Just a Story About a Boy

Just a Story About a Boy

Just a Story About a Boy

He was just a boy. Just a boy sitting in my 7th period English class...sometimes sleeping, mostly looking bored. "I've seen this type before,"I thought to myself, asI sighed inwardly and got the school year started. Bright but unmotivated?Perhaps. Another kid to do back handsprings for as every nonverbal screams back at me, loud and clear, nonplussed. We have a brief conversation about some mediocre test grade and I tell him, "Iknow that you can do better than this. You've got more talent than a C- warrants. What do you think?"He said, in his quiet way, "This isn't the stuff that really matters."I try not to internalize these types of comments, for they are made more often than I'd care to admit.They sting, though. What do you mean it's not the stuff that really matters?Of course it matters. I'm pouring myself into this and you can't seem to acknowledge it, much less learn the things I'm trying to teach you. What more do Ihave to give, here?

There was an anomaly, though. With no provocation from me, there were poems that he left for me to read. And they were good poems so Ihung them up. There was one moment where, in the midst of a chaotic class, he came close to me and wanted to talk...he got crowded out by voices so much louder than his. How could he know?I think about what he said all the time. The comment echoed on and on.

The school year commences and as the weeks roll on, I'm sort of lost in my own plans and schemes. I'm getting married, after all, and life seems to be so far ahead of work that Idon't give it too much introspection. Ifeel entitled to this indulgence and even though I realize that my work isn't in the front seat, Iconsider it lightly because I'm on a cloud and I'm so very happy. The dust inevitably settles, though, and now there are a zillion kids asking for recommendations and proofreading for their college essays. In comes the essay from the boy. And there's a comment with the text that read, " If there is one person I would want revising my paper, it is you."

So Ibegin to read. Ilearn about a kindergartener who moves to a new school with his newly-divorced mother and, even though he is a baby, he feels the need to be responsible. He is left alone long hours. He cultivates a responsibility that is not typical of a child his age. He starts working at 15 and now Ilearned that he's in a para-management program at the grocery store where he works...not for spending cash, not to have vanity plates on a brand new car...to help support his mother. He puts food on the table at home with his paycheck.

Ican forgive this boy. I now see a fuller picture of what he is, who he is. Iknow now why he tried to come close to me when he saw his poetry hanging on the wall of my classroom. Now Iknow. It's just a story of an uncommon boy. I'm so glad Iwoke up and got to see this.

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