Tuesday, May 25, 2010

I ddeall y plentyn: To vault the Mending Wall or a descending pall?

It was sometime in the midst of the first stratum, in a portable outbuilding acting as a makeshift classroom. Class was not yet fully assembled and young scholars milled about in the bright morning.
Masters Capone and Stoddard stood in the back, listening intently to the agitated neophyte, Master Streeter. He had a smaller frame than his schoolmates, an anaemic hue, and tousled hair of ash topping his noggin.

“What is it, mate? What’s troubling you?” the two lads asked young Streeter. The boy’s slate-blue eyes had welled up, puffy underneath. His keening hung in the air like that of a forlorn calf. High-pitched blubbering interspersed with a mish-mash of words — all of it impenetrable.

He wasn’t getting through.

“Tell us what’s wrong, man.” Capone and Stoddard wondered if this impasse wasn’t exacerbating his distress.
He continued to weep, and by week’s end, Master Streeter was gone from the classroom.

Domestic issues? Emotional issues? A combination thereof?
Communicating across the globe is much taken for granted in this day.
But what about the little boy at your feet sobbing because he cannot connect?

“I have striven not to laugh at human actions, not to weep at them, nor to hate them, but to understand them.” — Spinoza