Whole life, Trained, prepared. Mold me, make me. Teach me, drill me into common sense, the voice of reason. Print out the cell map, forget the child. Some master plan. I knew little else, than to love. But empty arms to haunt and hunger. What was meant, Knowledge. What I am, lacking the same. No music for a song. No watercolors, only white walls of lost possibilities. No sensation at all. And it’s my own laughter That echoes in the chamber of mothers soul. Poem by Tommy Fourth Grade, Spring 2025 Classroom 2025... I smiled as I thought of Louise, her pigtails and enthusiasm. She often played house and store while others worked on their computers, learning the latest software, going on virtual field trips and researching technology. The corner the children used for a playhouse was next to the play store; its red and blue cash register had long been replaced by a play ATM machine and credit cards where play money was once valued. The children had all seen the last shuttle go to the moon, with less excitement than had been displayed the past dozen times they saw it. A mighty piece of metal and steel, flying to the moon; a sign of hope, of the future, of mankind’s past achievements and the possibilities we have for the years to come. They had seen the shuttle and giggled at the idea of aliens and little green men. I allowed them extra time to be children that day. To explore their imaginations and dabble in the idea of Martians and outer space creatures. Surely the movies they had seen and the books they had read were of a great influence to their day dreams, but the thought that they could still dream was what I took refuge in. By 2025 I didn’t expect so many children to be just that. Children. Mostly I heard about the teen pregnancies. That wasn’t new. And the school violence, teaching diversity; nothing new. But here, thinking about my classroom, the years of advancement; the changes in technology, morality, politics; these were all connected. And as we put all things unto the responsibility of children, I didn’t think that in the end, there would be any child left inside them. I remembered the day Tommy smiled up at me from his computer. “Simulate is not the same as create, is it teacher?” I wasn’t sure how to answer him then, as I searched the room of children, their boxes of crayons left idle, some never even opened. Toys left s behind for better and more challenging software games. “I made a picture!” Tommy looked for my approval and I smiled, but secretly I despised the tiny computer drawing. It’s perfect red and just right blues. It’s straight lines and predawn clip art. He had been so proud the day he learned Power Point. Now I wished it had been in the curriculum to just let him draw with crayons on paper. I would have let him color the walls if his heart desired. “Can I talk to Amy?” “Did you finish all your work?” “Yes. Amy is going to email me pictures of her favorite animals.” I had smiled then. I loved Amy. She was my first student who took advantage of schooling through correspondence courses. Amy was wheel chair bound and often had seizures. Her parents kept her at home but she regularly attended my classes through a video camera and the Internet. A lot of parents were skeptical, thinking that their own children’s education would suffer my attention, but in time Amy was accepted by everyone and part of our school family. Amy’s animal pictures sent by email were very interesting and sparked many conversations among the children. I still couldn’t help but wonder if this artificial world of technology would later harm my children. Seeing was not the same as living. And I hoped they would have confidence in reality. I had an impressive collection of books on animals, though the children preferred to look at the computer, and I thought that given the chance, they would even prefer the real experience of going to a zoo. That option should be there; even for such a normal activity. I thought they should see and touch the animals. And realize that in many cases, these animals were related to the ones who are still in the wild, or what’s left of it. I thought they needed a link between what they researched electronically and their own resources, their own culture, the foods they ate, their transportation, even to the backyard of their imagination. And I still had faith that this place of creativity existed. My thoughts had been interrupted then. Gym class. We taught nutrition and health mostly. It was rare to have a game of kick ball. We couldn’t expect the fourth grade bulimic to concentrate on kick ball. Last year a girl passed out. A movie is shown on stress management, sometimes the children choose to go to counseling, having someone else be the adult in their life for once and listen or just mop up their tears. I wasn’t worried about those students. It was those who seemed desensitized that bothered me. I suggested a game of tag; to promote group participation and later, as a fight breaks out, problem solving techniques. I think it was on our way back to class that I saw the display “Time Capsules” by Mr.Sharp’s Class. The time capsule project was too include things of today with an explanation of how it was different from just the past few decades. There were things like a computer mouse, versus a pencil. Or a pregnancy-training doll in place of a baby doll. To think these children could see tangible evidence that the times were changing, but there was so little time spent on what they could not see, or rather, what they could not always explain, but its roots going much deeper than we, as teachers, wanted to acknowledge. More than half of my students that year was diagnosed with something or other. There was ADD, maniac-depressives, Terrets Syndrome, children born to alcoholics, children born to poverty; to abusive households, to teenage parents, to disease such as AIDS and cancer. Every child had some sort of issue and they all came with baggage. I allowed them to freely express themselves; to dive into the world