“Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around—nobody big, I mean—except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff—I mean, if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy.”—from The Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger
The school door opens in the morning, and in they come. All kinds of kids, swarming through the rye, coming right toward me. Big ones and little ones, quick ones and slow ones, happy ones and sad ones. Some kids are so fast and so angry and so determined to go over the cliff that there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I lunge for them; I touch them briefly. But then they're gone, over the cliff and out of sight. If a body miss a body comin' through the rye ... How many kids have I missed in the last 20 years? How many times have I tried to position myself in just the right place so that even the child who is the most hell-bent on going over the cliff won't be able to get past me? But when the door opens and the bodies start coming through the field, I know that I don't have a chance. There are hundreds of them and only one of me.
They come so fast, and they are so elusive. Take Mike, for example. At reading time, I thought I had finally found a book he would enjoy—but no such luck. “This is so boring,” he said.
At writing time, I just knew that Mike would be excited about working on his rough draft of a script about a scientist who had invented a terrific new robot that could do all kinds of amazing things. “Naaa,” he moaned. “I don't feel like it.”
At math time, we were measuring and cutting a long piece of paper that would be exactly the length of a blue whale. I am positive that Mike will get involved in this activity. Blue whales are irresistible. They're so huge, and they eat so much, and just think what it would be like to ... “Hey, Mike!” I hear myself saying, “Why did you hit her?”
At lunch time, I invite Mike to sit with me and just talk. Maybe there will be a chance for me to hear about how his mother didn't drink quite as much last night, which meant that Mike had a fairly good supper. Or maybe I'll find out how Mike got that ugly cut on his check during a fight after school yesterday. Or about how Mike's father didn't show up to take him shopping last Saturday. Maybe I'll just be able to let Mike talk about something, anything, just so it has some importance for him right at this moment. If nothing else, Mike will know that someone is willing to listen.
But as I try to listen, I am interrupted by a parent who wants to give me some money for the ski program, and then the principal wants to have the list of students who are going on the field trip tomorrow, and then there is a malfunction on one of the classroom computers and I have to go and fix that. By the time I get back to Mike, lunch is almost over, and all I can do is listen to a desultory summary of a movie he watched on TV last weekend.
That's how it goes some days. Nothing works, and I make no real connections with Mike or any of the other elusive children in my class. How can I reach their pain and sadness and anger? What about their hopefulness and curiosity? How can I reach any of the crucial things that are going on inside of them?
When the bell rings for the last bus, I watch Mike leave. I feel as if I am standing at the edge of a field, looking down over a cliff, and I can't even see the bottom.
What can I do?
If nothing else, at least I can figure out who else in the school can help me out with Mike. Whoever it is will be one of our “pigtail catchers.” That's what we used to call the person who would stand behind the regular catcher during our neighborhood baseball games to rescue balls that got away.
That's what we need in schools today: lots and lots of pigtail catchers moving together, working together, lunging and grabbing and playing and hugging and running with all those kids who are coming through the rye. The pigtail catchers might be teachers, students, administrators, secretaries, custodians, school bus drivers, parent volunteers, undergraduates from the local college, grandparents from the community, or anyone who is willing to roam around the field. Maybe, just maybe, if we can all really work together as a team, then we can reach a time in our rye fields when fewer and fewer children fall over that cliff.
In the meantime, I've got to get ready for tomorrow.
