” With a weak voice, I whispered. “Back then, it wasn’t much better. Simply put, it’s easier. We were permitted to keep the kids longer.
The bell rung. Nobody made a move.
I no longer keep the metal box as a memento on my shelf. I keep it as a reminder on my desk. Our culture is fixated with acting as though nothing is wrong. We don’t share the fight that preceded the vacation photo. Instead of showing the foreclosure notice tacked to the door, we display the ideal home.
Our kids are also observing. They aren’t “overly complex.” They simply exist in the world that we created.
Instead of instructing children to “be strong,” we should question them, “Is it heavy today?”
We don’t have to solve their issues. All we have to do is demonstrate that they are not alone in bearing the burden.
