My Aana

Aana is seven years old. I’m convinced that into this third week of school, I have said her name more than any other in my life. “Aana, get off the windowsill.” “Aana, that’s not where you belong.” “Aana, please pay attention.” “Aana, come here.” “That’s not okay, Aana.” “Aana, don’t jump on the desks.” “Aana, sit down. Aana…Aana…thank you.”And that’s all before our eleven o’clock lunch.

Despite the fact that by the end of the day I have spent a subject’s worth of time trying to get Aana on task, I am drawn to this child. She’s indescribable, really; one of my most hyperactive students. She’s my singer, my helper, my after-school company, my laughter. She loves me through my discipline, but refuses to fawn after me as some of my other girls do. And in that way, she is my friend. Though she loves my lap for company, she prefers my talk. Her little girl voice and stubborn temper remind me of my seven-year-old self.
Aana Hannah Pink Hana Anna. That is her real name. I envy her sweet contentment and happiness. She is small--plenty small to fit in my suitcase. I may consider it on my return home.