Sarah

This is a story I got from Chicken Soup for teacher's soul. It's really inspiring and in a way, broaden my mind. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do, and I hope you'll be able to gain something from this story.


Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye. =H. Jackson Brown, Jr.=


I will never forget Sarah. In my eight years as a Head Start teacher, she was my most exceptional student.

One morning, the administrator had called my assistant and me into her office. she told us that we'd be getting a new student- a three-year-old named Sarah. "The girl has been abused," she said. Her father had poured a scalding bucket of hot water down her head, badly burning her neck, back and legs and scalp. She had no hair. Her back and legs would have to be wiped down with oil every few hours so they would not get stiff.

Sarah visited my preschool room the next day for an introductory meeting while the other students were out. Her facial features were petite, and she smiled up at me with innocent brown eyes, startlingly naked because her eyebrows were missing. The back of her bald head was badly scarred down to the neck. She wore a simple white sundress that showed her burnt arms. I seized with anger at the father. The I worried about how the other children would react. I struggled to maintain calm in front of Sarah, her foster mother and my teaching assistant. After Sarah and her mom left, I gave into tears.
"We must prepare the students," my assistant reminded me. "We can't just let her walk in and be made fun of."
"To draw attention to her appearance would single her out," I said. After much discussion, we agreed to have Sarah come in for a half-day on her first day in order to ascertain how the children would react towards her.

The morning Sarah arrived she quietly took a seat. I watched her every second. During playtime, the other children talked to her and shared their toys. They didn't seem to notice that she's different.
"It's dress-up time," One of my students reminded me. Everyday before lunch, they all got to raid the closets and play in a collection of grown-up clothes and fanciful kid's costumes.
"Okay, everyone, let's get started," I agreed.

Sarah followed the other children and put on an Easter bonnet and princess outfit. I tried to smile, but the disparity between the delicate fabric and her scarred skin made me ache for her.

Sarah left for lunch. Her classmates had nap-time and then I led a vocabulary-building lesson. Finally I asked the children, "so how do you all like our new friend Sarah?"
One child answered. "Her hands are small."
"Another added, "She picked the long skirt for dress-up."
Not one mentioned her thick skin or her missing hair. The children's observations helped me realise something very valuable. We teachers saw Sarah as a child who had suffered greatly, a child who needed exceptional handling and assistance. We wanted to hold her, prove to her that not all adults were bad. The children, many of whom had also suffered in some way, saw beyond her scarred appearance. They saw another child, a peer, a new friend.

The next school day, during dress-up, Sarah put on the princess clothes again. She stood in front of a full-length mirror and danced in front of her reflection. "I am beautiful," She murmured o herself.

The confidence of her whirling poses and self-compliment struck me. Here was a child who I thought should be shriveling in self-pity. Instead she was twirling around, having fun. I felt humbled by her inner strength and honored to witness her joy in just being alive. I reached out and embraced her. "Yes, Sarah, you are beautiful."

By Michele Wallace Campanelli