The Truth

If you haven’t read The Instructions please go back and read them first.

And then come back and read The Truth.

This is what happened.

I was walking down the hall.

I was walking and I heard the kids chant.

I heard their innocent voices rise.

I heard their beautiful voices cry.

I heard them sing, Don’t write outside the box.

And I heard her ugly voice.

Her voice that stopped them dead.

Her voice that killed like a scythe cutting through a field of sunflowers.

Her voice that perturbed like a siren in a quiet night.

That’s right.

Don’t write outside the box, she screeched.

If you write outside the box…

Bla bla bla…

And the one next door to her said the same.

And his voice stopped me inside my head.

His voice stopped me inside my step.

I was walking down the hall and my legs stopped moving.

And I turned around and walked a few steps back.

And I looked through the little glass window on his classroom door.

I looked and saw faces transfixed.

Faces aged fourteen and fifteen and sixteen.

So young and yet so tired.

Faces exhausted by repetition.

Faces transfixed by fear.

Faces lit by anguish.

You can’t fail, he said.

And they looked at him like he was walking on water.

And they nodded their heads.

And I thought to myself, What are they, idiots, that we have to talk to them like this?

And I walked to my classroom.

And I sat in my chair.

And I was angry.

And I was sad.

And I clutched myself and said to myself, What am I doing here?

Why do I stay?
I can walk away from this and do anything else.
Anything at all.

And the kids walked out of their classes.

And their voices interrupted my thoughts.

And I stood outside my door and watched them.

And they looked at each other anxiously.

And their eyes said, We can’t fail.

And they came into my class.

And we sat together and read “Harrison Bergeron.”

And the kids asked me, Miss, what does it mean?

And I said, You tell me.

And they told me.

And the music of their voices filled my heart.

But the irony of it strained my chest.

And my eyes wanted to cry.

But The Instructions say, Don’t cry in front of the students.

So I held back my tears. I stayed inside my box.

And when we had finished exchanging ideas, the kids said,

We’re real nervous about the big test tomorrow, Miss.

And I wanted to tell them that it was okay to fail. People fail, sometimes. It’s okay. It happens, I wanted to say.

But if I’d told them that and they’d failed I would have let them down.

The Instructions don't allow them to fail.

So I would have been lying.

So I stayed inside my box.

And instead, I told them, Real heroes fall.

And the kids asked me, Miss, what does it mean?
And I said, You tell me.

And they told me.

And the music of their voices filled my heart.

And one boy said, Miss, I still don’t get it.

And I said, You will get it in your own good time.

And they started to leave.

And as they walked out the door, we gave each other high fives.

And as they walked down the hall I heard them say, We still gotta pass that test tomorrow.