no.54 - The Smoky Folder

A few weeks back, one of my students on Saturday was not doing much in the way of homework. I never let this upset me as a teacher, because as a student, I rarely did the work I was assigned.

I asked him to bring over his folder to me and when he opened it, a sad little story wafted out.

The folder smelled of stale cigarettes. The odor was strong, as if the kid's work had been kept under an ashtray for the week. The student appeared to be unaware of the smell, or the life it transmitted to me.

What I pictured was surly more dramatic and judgmental than the truth. What I pictured was his mom in curlers, chain smoking her way through the week, untroubled by modern science's findings on second hand smoke. Smoking before and after dinner. (Not during, that would be rude.) Smoking while watching Oprah (where she either missed or dismissed the episode about the dangers of second hand smoke.). Smokin' in the car while dragging her kid to our Saturday program, because it starts so friggin' early. puff. puff.

The lingering smell in my class felt more obvious and embarrassing than a monstrous burrito fart, though no one said a word. A fart is an easy target, classic in its hilarity. But even a fourth grader knows that a smoky folder is just sad.