I always cherished my working experience as a teacher, as I learned a lot from my dear students, those little kids yet full of wisdom, which helped me a lot in my later life.

When I worked in a primary school, Friday afternoon was our school-wide sports program finale (尾声) in the gym. The finale was a series of races and games. There were jump rope relays, basketball relays, soccer relays, minute-to-win-it games and a host of other challenges for my first graders. There were balls escaping, jump ropes tangling (缠绕), and the first graders clapping and cheering each other on with abandon.

One of the hardest games was a basketball shooting game. Each kid stood at a line and shot five baskets. This was a very hard task for first graders. That basket might as well have been in the clouds. One of my darling little girls was chosen for this game.

She was an adorable kid. When she got excited about something, her blue eyes opened wide and she waved her arms. I’d seen her act like this when reading her favorite books, when mastering particularly difficult math problems, when playing after class and especially when she painted.

She stood at the line, basketball in hand, with a serious expression on her face. She shot. Air ball. She scrunched up (皱起) her face in concentration and shot again. Air ball. Her third and fourth shots went through the air and again fell short. Not one of her five shots even came close to the net. Not a single one.

Poor little kid! I felt sorry for her, but didn’t find a chance to comfort her during the finale.

Back in the classroom, those kids were still in excitement. After the conclusion of the sports program, we decided to gather together to talk about all the fun we’d had.

Unexpectedly, my tiny air baller raised her hand, “Mrs. McCauley, I want to share!”

What? What did she want to share? She got five air balls! She must have got me wrong.

Then, she said, “I was nervous about that basketball game at first because I’d never played it before.” She paused. Immediately, I searched in my mind for words of encouragement or some advice, anything, to ease the pain of all those air balls.

However, she continued with her arms waving in wild excitement, “But then I played the game and I was awesome at it!”

The next time I was faced with a new challenge, I would remember her face, scrunched up in concentration.

Steve, a twelve-year-old boy with alcoholic parents, was about to be lost forever, by the U.S. education system. He could read, yet, in spite of his reading skills, Steve was failing. He had been failing since first grade. Steve was a big boy, looking more like a teenage than a twelve-year-old, yet, Steve went unnoticed… until Miss White came.

Miss White was a smiling, young, beautiful lady. For the first time in his young life, Steve couldn’t take his eyes off his teacher; yet, still he failed.

In the middle of the first semester or school, the seventh grade was tested for basic skills. Steve hurried through his tests, and continued to dream of other things. His heart was not in school, but in the woods, where he often escaped alone camping there, trying to shut out the sights, sounds and smells of his alcoholic home. No one checked on him to see if he was safe. No one knew he was gone, because no one cared. Oddly, Steve never missed a day of school.

One day, Miss White's impatient voice broke into his daydreams.

“Steve!” Startled, he turned to look at her.

“Pay attention! “She began to go over the test results for the seventh grade.

“You all did pretty well,” she told the class, “except for one boy, and it breaks my heart to tell you this, but…” She hesitated, pinning Steve to his seat with a sharp stare, her eyes searching his face.

“The smartest boy in the seventh grade is failing my class! ”

She just stared at Steve, as the class spun around for a good look. Steve dropped his eyes and carefully examined his fingertips.

After that, Steve still wouldn't do his homework. Even as the punishments became more severe, he remained stubborn.

“Just try it! ONE WEEK!” He was unmoved.

“You're smart enough! You'll see a change!” Nothing fazed (烦扰，使胆怯) him.

“Give yourself a chance! Don’t give up on your life! ” Nothing.

“Steve! Please! I care about you! ”       

Wow! Suddenly, Steve got it! Someone cared about him? Someone, so beautiful and perfect, CARED ABOUT HIM?!

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Steve went home from school, thoughtful, that afternoon.

The following Monday, Miss White, gave a quiz on the weekend homework.

It was Christmas 1961. I was teaching in a small town in Ohio where my twenty-seven third graders eagerly looked forward to the great day of gifts giving.

Each day the children produced some new wonder—strings of popcorn, hand-made decorations, and German bells made from wallpaper samples, which we hung from the ceiling.

Through it all she remained distant, watching from a far, seemingly miles away. I wondered what would happen to this quiet child, once so happy, now so suddenly withdrawn. I hoped the celebrations would appeal to her. But nothing did.

We made cards and gifts for mothers and dads, for sisters and brothers, for grandparents, and for each other. At home the students made the popular fried marbles（炸玻璃弹珠）and competed with one another to bring in the prettiest ones. “You put them in a hot frying pan, Teacher. And you let them get real hot, and then you watch what happens inside. But you don’t fry them too long or they break.” So, as my gift to them, I made each of my students little bags for carrying their fried marbles.

And I knew they had each made something for me: bookmarks carefully cut, colored, and sometimes glued together; cards and special drawings; liquid embroidery doilies（桌垫）, to name but a few.

The day of gift-giving finally came. We were amazed at our handiwork as the presents were exchanged. Through it all, she sat quietly watching. I had made a special bag for her, red and green with white lace. I wanted very much to see her smile. She opened the package so slowly and carefully. I waited but she turned away. I thought I had failed to break the wall she had built around herself.

After school, the children left in little groups, talking about the great day yet to come when long-hoped-for gifts would appear beside their trees at home.

She stayed, watching all of the other students get dressed and go out of the door. I sat down in a child-sized chair to take a rest, hardly aware of what was to happen.

She came to me with outstretched hands, bearing a small white box.

In a flash I knew—she had made the fried marble chain for her mother, who had passed away three weeks before.