Isabella Milani
L'arte d'insegnare

Let me tell you about something that happened to me yesterday. She said, “Dad, will you take me to buy a pair of shoes on Via Veneto?” You can understand, my heart swelled with pride, me and my daughter on Via Veneto, woe to anyone who dared to look at us. While we were looking at the shoe shop window, two young guys passed by and said something I didn’t like, so I turned around and said, “Hey you! Come here, you!” The bigger one came over all cocky and punched me in the mouth. I looked at him, spat, and said, “You can’t even make me bleed, watch out.” I hit him in the mouth, and he fell to the ground like Jesus Christ. I broke his nasal septum, crushed his mucous membranes, and I kept telling him, “Get up, get up, you!”, I said. He was bleeding on the ground, in liters. He didn’t get up, and I looked at myself, turned around, and adjusted my jacket. At that point, my daughter said, “Dad, what happened?” “Nothing, just a couple of passersby, let’s go buy the shoes,” I replied... THE BOOK GAVE ME THOSE IMAGES, AND DO NOT MISUNDERSTAND ME.

After all, everyone must learn from the next good interlocutor how to grow, which chronologically speaking doesn’t matter, and sooner or later you will have to teach someone that same quantum.

Read and reread, you understand beyond the professed ideologies how important it is not to exclude your own basic learning abilities from the discourse-path, transmitting empathy to those who deserve it

to give notions to those who don’t have them without losing anything from your own immuno-sensory content at the same level.

Best regards,

YOUR BAUMANIAN