I keep special white art erasers in my classroom for use on projects where neatness counts. Cindi made a spelling error on her final writing draft of the proficiency exam. She raised her hand and asked for the white eraser. I tossed it to her.
Cindi used both hands to catch the eraser. In the process she scraped her right wrist with the clasp of the watchband on her other hand. She got up and came to show me the faint mark. The skin was roughed up, but no blood was evident.
“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” She cried dramatically, extending her arm in front of my face.
With tenderness and sympathy I clasped her right hand in my left, then picked up my huge, heavy duty cutting-sheers with my right hand. “I can take care of that for you,” I said, snapping the scissors open and closed.
Cindi immediately jerked her hand back to her chest. “No, no. I’m okay with it,” she said.
“Are you sure?” I motioned with the scissors. “It would only take a moment …”
She backed rapidly toward her seat. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It barely hurts at all.”
“Fine then,” I told her. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”