Perception

“A miracle is a change of perception,” as A Course in Miracles tells us.

At breakfast, my husband and I shared the four-minute trailer of a short film that won an Oscar. It was about a boy who was always late to his elementary school. Irritated by his tardiness, the teacher hit him on his hand with a ruler each day in front of the class. The camera zoomed in on the sad face of the boy as he took his seat.

One day, the teacher was riding his bike to school and saw the boy pushing the wheelchair of a disabled older boy, perhaps his brother, to take him to where he was to go.

Now, looking at his watch, the teacher realized the reason for his student’s tardiness. When the boy entered his classroom, he held up his hand to be hit as usual, dignified and without offering the reason for being late. This time, the teacher placed the ruler in the boy’s hand, kissed his hand and hugged the boy. I saw the video a few times and each time tears rolled down my cheeks. That is an image I’ll keep in my heart and mind.

The film transported my husband and me to our childhood memories in Iran. There was a morning assembly in our public schools and the personal hygiene of students was checked daily upon entrance — our hair, nails and clothing. If any child didn’t meet the criteria, he or she was hit by the principal or his assistant in front of the assembly to shame and make an example of the student. Even as a child, I was aware that many students were not able to meet the requirements due to poverty and lack of access to bathing. To this day, I remember their humiliation and shame, even after 6o years.

My husband shared his experience. He loved to climb trees on the family property, and he built a tree house in their zalzalak tree. He wanted to keep his nails longer than usual to give him a better grip when climbing. He loved being in his tree house, studying, picking ripe zalzalak fruit and hearing the birds sing.

At his all-boys school, the principal inspected the students each morning. Every boy who didn’t meet the hygiene requirements was told how many lashes he would receive by the faraash, the school custodian. Each had to wait in line to receive their punishment. One day, my husband was told to get 10 lashes for having long nails.

“How many lashes did the principal order?” faraash asked him.

“Ten,” the innocent, honest boy replied.

Now, in his late 70s, looking back, reflecting with a twinkle in his eye, he said, “I could have said four or five. Faraash didn’t know. I was so honest.”

Scars for a lifetime from an educational system that shamed children. If I hadn’t lived through it, I wouldn’t believe it could be true.

My tears were louder than words as I kissed his hands a hundred times to wipe away his pain of long ago. His beautiful, capable, warm hands are masculine, and his long, strong fingers play our piano masterfully. He has culinary skills made all the better by his capable hands when he cooks daily and serves our exquisite meals.  He was the boy in the video who gave and served his family wholeheartedly for a lifetime

Note: invitation to see this video on Youtube and Facebook