“I’m special because my momma thinks I’m pretty.” Connor, age 8.
When I was in eighth grade, I pulled out a piece of paper from a childrens book. That was the content. It was on pretty white paper with pretty green swirls mixed in with blue and yellow. The content was too precious to be wasted in a dump. I folded it up so only the words showed and used it as my book mark for the rest of the year.
I kept on getting responses for it:
“Who is Connor?”
“Is Connor a girl?”
“Why do you have an eight-year-olds quote as a bookmark?”
“Connor is an eight-year-old.”
“I have no idea, it would make sense. But quite honestly I hope he’s a boy. He’s pretty handsome.”
“Doesn’t it make you smile as well? Who cares then?”
I recently found the bookmark in one of my language precision novels (ie: Japanese comic books, or manga. 漫画) and read the comic. It was about a tennis player. And I remembered that it was hidden there because at the time I wanted to be a tennis player. I wanted to be pretty like the rest of my class. So in the midst of silent sustained reading. I’d stare at the comic I couldn’t read very well, stare the tennis racket the character was holding, and stare at the bookmark, hoping the words burned into my brain.
If it did, I don’t think I’d be mentioning it now.