When I recall the little boy who told me one day,
\n\u201cYou know, I really love my mother,\u201d
\nI don\u2019t think the idea popped into his mind all of a sudden.
\nIt was something that had been welling up in his heart for a long time,
\nsomething he wanted to say.
\nI remember he had cried in class.
\nNot in front of everyone, of course!
\nBut all alone in his corner, he had cried
\nbecause he didn\u2019t understand what they were all talking about.
\nBesides, at school, he rarely understands anything.
\nHow could he?
\nIn class, they never talk about the social worker
\nwho comes to see his mother and scares her.
\nThey never talk about the little girl next door
\nwho has been put in a foster home,
\nor about the mother who insults her own mom
\nbecause her children have been taken away from her.
\n\u201cYou know, I really love my mother,\u201d
\nhe said, almost thinking out loud.
\nBut at school, why don\u2019t they ever talk
\nabout waiting for \u201cWelfare money,\u201d
\nor about the cops who are always in the housing project,
\nor about all those people who can\u2019t work
\nbecause they are ill, like his father?
\nAt school, it\u2019s like a postcard,
\neverything is frozen, nothing ever moves.<\/p>\n
(…)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"