By David Hill-New Zealand Herald - Monday June 17, 2013
I taught - tried to teach - Dion when he was about 15. He was abused, neglected, feral, almost uncontrollable. You never knew when he'd explode at another kid or a teacher. In class, he sat at the back with arms folded, and glowered. I had him for English. He was barely literate, and scorned efforts to teach him such skills.
I used to read aloud to my classes, inviting them to pick up books themselves, indicating that words mattered to me. One day, I was working through Barry Hines' Kes, where a slum boy's life is transformed after he tames and trains a small hawk.
The class were hooked by it, and I also began relaxing into the words. Then after a few minutes, I remembered Dion, and shot a quick look to check he wasn't dismembering any adjacent pupils. He wasn't: he sat listening, as rapt as the others. And he was sucking his thumb.
I don't want to sentimentalise it. Dion's well into adulthood now, and it's a life of violence, crime, jail. But I shan't forget the lost boy, held briefly in the spell of a story.
I've been thinking about Dion because the NZ Post Children's Book Awards winners are announced on June 24. This week finalist authors are touring parts of the country, reading and talking about their books. I'm lucky enough to be a finalist this year. I won't win; several of my friends have had the gall to write much better works than mine. But I'm pleased to be there, and I'm pleased to write books for children.
More
No comments:
Post a Comment