Not to the Swift

Chapter 16

"That was beautiful, Anarra," Miss Pearson said, clapping her hands. The sixth grade class joined in the applause as Anarra returned to her seat.

"Okay, who's next?" Renee looked around the room. The ones I expected would be eager have all gone already. All the vocal and outgoing kids—except Amir.

She looked for the boy with his signature wild locks of black hair, and found him cringing behind an open textbook. "Amir, would you like to go next? You said you had a great idea last week. We'd all love to hear it."

"It's stupid," came the muffled response.

"I bet it's not," Renee said. "Class, one thing you must learn is that almost everyone who creates art of some kind goes through this terrible feeling called self-doubt. We think our writing sounds dumb. Or our paintings and drawings are ugly. Or the music we play or sing sounds horrible." She met the eyes of her children and gave them a reassuring smile. "You must learn to ignore that voice, and just have fun. Go with it. Be creative. Do something new."

Renee turned back to Amir. "I would love to hear your poem. And since I'm the teacher, you kind of have to listen to what I say."

Amir groaned while his classmates laughed.

"Now, now, class, let's be encouraging. Come on, Amir, get up here! You can do it!"

The boys and girls joined in, cheering and thumping their desks in a growing drumroll until Amir finally stood up and marched to the front.

"I tried to write a dumb poem about a tree."

Renee frowned. "Guys, plenty of people will insult you or make fun of you over the years, even when you're fully grown. Don't do their job for them. Amir, try again."

He sighed and held up a sheet of notebook paper with scribbles and scratched out phrases. "The Tree, by Amir Jemalladin Aziz." He smiled and added, "Or AJ, to you guys."

"When I grow up, I don't want to be

Kept in a park for others to see.

I don't think that I'm a pretty tree.

No, that is not the life for me.

When I grow up, I don't want to be

Left to get wrinkled and knotted, you see.

I don't need lots of years and rings

With noisy birds that squawk or sing."

Some of the children giggled at the imagery. Renee smiled but wondered, What does this have to do with Chris?

Amir continued reading, eyes fixed on the page.

"When I grow up, cut me down, would you?

Use my wood to build something new

In fact I know just what I want to do

When I grow up thick and sturdy too

I don't want to be

A boat on the sea

I'd rather not

Burn in a fire—ouch, hot!"

The children cackled at Amir's animated exclamation, and he looked up from the paper with a sheepish grin. The rhyming pattern changed, and the rhythm is off a bit. But that's not the point, Renee thought. They like it. You can do it, Amir.