Of Caterpillars and Chrysalises

Two weeks into the school year and I find myself surrounded by teenaged souls in various stages of formation.  Already, I've worked with more than 20 classes of these kids, and, while it has at times felt like running downhill, I've really enjoyed the hubbub. Yesterday, as the big hand of the clock inched towards 3, I turned to Helen and said "The library feels really happy this year, doesn't it?"  She agreed.

East is as full as it has been in many, many years, with 1,900 young caterpillars, chrysalises and butterflies slogging,  sitting and flying through this space each weekday.  We adults in the building--ourselves in various stages of transformation--are expected to meet the kids where they are.  As I've said many times before, working in a school is not for sissies.

Earlier this week, an English class was sitting before me, in the library to choose personal-reading books.  I shared my recipe for finding a good book, pointed them to our collections, and wandered with them as they decided which ones to choose.    One girl, lovely and olive-skinned, quietly asked if we had any books about Syria.  When I pulled out the one fiction book set in Syria that we had, she teared up and said 'That's Arabic on the cover."  Nodding, I was feeling pretty good about myself, until she followed up with "I don't want anyone to know that I speak Arabic."

Sometimes, caterpillars feed on hatred.

Helen and I quickly conferred in my office, deciding to tear the cover off the book.  I handed her a plain, red book and she left.  And then, we got to work looking for other fiction books we could buy that were set in a country so far away from my own.

The next afternoon, the girl returned.  I had no idea what to expect.  She smiled shyly, held up the book and said "I love it!  I have been to many of these places!"

Sometimes, butterflies emerge from desolation.

Wednesday morning, this same student came into the library before school.  She printed a poem she'd written and handed me a copy.  There, in those sparse words, was her own arc, a timeline filled with bullets and fear, hope and heaps of courage.

Sometimes, young butterflies inspire 54-year-old caterpillars to be transformed once again.