of the Internet, to find pen pals with similar situations, and then, on a comfortable level, allowed those students who wished to share their letters or concerns with the class as a group. The new curriculum asked for a better understanding of other nations cultures, their politics, language, and religions. Through research, reports, projects and email, I found that children related to one another, but that they were walking around in one another heads, aimlessly. Pen pals gave advice, some good, some poor. But mostly the social problems were just out there, with no real solution. I wanted to give my students all the answers, as did many other instructors. But where others indulged the children in medication or art therapy, I wanted to show the children other options and make a real difference. “When you are angry, what do you do?” I asked. Some said they displayed acts of violence, toward others or themselves. Other students said they shut themselves away from the world, whether turning towards music, TV, Internet, or food. I made a mental note to research the children who said things such as “My friend does drugs.” I knew I didn’t have the answers. Even technology was trying to find a happy medium where children could find an equal. Software programs could evaluate a child’s ability and appropriately adapt to a program of their level. This was a more personalized curriculum, yet lacked the bond between student and teacher, or student and real life. I thought children should not wish for what was out there “somewhere”, unless they had all ready explored and gained respect for the resources they all ready possessed. I needed to find a better way of letting children experience for themselves, not just allow technology to simulate and tell them what they would see, or feel. They needed to do this for themselves. One o’clock. I hated one o’clock. Time for Channel One. I sat at my desk for this, not correcting papers, but evaluating my students. Tallying up how many couldn’t sit still while their lessons were spouting from the television. Tallying how many took notes, how many slept, how many asked me questions out loud during the program. Tally. Tally. All numbers, for an even bigger number that I would never see. Tallying numbers. You are just a number, my brain whispered. It would be time for parent teacher conferences soon. I couldn’t believe how many parents would actually come. Very impressive. It was mostly because they all had something to complain about, or rather, suggestions for improving the classroom. I was updated regularly by my students, on the opinions of their parents and the children’s needs. Almost every child had a computer at home and those who did not could use the take home laptops. Parents disagreed about a lot of things, whether to use educational programming on the television. Whether or not to allow students like Amy, to participate via satellite. I too was unenthusiastic about the television replacing my time with the children, whether in direct teaching or just having them work quietly in their desks; the comfortable hum of the classroom; the ticking of the thermostat, the occasional pencil dropping to the floor, children whispering to friends, even the sigh as a student struggles with their arithmetic. All replaced by a yapping television screen. Most of the parent’s technophobia, as well as my own, was diminished, as children became excited to learn. But on sunny days I cannot help but think a day behind a computer is less inviting than the healthy rays of sunlight in the playground, reading books or discussing any given subject, curriculum or not. But technology did not prepare us for everything. It would not save us now, I thought, as I pulled myself out of the broken cement walls that surrounded my body. As man became closer and closer to what he thought would be god; the knowledge and power, to create and destroy, he gave little thought to the end result. And as I stood in the rubble of what was once a strong and beautiful country, my thoughts went to little Louise. I thought of her playing store; what would she and her parents do for money, now that all the machines were down. Billy never really learned to play, what would he do to amuse himself without his games and Internet friends. He had hid behind that computer screen since kindergarten. His parents encouraged him. “It’s the only thing he is good at. He isn’t good at making friends. This is better.” And I had forgotten, that one is given almost the rite to hide from reality, because it is advancement, it is a way to reach him. Or lose him, I had thought to myself. But after all, it is curriculum. Tommy died that March. I thought of the model airplane fighter he made for science. He loved flying. Whether it was pictures of planes off the Internet, or a paper kite he made with his failed spelling test. I looked at what was left of my classroom. Computers had melted or been broken to unrecognizable pieces. Chairs were tipped over, desks were smashed. I had been lucky to escape school shootings. Lucky that no one fell on the virtual playground. But technology had beaten us, brought us more sorrow than joy, I thought. Maybe I hadn’t taught my students anything of real importance. They could download web sites, but very few knew their times table. I had tried to protect them as best as I knew how, without creating disillusionment that the world was going to be kind to them. It was what I was taught to teach them. To accept. To tolerate. But not this, not to destroy as those previous to them had done. All these thoughts, were now just that, as disaster devoured the hallways and crushed the students desks; their place of learning, the blueprints for their dreams. In the past, wars and natural disaster had threatened to discourage children about pursuing a better future. Teaching technology would bring us closer to the ultimate knowledge, however, it was also going to bring us full circle. I would have to re-teach as buildings were rebuilt. And