"It's so mysterious the land of tears"
Antoine de Saint-Exupery
My daughter has not stopped to mourn for a couple of days. He says he thinks things sad and tears come out unintentionally. Says he's going to eat chocolate to see if it happens. I am looking for a huge box of chocolates, but I warn you that the only way to remove the sadness is in his heart that the chocolates do not help.
We ended up with the box of chocolates. She cries out. I cry inside. Wow
hidden, so that my children will not see me. I cry because my daughter cries I do not know what the reason. I'm an immature mother who cries. My son sees me with red eyes and asks me what's wrong. Allergy say. You sad, he says. Soon be four years.
My daughter wants to be a child again. He tells me he talked with a friend. He tells me in English so that no one understands. We translate the phrase my friend. My friend says they are normal reactions of a girl who is about to start school. He comes up unknown, requirements, responsibilities, "he says. I am an inexperienced mother who believes that the school is just the excitement of colors and cartridges, the smell of new notebooks and pencil sharpener.
Not that I know that school is repression. Foucault says that schools, museums, mental hospitals are places where "normalize" the other. And while the contemporary school creates a paragon of virtue in regard to respect for differences, the truth is that everything is more or less the same. The school is a machine that flattens the differences, destroys creativity, apart and separate. That I know, not Foucault but for myself, but when my daughter is only thinking about the thrill of tips to get 12 new colors and stick labels on the books.
Of course my daughter does not think of Foucault when she cries. Or think of me that I was a student very good but misunderstood, never a favorite of teachers, always sitting in last place to which many looked bad. My daughter may think in a very big yellow bus that will have to climb alone. A room full of desks with strange children. Some tasks that must be delivered on time.
Today we will put your name on each pencil, eraser, notebook. Today I will be wiser and not cry hidden. I will not cry at all. Today will comfort your fears when we eat another box of chocolates.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery
My daughter has not stopped to mourn for a couple of days. He says he thinks things sad and tears come out unintentionally. Says he's going to eat chocolate to see if it happens. I am looking for a huge box of chocolates, but I warn you that the only way to remove the sadness is in his heart that the chocolates do not help.
We ended up with the box of chocolates. She cries out. I cry inside. Wow
hidden, so that my children will not see me. I cry because my daughter cries I do not know what the reason. I'm an immature mother who cries. My son sees me with red eyes and asks me what's wrong. Allergy say. You sad, he says. Soon be four years.
My daughter wants to be a child again. He tells me he talked with a friend. He tells me in English so that no one understands. We translate the phrase my friend. My friend says they are normal reactions of a girl who is about to start school. He comes up unknown, requirements, responsibilities, "he says. I am an inexperienced mother who believes that the school is just the excitement of colors and cartridges, the smell of new notebooks and pencil sharpener.
Not that I know that school is repression. Foucault says that schools, museums, mental hospitals are places where "normalize" the other. And while the contemporary school creates a paragon of virtue in regard to respect for differences, the truth is that everything is more or less the same. The school is a machine that flattens the differences, destroys creativity, apart and separate. That I know, not Foucault but for myself, but when my daughter is only thinking about the thrill of tips to get 12 new colors and stick labels on the books.
Of course my daughter does not think of Foucault when she cries. Or think of me that I was a student very good but misunderstood, never a favorite of teachers, always sitting in last place to which many looked bad. My daughter may think in a very big yellow bus that will have to climb alone. A room full of desks with strange children. Some tasks that must be delivered on time.
Today we will put your name on each pencil, eraser, notebook. Today I will be wiser and not cry hidden. I will not cry at all. Today will comfort your fears when we eat another box of chocolates.
0 comments:
Post a Comment