As plain as the nose on my face. The expression has taken on
a new meaning for me. Some of the paras would not let the kids touch them.
Children are germy creatures. And who says children are not good at sharing?
One of my students shared her impetigo with me. Undiagnosed for too long while
I tried home remedies, it dug in deep, leaving me easily susceptible to
recurring infections that have thankfully dwindled over time.
As plain as the nose on my face. Some days I have to resist
the urge to hide. I try not to worry what people might think or how they might
react to the horror that is my face. I dress up, hold my head high, put my best
foot forward, and fake the confidence I don’t feel. How can I convince my
students that it’s what is on the inside that counts if I don’t at least act
like I believe it about myself? I hope that my care for others can be as plain
as the nose on my face.
As plain as the nose on my face. They said children with
autism have trouble expressing emotion, but she wore hers on her face and
clothed her whole body in them. Her difficulty communicating with words did not
keep people from understanding—if they really wanted to. When she was angry or
upset, great storm clouds would gather in her eyes and across her brow. Her
body would hum with a violent electricity as she gathered lightning bolts in
her fists and the thunder rumbled low in her throat. All it took to calm the
rising storm was someone paying attention, listening beyond the words she
couldn’t find to speak. And when she felt happy and safe and loved? Who was I
to shy away from a slobbery hand on my face that spoke clearer than any words
ever could?
As plain as the nose on my face. So many times I sat next to
that little boy, listening to him recite all the knowledge he had gleaned from
hours of poring over the encyclopedia, understanding the joy and wonder so big
and full it had to come spilling out during math practice, reminding him at
last to focus—focus, cringing
inwardly as he dug deep in his nostrils and then, without pausing, tapped
insistently with the same finger on my arm. “Mrs. Bader! Mrs. Bader! Mrs.
Bader! Did you know there are 206 bones in the adult human body and more for
babies? Wanna hear me name them? Huh?” Always I waited a few beats—until he was
back on track with his math facts—before calmly walking to the hand sanitizer
and bathing in it with my back turned so he couldn’t see. Next time, I would be
faster to remind him of tissues and manners and hygiene. But who was I to
trample his joy in knowing things too big and wonderful to contain?
As plain as the nose on my face. The lanky sophomore with
stringy hair dyed an impossible shade sits in his desk, legs sprawling outward,
head hung down, earbuds silencing the world crowding around him. He comes to
class, but he never does the work, rarely speaks to anyone, only reads his
favorite book series over and over again. Sometimes I can get him to say a few
words to me. Other times he only snarls. I won’t stop trying. For him I will
finally read Harry Potter. I don’t need to see his IEP or his 504 to read the
anger and depression that are as plain as the nose on my face.
As plain as the nose on my face. She shuffles shyly to her
seat, trying to draw as little notice as possible to the growing bump that has
replaced the firm, flat belly she so recently flaunted. Some of her classmates
already know, others are too lost In their own teenage drama. Last week her
boyfriend stopped coming to class. He wasn’t doing his English work, so he
might as well get a job to support them all. I hope he will still get his GED. When
I get the chance, I ask her about her plans, try to show excitement about a new
life rather than expressing judgment over things she can’t undo. I offer
encouragement: finish school, you can make it work, I know. Her smile lights up
her face and spreads its warmth across the room, plainer than the nose on my
face.
