9

School Days and Preschool Days, Too:
A treasury of anecdotes culled from my work and play as a preschool worker and an elementary school after- school activities supervisor
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("Definition of a Shark" continued)

     "DAT'S NOT A SHAAK!!" They both exclaimed again, looking at each other in mutual amusement that I could be so ignorant.
      "It's not?" I said, genuinely baffled at what was preventing my creation from passing the shark test. Short of going back to art school for three years of life-drawing, there didn't seem to be anything more I could do.

      Fortunately, a light will occasionally go on in my mind, feeding me the perfect "out" for a situation. It happened right then.
      I said, No, boys, that's not a shark." I paused for emphasis before adding, "That's a barracuda!"
      I said it as though a barracuda is a far more exotic, desirable fish. Both boys' eyes lit up.
      "A bayacooda!" said the open-mouthed twin I was pushing the drawing toward.
      "I want a bayacooda, too!" effused the other twin.
      Soon both boys were happily coloring in their fish. They wanted a whole tankful of barracudas, apparently, each requesteding another one after coloring the first, and then another one after that.
      When the more extroverted of the boys finished coloring his third barracuda, his eyes lit up again, as though he knew he'd finally met the person who could bring forth in a drawing the exact representation of his private, inner vision. "Now draw a Bad Guy who is nice!" he enthusiastically requested.
      I hesitated, my knees weak and my breath suspended by the boy's poetry! A bad guy who is nice! Ah, if only we all spoke ten percent as interestingly.
      I looked at the poet and silently wondered, "Do you mean that you like wild, dangerous things, like the barracuda-shark you just colored, but that in the human realm, real evil is too threatening to actually represent? So you want him appearing in a way that won't scare you too much? Do you mean people think he's a bad guy, but he really has a heart of gold?"
      I could have gone on all day, meditating on the music and the beauty of the little fellow's words. But I was drawn from my reverie by the demands of many small children. The clean-up bell rang right after that, and I never did draw the bad guy who is nice.
      Nor am I sure I could. I still go into a heaven of appreciative awe at the poetry of that young imagination, though—into a veritable mobius strip of enjoyment, just rolling the words back and forth in my mind every time I think of them.

*****
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