In the thirty years during which I was a high school English teacher, there were so many memorable days. Not the kind you would think, like parties, or awards. More like moments. The kind that make your heart flutter, decades later.
Amused eye contact during a faculty meeting, followed by stifled laughter. Tacit agreement or understanding from a class during instruction. A shared laugh with a particularly beloved student.
One day I was monitoring what was called “in-school suspension,” or ISS. This was a day-long punishment in a small windowless room where suspended students sat to complete makeup work, rather than being suspended OOS (out-of-school).
A tough duty, filled with tough kids.
On this particular day, among the tough cookies, was this one boy. Let’s call him Jason. A schizophrenic, Jason was often homeless, sleeping in his car, his home life filled with abuse and addiction. He was also hard to talk to, often inserting lascivious and wildly inappropriate comments into conversation. On this day he had his head down on the desk, and while sleeping in ISS was forbidden, I left him alone, knowing he was tired from wrestling the night before. Wrestling was all he had.
Another student asked if he could sharpen his pencil, and I nodded, returning back to my work. He rose, and began cranking the pencil sharpener. Lost in my work, it wasn’t until five minutes later that I realized he was still sharpening his pencil. I watched him, observing how he was cranking the sharpener, taking as long as possible to avoid sitting back in his seat. I didn’t stop him, just let him keep sharpening, wondering how long he would go.
The comedic element of it was not lost on me. It rarely is.
Suddenly Jason raised his head to look at the boy, and then looked at me looking at the boy. Our eyes met, and we Both. Just. LOST IT.
We laughed on and off for about thirty minutes. Simply a shared moment that no one else understood. We never spoke of it, never mentioned it again. He was not that kind of a boy. But I will never forget that moment.
A few years ago I bumped into a relative of Jason’s. How is he, I asked. Fine, he said, avoiding my gaze. At the time I knew that Jason was NOT fine. But I left it alone.
I wonder if Jason knows how much joy he brought to my life these last ten years, because the memory of our moment together makes me laugh every time I think of it. I’m sure he doesn’t remember it. But I do.
The lil’ things.
Tune in Friday for Part II.
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