I’m out in East Hampton teaching for two weeks. It’s a strange place. I haven’t spent a lot of time in communities like this. Seasonal. Divided. It must be very odd to be a full-time resident here. This insane influx of people and of money for three months out of the year. And then they’re gone. The shops close, the restaurants die down, the traffic (thankfully) subsides.

I went to Montauk once for spring break with a few of my college girlfriends. It was March in New York so, off-season. It was great. Gorgeous beaches that we enjoyed on overcast days in our hoodies. The ground was still covered in a light dusting of snow and there was only one open bar. The Point. I will never forget the morning after our shot-drinking, pool-playing night there. A dark blue Toyota truck rolled by us as we sauntered through the diner parking lot the next morning. “You girls were the hottest thing at The Point last night,” some mustachioed blonde said with what sounded like a southern twang. That was it. No hooting or hollering at us. No whistles or unwanted leering. Just a simple pronouncement and off they went.

The summer school crowd is made up of those who need remedial work in math or reading, students with special needs and English language learners. It’s a pretty wonderful group of kids.

Sitting inside, in an over-air conditioned classroom and looking out at the sunshine is pretty difficult. At lunch, we sit outside on the grass and play tag and hide-and-go-seek. We stare at the sky and pick up stray dandelions. We inspect nearby trees and wipe the oozing sap from craggy bark.

As I sat on our little peach blanket (which we started using at lunch because Kai was so genuinely terrified of bugs she couldn’t even set foot outside without screaming — a city girl if ever there was one) discussing for the third day in a row why a cereal bar is called a cereal bar despite bearing no resemblance to the breakfast food, I felt content. And, at ease. A feeling I rarely experience in the city. A sense of calm that is unattainable in a place like New York.

“Are you having a picnic?” a voice said from above us. It was a small, plump girl who looked to be about eight or nine years old. She had her long, brown hair pulled back into two low-hanging pigtails. She wore an ill-fitting pink, ruffled skirt and a too-tight white polo.

“Hello,” I said as I squinted into the sun to see her.

“Are you having a picnic?” she repeated.

“Carmina, you could say, ‘Hello. How are you?’ and then introduce yourself to them,” said her teacher coming up behind her.

“Hello. How are you? I’m Carmina,”

“Hi Carmina…”

“Are you having a picnic?!” she interrupted before I could introduce myself.

“Sort of. We’re all eating our lunch on this blanket in the grass. So, yeah. That’s pretty much a picnic,” I answered.

“You can ask, ‘Is it alright if I join you?'” her teacher prompted.

“Oh. Can I join you?” Carmina said as she plopped down on the blanket next to Kai.

“Sure. Please do,” I said with a smile. “Would you like some grapes? We’ve got plenty.”

“Yes,” she responded as her hand grabbed for a handful of green grapes which she quickly shoved into her mouth with a wide grin. “Mmmm.”

“Carmina, what grade are you going into next year?” I inquired.

“Um. I don’t know.”

“Fourth grade,” her teacher answered. “Carmina, you’re going into the fourth grade. Remember?”

“Oh yeah, fourth grade,” Carmina replied.

“Carmina, can you say ‘thank you’ for all the grapes? I’m sorry, is this okay? Is it okay that we’re crashing?” her teacher asked nervously.

“Of course!” I offered. “It’s wonderful to meet new people and make new friends.”

“Carmina, you could ask Kai what grade she’s going into next year. Or, what she’s doing this summer,” her teacher suggested.

Carmina obliged. She asked Kai a few questions. I asked Carmina a few about herself. Some of which she was able to answer, some of which confused her. We chatted while sitting in the warm sun, on the soft blanket protecting us from unwanted insect encounters and ate grapes.

It reminded me of so many encounters I’d had with my mom. She would approach groups of people and attempt to join their parties, sit at their tables, interject in their conversations. She had always been a social butterfly. Her habits were guiding her but her mind could not keep up. She would walk into these social situations and I would hold my breath. Never knowing what to expect. Would people see right away that she was a child? Would they be frustrated by her confused and confusing behaviors? Would they scoff? Would they say cruel things to her, or to me?

Mostly, people were absolutely lovely. Bringing me to tears with their empathy and compassion. Other times, I would end up running after my very perturbed and hurt mother because they hadn’t understood (or cared) that she was not functioning on an adult level.

I love working with children with special needs. I love working with older folks. I love babies and kids in general. It’s all the people in between who I find to be the most difficult.