How many years ago was it? Perhaps too
many to recall, but I can still remember him and his stories. Steve was a
little scruffy ninth grader who sat in the back of the room at old Merritt
Hutton High School, a guy in need of a hair cut and a new pair of jeans.
For the month of September, he slouched
down in his desk and glared. In October he slowly warmed up. In November he
started submitting work. Instead of “forgetting” his homework, he hesitantly passed
it forward. Each piece of paper was as scruffy as he was: crinkled, pencil
smears here and there, evidence of his breakfast on one corner.
In December, I noted the pattern: the
essay on Charles Manson, the free write on the mysterious disappearance of a
neighbor boy, the fictional murder of a neighbor. Death hummed through each of
his pieces.
I don’t recall how many he submitted
or how many I read, but enough to spot a pattern.
And worry.
In January I acted. After showing his short
story of the death of a neighbor, I went to see Jerry, the counselor.
When Steve returned to class after
meeting with Jerry, he wouldn’t look at me. And he wouldn’t reclaim his desk.
He grabbed his books, dumped his notebook on the floor, and stormed out of the
room, uttering “bitch” under his breath.
And that was the last time I saw
Steve.
Hey,
Steve, I’m still at it because of you. I owe you one, bud, and I don’t want
teachers to shut students down like I did you.
Steve was long ago at the start of my
profession, but Marty was on the other side of my career. While walking through the university commons on the way to teach my Methods class, I heard my name. “Quate? Ms. Quate, is
that you?” Marty beamed when I stopped. “I’ve been looking for you. Someone
told me that you were teaching at UCD and I wanted to thank you. You got me
writing. Remember when we…” and for the next few minutes, I listened and laughed
as he talked about memories of our tenth grade class, his stories jogging long
buried memories. And then we both realized we were about to be late for class.
“Thank you, Ms. Quate,” and he hurried off to class.
And,
thank you, Marty, you too are why I’m still hanging in there.
Connor was never a student of mine,
but a young teen who I knew well. I watched him cope with his father’s two year
battle with brain cancer, each day taking a toll on Connor, each day moving him
further away from caring about quadratic equations or the separation of church
and state. Connor watched his father
lose his hair but not his sense of humor, and then two years later the humor
was gone as well as his ability to walk, keep up his business books, or eat
dinner with the family. And Connor no longer cared about the impact of carbon
emissions or the symbols in To Kill a
Mockingbird.
And no one at school knew of his loss.
Walking through the halls like a ghost, Connor was enveloped in his pain,
invisible to his teachers, his classmates, his counselors.
“I feel like a ghost.”
And,
Connor, you’re another reason why I’m hanging in here. No one should be that
unseen person who floats through the halls. Everyone needs to be seen, to be
known.