teach the basic skeleton, to keep my class together, until their mechanical world was once again ready to program them. Teach them the foundations to build on, as children, as students, as part of society. I wasn’t sure they ever grasped that as I forced a heavy curriculum on them. Giving them keyboards in stead of crayons, and a superficial electronic world, instead of hope. Under the school remains, however, was a folder, somehow survived and preserved. Written on the cover was “Amy & Tommy’s Letters”. I had always emphasized to my students to print out anything of value, as machines break down and are unreliable. Tommy had done this; printed out his and Amy’s email letters. I sat down in what was once a beautiful, modern classroom, sterile, controlled atmosphere with many computers, appropriate lighting and a qualified instructor. It had been a place to learn, hopefully. “Dear Amy, Today we went for a walk. We sat on the school lawn under the big willow tree. It was the tree I told you about. The teacher read us another chapter of Bridge to Terybithia. It’s about these two friends who have a secret playhouse. J I can’t wait to tell you about it! Maybe I’ll have more time later…bye!” I know I never took the class to read under the tree. There was no tree. The school was built on an empty lot. We had landscapers, but trees had never been planted. “Dear Tommy, Please tell me what happened on Monday. You said that you were all going on a class trip to the history museum. Your Friend, Amy.” “Dear Amy, on Monday we went to the history museum. We looked up our own family tree. Guess what, I’m a quarter French! I saw statues that were really famous. I couldn’t believe that I was looking right at a famous painting. You would have liked it. It was a painting of Sunflowers. The statue eyes looked out past the angular walls of the museum; past clouds and stars. I’m not sure what they see, but I want to see it too. Your Friend, Tommy.” We did go to the history museum. We took a guided tour by a nervous old lady who kept telling the children to be still and walk in a straight line I had no idea what Tommy meant about his genealogy, but I knew what he meant about the statues. I had felt it too. “Dear Amy, When you get better you could go on field trips with us, but the best thing is when our teacher reads to us. We read another chapter today! J Your Friend, Tommy”. Tommy had me reading a lot more than I actually had. I didn’t have that much time, what with all the material I had to cover, and the videos and the computer work the children had to do to prepare for competency tests. There were pages and pages of little letters. Each child used their keyboard to make smiley faces where a joke was understood between them. The letters from Tommy had filled Amy’s head with the idea that new medical technology would cure her soon. He described the school garden with lilacs and roses and even some frogs. Sadly I looked around to see stone and pavement. Tommy said he thought there was a buried treasure near the tree. Apparently there was a lake nearby. But then, Tommy also said he went home to his mother, father and two little sisters. He said that Amy could visit his sisters. They had lots of dolls. I knew Tommy’s mother. She was a single mom with a low paying job. Tommy didn’t know his father, hence the part of being a quarter French. There were no sisters. There were no toys to play with. I had taught the children to know the ways of the world, to better prepare them for reality. I thought they had the tools necessary to achieve their desires. Little did we realize all they wanted we could not give in most cases. A family. Parents. Security. Technology did not supply these things. Nor did it replace love. The last paper was a poem, there was no address of the sender; I had no idea which child wrote this, or if either of them did. “Did you think you could put me in a box; Forever keep me. And the metal walls were unappealing But the ground was the darkness I had always felt Somewhere creeping across my thoughts And others as the room closed in on me. As time ate my skin, And devoured my imaginings. I was left only to this ground And I was grounded. But reckless in my sleep And turned to laugh Even beyond death I can waver and dance On a moonless night for all the children to see I am the child to be. Did you think these days could keep me? And I did not give up the ghost But danced on the hole you dug, The plans, the blueprint. The one meant for dreams But as you didn’t have any I got closer To fill in and drown the ideals of friendship For in the eyes of the innocent We all twisted in our thoughts And dirt. But I got out, Through the light seeping from the black box. You didn’t judge me But you suggested it with a smile That I be my own best friend A Shining Star and unabashed.” I had expected my students to handle their broken families, their chemotherapy, their competency tests, and all the other demands of a grown up society. But I hadn’t thought that after all we expect children to handle, accept, and deal with, that any of them would, in the end, even have time to just care. I knew that children were capable of shooting each other. Of teasing and making fun of others, hurting each other’s feelings. They could make web pages and could tell me all the forms of birth control they could choose from. They could become doctors, but also drug addicts. But I did not know that even in 2025, my students could teach me something. They were also capable of friendship, and love. The next day, in hopes that they would still be open, I went to the post office remains with Amy’s address and a book under my arm, “Bridge To Terybithia.” I knew she could read it over the Internet, but I wanted her to have something to hold. A piece of the real world, and of Tommy’s; his friendship; the lesson technology didn’t teach him, but was expressed through the tools school provided for him to reach out, with kindness, with unselfishness, with friendship. Humanity.