"Miss, miss! You know my brother? He in your other class?"

"Yes. I know your brother. Knew him last year, too."

"He say you only like me because you like him. That ain't true, is it, miss?"

I smiled. That sweet-faced, trouble-making wunderkind told me so much in just a little more than 25 words.

I laughed. "Your brother would say that, but it's not true."

"You don't like me?" She was playing.

"You know I do. Because you're you. So get to work."

Same day, different hour:

I step into the hall to round up the little gypsy who just isn't where he is supposed to be: at his desk. I am tired of telling this kid to come into the classroom and sit down. So I don't say a word but hold up my arms to ask, "What are you doing out here?" I am frustrated.

"Oh, hi, Miss Carlson," he says, and he gives me a hug, goes inside, and sits down. (Sometimes I get what I needed but didn't ask for.)

After school:

I have videotaped our drum line performing, and dancing and performing, to cadences it has created. On the way out, on of the kids--my nemesis from one short year ago--leans into me and says, "Miss, can I have a CD?" He feels good; he did a great job. After going to hell and back with him, the CD will be the easy part.

And one of mine--the little boy who didn't want to be in my class because it meant he couldn't have a music class and who fought the good fight until his mother and I won and who now comes up for lunch with me in my room a couple of times a week--came running down the steps of the music room to ask, "Miss, miss. Did you like it?" He so wanted me to like it. And he was so beautiful.

I love these kids. They are so honest. Real. They tell me right up front what they want. It's what we all want. To be affirmed. For someone to notice we are here. And to be happy about it.

They are and I am. Beautiful thing.