Can I Hold the Snowflake?

“What’s the bond for murder?”

“If you raised a monkey so that you loved it, and it turned insane and started attacking you, would you shoot it?”

"If a mother fed her child drugs, it would be illegal, so isn't it exactly the same for a pregnant woman?"

 

“Can I leave my fake crack in your desk drawer until tomorrow when we do our drug talk show?”

“I guess you have never seen my stab wounds before. I only show them sometimes. They’re ugly, right?”

"What's the difference between immoral and illegal?"

"How many times can I take my midterm? Can I take it until I get it all right?"

“Have you ever tried drugs?”

“Can I hold the plastic snowflake? I’m too hot.” 

"Um, in this David Reimer study, why were the doctors even anywhere near there? Oh, what's circumcision?"

"Did you change the position of the skeleton on your desk? I like it when you leave him the way I left him, dancing." 

"Are you one of the teachers volunteering to get a pie in the face?"

At this last question, I raised my eyes expressively to the heavens. “My dear fellow, you are not in my class! How come you are always wandering around in here during transitions?”

“I like it in here.”

Me too, child. In this room, questions seem to festoon the walls and curiosity drapes the ceiling, buoyed by the paper brains that drift across the roof tiles. I’m rarely needed except as a sort of focus for the questions, an anchoring center to which students can toss in their thoughts in order to receive approbation to continue their quest (or, in the case of the monkey scenario creator, an affirmation that that is a ridiculous question and he would be much better off completing his role play on narcotics). Sometimes I ask them my own questions, but they're rarely as good as the ones the kids come up with on their own. After all, what's the difference between a duck?