wisdom from kiddos, vol. 1

a couple months ago, I began volunteering at the Boston chapter of 826 National, a non-profit writing center for kids that runs various activities and workshops, including an after-school tutoring program, which is the one I'm involved with.

after about two sessions, one afternoon I found myself paired with a 5th grade girl, who was working on a short story about a family dog - based on her chihuahua at home - who gets kidnapped by a miserly old neighbor.

we were brainstorming reasons why the neighbor might commit such a heinous crime. her first idea was that the dog “did her buisiness” on the neighbor’s lawn, but I suggested, as foul as this was, it wasn’t quite reason enough for a treacherous dog-napping. as she scratched her head with her pencil and stared at her story outline, she asked me what I did for a job. I told her I work at a cafe, making coffee and sandwiches and such.

“Oh! So you must be really good at making sandwiches!” she said with a big smile.

I mentally indexed my professional resume - publicist, event coordinator, editor, student facilitator, assistant manager - and smiled back at her. “Yeah, you’re right, I guess I am really good at making sandwiches.”

we went back to our brainstorming session, and to help get some ideas flowing, I asked her to tell me what the story was like so far. she began giving me the rundown, and then her eyes lit up.

“It’s like making a sandwich!” she said. “First, you have the bread, and that’s the family and their dog. And then you have…” she looked to me for guidance.

“Lettuce and tomato,” I said, matter-of-factly.

“Right, the lettuce and tomato, which is the dog getting lost! And then you have the MEAT, and that’s what we’re working on right now! And then the mustard, or ketchup, and then the top of the bread, which is the end. And then…”

I grinned at her. “You’re right. Writing a story is just like making a sandwich!”

she got excited then, and started going off on a tangent about her dog, and her best friend, and her mom goes to school, and her little cousin and...

“Ohhkaayy,” I interrupted her, grabbed a pencil from the table, and pulled her homework binder closer to the both of us. “How about for now, let’s work on the meat.”

I swear, these smart, creative little bastards are going to save me from the wretched monotony that my life has become.