bacon chocolate is no joke, my friend

for those of you who don't know why we're eating bacon chocolate in class, read back a post. for those of you who read regularly, you already know we eat strange things in class (and smell strange things and look at strange things) as often as we can. i do not like to be bored. and the kids have already passed judgment on almost everything as either bad or good and i like to mess them up a bit.

so it was time for the bacon chocolate and not everyone got some. only those who brought permission slips. quite a few got them, took them home, lost them. not my problem. one of the things we work on in class is taking responsibility. because when we don't, all i hear is, "miss, i didn't realize we had homework last night so i didn't do it. " "miss, it's friday and i didn't think we'd be doing work so i didn't bring my notebook." "miss, last night was my sister's birthday and everybody got really drunk so i didn't read my assignment." and that last one sticks a bit with you, doesn't it. because it's not fair for me to expect a child to read in a houseful of drunk adults. but the truth is that if i keep expecting it the child will find a way- will go to a neighbor's house or a cousin's, or will read on the bus or train. because there's always a really good reason, a good excuse, that involves someone else keeping us from where we should be. and if i let the kid think other people can really do that, take that much from them, i'd be an awful person. so, no permission slip = no bacon chocolate. and some kids look sad about that, but nobody complains.

everyone is working on their superhero stories, storyboarding a bit, drawing their characters leaping, rescuing, losing control of awesome power. and i invite the seven or eight or nine from each class back to the library. of course we have our own library. and folks gather there like a little cocktail party, clutching permission slips. one boy does not eat bacon and has opted for a wasabi ginger chocolate bar. a girl who does not eat bacon asked for a chiles and cinnamon bar. i could find only a plain chiles one, but she's game. the rest get bacon. we break the bars up. they are expensive enough we will be sharing. they always ask what stuff costs and i tell them. they seem to judge their worth on the cost or strangeness of what i bring in. everyone stands close, in a huddle now, holding fat squares of a chocolate they've never even thought of. they wait. i tell them they can eat and it's like communion. solemn. brows begin to furrow. they chew slowly. no child in the history of the world has eaten chocolate so slowly, done so much to savor it, to experience it the way grown folks experience wine or swanky cheese or good bourbon. these children will love the soiree, i think.

i ask what they think because i'm pretty sure i know but they're still quiet, still chewing slowly, still wrinkled about the face. "that is some very good chocolate," says one. "it's so strange," says a girl. "strange but i really like it." the boy with the wasabi is surprised by how delicate the flavor is. he looks at the box. "i don't like dark chocolate!" he says, his eyes big. i tell him he doesn't have to finish it. "i like this just fine," he says, smiling, reaching for another square.

and it goes like this in all three classes. they are unsettled by the taste. it is not what they expect, and yet it tastes exactly like what it says. it tastes like bacon. it tastes like chocolate. but it tastes like something well past either of those things. because for these kids, they had to earn it, but also, they had to be willing to take a step away from what they know as good and bad, right and wrong. they had to be willing to take a risk that the world is not what they've always thought, not what everyone tells them. how scary that must have been. how brave they are.