Freedom

When posed the question of what freedom meant, a 10-year-old student's entry to the Weekly Reader's Operation Tribute to Freedom essay contest gave a thoughtful response, uncharacteristic of a mind that might ordinarily turn to skateboards, baseball and video games.



Text of Kevin Young's Winning Essay, "Freedom"

I am a ten-year-old boy living in the United States of America — a country that stands for freedom. Today, I woke to the chirping of birds. On the other side of the world, another boy is waking up to the frightening sound of blasting bomb.

It was a time to go to school so I chose to wear a T-shirt and shorts because I could make that decision. On the other side of the world, a young girl had a choice, too. She could wear a veil or get whipped.

Then I went to school to learn about our world, including math, English, history and science and technology. I was learning how to make the world a better place. On the other side of the world, a boy was learning how to fight in combat and survive or be killed. For the girl, school was not allowed. But she wanted to learn. So she went to school in secret, but was taking a big risk.

After school, I went to play soccer and visited with all of my friends. On the other side of the world, the boy and girl went and tried to earn some money or went to look for food and water for their family.

At night, as I slept in my nice, warm bed, I dreamed of a world filled with freedom for the little boy and girl on the other side of the world.

* I thought that this essay was worth sharing. It makes me realize, once again, that we must never take for granted the freedom that we have in this country.

The Price Of A Desk

I know that we find humor in a lot of things when it comes to kids, and the things they've learned, (or not) but I know that they are capable of learning valuable lessons, especially when they are blessed with teachers like the one in this story. A friend shared it with me, and I think that it is worth sharing with you.

Back in September of 2005, on the first day of school, Martha Cothren, a social studies school teacher at Robinson High School in Little Rock , did something not to be forgotten. On the first day of school, with permission of the school superintendent, the principal and the building supervisor, she took all of the desks out of the classroom.

The kids came into first period, they walked in, there were no desks. They obviously looked around and said, "Ms. Cothren, where's our desk?"

Ms. Cothren said, "You can't have a desk until you tell me how you earn them."

They thought, "Well, maybe it's our grades."

"No," she said. "Maybe it's our behavior." And she told them, "No, it's not even your behavior."

And so they came and went in the first period, still no desks in the classroom. Second period, same thing, third period, no desks. By early afternoon television news crews had gathered in Ms. Cothren's class to find out about this crazy teacher who had taken all the desks out of the classroom.

The last period of the day, Martha Cothren gathered her class. They were at this time sitting on the floor around the sides of the room. She said, "Throughout the day no one has really understood how you earn the desks that sit in this classroom, ordinarily." She said, "Now I'm going to tell you."

Martha Cothren went over to the door of her classroom and opened it, and as she did, 27 U.S. veterans, wearing their uniforms, walked into that classroom, each one carrying a school desk. And they placed those school desks in rows, and then they stood along the wall.

And by the time they had finished placing the desks, those kids for the first time, I think perhaps in their lives, understood how they earned those desks.

Martha said, "You don't have to earn those desks. These guys did it for you. They put them out there for you, but it's up to you to sit here responsibly to learn, to be good students and good citizens, because they paid a price for you to have that desk, and don't ever forget it."

I think that was a pretty valuable lesson taught by Martha Cothren, don't you?

This Land Is Our Land

I talked to my Aunt Polly on the phone today. She is one of my few remaining relatives, and that is by marriage. She is in her seventies, and has been diagnosed with a very serious kind of cancer, and is undergoing chemo. I'm not sure that it is going to be successful, but I pray that it will be. I call her all the time, just to tell her that I love her, and to talk, and to just allow her to talk. She and my uncle had seven children, and she has lost three of them, tragically, over the years, and sometimes that is what she wants to talk about.

Today, we somehow got on the subject of the different places she's lived--the different houses, and the times that I visited her, and spent weeks with her, while I was growing up, and afterwards. She misses her old house--she is now living with a son and daughter-in-law. She said that she wishes that she hadn't had to sell her old house, but that she knew she couldn't stay there anymore, the way things were. She was not talking about her cancer--she was speaking of what her old neighborhood has become.

She has lived her whole life there, in that town in Georgia that I've mentioned in my other stories on here. Her parents lived in a little house in the mill village, from the time that Aunt Polly was a little girl, and long years afterwards, too. During the latter years, while her mother was ailing, and until she died, Aunt Polly and Uncle Bo lived there with her in that same house. After my uncle died, she remained there, until about four years ago. She had always felt safe there, never locking her doors--not even at night.

But something happened to that little mill village. Gradually, over the past few years, every single dwelling there has been purchased by Hispanics. It is no longer the quiet, peaceful little community it once was where you could sit out on the porch-swing, any hour of the day or night, and feel safe. Now, at any hour there are cars racing up and down the street, loud shouting, crowds of people walking up and down the sidewalk, music blaring out of the passing cars, and adjoining houses. Once, while I was spending some time with her, there was a drive-by shooting, very close to her house. Only a few of the yards are still well-kept--most of them now have large stalks of corn, or something else, growing up the sides of the houses. The last time that I was there, a year ago, we drove by Aunt Polly's old place, and driving up the street, and around the neighborhood, I was reminded of the times, years ago, that I visited Tiajuana, Mexico.

All up and down the streets, going into town, the stores' windows are filled with signs in Spanish, and when you go into some of them, it is all Hispanic, and you hear only Spanish being spoken. It is almost surreal, making you feel like you took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in another country. And the icing on the cake to this whole thing, is that her daughter-in-law who had worked for several years at a convenience store, was "let go" a few months ago. The new owners are Hispanic, and they hired only other Hispanics, and I'm sure, members of their own family. And it isn't only that store--it is happening all over the place , including many towns in the adjoining state of Alabama. Like it or not, that's the way it is now and we are expected to just accept it.

After all, we mustn't offend anyone. Not even if they are trying to change everything that was once dear, and familiar, to us all.