A sustenance that can’t be bought, topped in gold leaf
You know you're onto something when a class of 10 year olds swarm you after a book talk, especially when the story you've just spoken about was created on the other side of the world. The universality of stories can be most striking and even more so with children.
A quiet presence in the buzzing bevy encircling me caught my attention. It was a student standing by my hip, a young dark-haired boy of around 10 years old. The 20 or so pupils within the class were all about his age, although he was more mature in stature and half a head taller than most. We’d just finished talking about my book for the last 45 minutes and the children were waiting for me to sign the bookmarks I’d given them.
‘Would you have a spare book?’ the young boy asked quietly, unassuming and in an air of gentleness and courage wrapped in unwavering strength. ‘I’d like to take one home to my family to read because they have trouble talking about their feelings.’
My heart stopped or dropped or disappeared somewhere in moments that followed standing still. His wide, dark-brown eyes popped from his deep olive complexion, his plump cheeks unmoved by any smile.
This softly-spoken 10-year-old boy was telling me my book would help his family express their feelings.
‘Yes, of course,’ I found myself replying, moving to pull a book from the bundle bound in an elastic band I’d taken into the classroom. ‘Would you like me to sign it as well as your bookmark?’ I asked.
‘Yes please,’ said the boy, looking squarely at me.
An hour earlier I’d stood outside the bricked gatehouse of the Vienna International School in the bitter cold of a January midday, an almost two-metre black security fence bordering the school’s boundary. I was waiting for my escort into the school to first meet the librarian, then talk to students in the school about my book, My dad built me the best and wackiest cubby ever. I wasn’t nervous about talking to the students, more unsure about how they’d react to the story created half way around the world.
Seeing the security gatehouse surprised me, but also didn’t considering the school is made up of a diverse student cohort with around half the children from United Nations employees and diplomats. The school began under the patronage of the British, US and Indian embassies to educate children left without English-language schooling after the army schools closed at the end of the allied occupation of Austria. It quickly grew into the English School and the American International School and now the Vienna International School with strong links to the United Nations, international organisations and the diplomatic community.
My thoughts dissolved once my escort arrived and we walked through the gatehouse and into the school together, peeling off our coats and scarves to thaw out by a wall panel heater in the school hall. Student work covered walls and windows while students bustled past, teenagers as well as young children, all speaking English in a vast array of accents. The school provides education from kindergarten to the International Baccalaureate (IB).
We finally met the librarian, who apparently had been looking for us through a miscommunication, and she walked us up a flight of stair to the classroom and introduced us to the class. I dropped my bag and coat on a table and began my talk, thankful for the loose linen shirt I wore in the toasty warmth of the classroom.
The children were most engaged, wanted to know about the story and writing process, had little whiteboards scrawled in blue marker questions to ask me. Thoughtful and considered questions, such as what mental illness did the dad have, how did the girl help the dad and what inspired me to write the story, whether it was a true story.
The questions prompted some thorough discussions of mental health and the breakdown that can occur, and some solemn looks on hearing about my family’s 30-plus years’ experience of my brother’s mental health.
The classroom teacher moderated the discussion to the side of me at times, especially when children became over excited in light-hearted moments and giggles. She asked questions too, particularly around the writing process. The classroom assistant sat in the back of the class, her smile always radiating from her light olive complexion framed in black ringlets pulled loosely back into a bulky ponytail.
Two things stuck me during that hour. The first was that many in the class saw the child in the story as a girl while others considered the child male. I never reveal the gender of the child in the book as it’s important for each person interacting with the story to identify with the child in their own way, so I’m always curious how the child is seen.
And secondly, the thoughtful questioning and discussion of mental health and the breakdown that can occur. These were 10-year old children understanding far more than we adults can give them credit for and they resonated with a story that was created half way around the world. The universality of stories can be most striking and even more so with children.
The teacher later explained that there were some reservations about the book and talking about mental health with children. But that after reading the book in class, exploring the story through student work, including some children writing their own incredible sequels to My dad built me the best and wackiest cubby ever, the students had a more rounded understanding of mental health. One boy was so enthusiastic about his sequel that he wanted me to stay and read it, his teacher coaxing him away and me offering to read it over email.
The teacher said, ‘The afternoon was the perfect mix of talking about the book, learning more about mental health and discussing the writing process. The students have also been taking it in turns to borrow the copies of the books you gave them, so thank you!’
What really surprised me was when the classroom assistant came to me at the end of the talk, gushing how wonderful the story was and needed in today’s world of cultural diversity and upheaval, and that I must translate the story for others to read, for her culture to better understand mental health as there was a deep need around the world for such a story.
That still sits with me. Her passion for that to happen. I’d not thought about translating the story or the impact it may have. However seeing first hand videos of Palestinians living in tents, their few belongings floating in waters flooding their canvas homes in backdrops of rubble behind them, the impact on human mental health is far greater than I can ever imagine.
We walked out of the school nourished by the optimism of young curious minds, flushed in stimulation and closer for what my escort and I had just shared. We spent the following couple of hours intimately ruminating our visit in a candy-pink café nearby, savouring a sustenance that can’t be bought and one with a lasting satiation beyond any food known. Although the peppermint tea and rich dark chocolate cream cake layered in a raspberry puree and topped in gold leaf seemed a fitting way to finish the day.
Deep gratitude, thankful for the opportunity to speak to children living and learning on the other side of the world from me. And in humbleness of the impact of my story. A universal story that needs translating.
Note: Teachers resources for My dad built me the best and wackiest cubby ever can be found here.
The second edition of My dad built me the best and wackiest cubby ever is due out at the end of March.
