In the mid-1980s, a sea of bowl-cut seven-year-olds sat on the carpet in a North York classroom, listening intently as their teacher, Beverley Panikkar, told them a story about a rabbit. All the busywork—the pattern blocks, the crayons, those cubes that let you count your way through math problems—had been abandoned; the kids were transfixed while Panikkar, perched in a rocking chair, read. “Of what use was it to be loved and lose one’s beauty and become Real if it all ended like this? And a tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground.”
The Velveteen Rabbit was a favourite of Panikkar’s. She must have read it dozens of times. Even so, surrounded by her grade two students, she found herself overcome by emotion. As tears trickled down the rabbit’s shabby snout, Panikkar’s own eyes welled up. And then, from the carpet, came a voice. “Aw, Bev—come on and sit down. I’ll finish the book!” Ceding the chair, the teacher found a spot at the back and listened with the rest of the class, rapt as Sarah Polley—elf-like in the adult-sized rocker—made her way through the story.
