Doing the Mashed Potato

I hardly noticed when he came into the classroom, engrossed as I was in the writing exercise I was modeling with 4^th grade students for 4^th grade teachers in a language arts class. However, as I made my rounds of the students working in their small groups, I saw the latecomer again. He still fumbled through his backpack, unable to pull a pencil out of the overflow of crumpled papers, notebooks, and library books. His teacher patted his shoulder and asked, “You awake yet, J.C.?” The boy blinked a few times, as if trying to shake off sleep’s stupor. He wiped his mouth, failing to completely erase the remains of the white milk mustache from the cafeteria cereal.

He looked up at the teacher, smiled until deep dimples broke out on his sizeable cheeks, and shrugged. “Come on, son, let’s get moving,” the teacher encouraged gently. 

Later on a break, I asked the teacher about this nine year old. She explained he lived with an odd assortment of relatives, though none were his parents. He was left to his own devices for putting himself to bed and waking himself up. Multiple calls home as well as visits produced little improvement.  “He used to live with a grandmother, but she passed away during the summer. He’s with relatives in this house, but is pretty much on his own. Cooking, laundry…he does it himself, when it gets done,” she explained. “It’s frustrating. We’ve called the authorities, but he doesn’t meet their criteria for abuse or neglect. We have gotten together to get him clothes and help out as we can, but it’s never going to be enough. There’s an older student from the family at the high school, but he’s pretty much in the same boat.”

The next week when I visited this campus again, J.C. was in a group I had targeted for intensive work. He was largely silent, his mop of overgrown, uncombed curly hair bobbing wildly when he nodded and shook his head silently for answers. While other kids in the group laughed openly at a lame joke I threw in, J.C. carefully considered what I’d said, a slow flush of red beginning at the top of his forehead and spreading downward, his mouth widening out into a small smile, then growing until those dimples anchored giggles he couldn’t stifle.

The only time he spoke was when I asked them what their favorite food was. He was quick to answer at his turn: mashed potatoes. Shyly at first, and then with growing passion, he described them. “I love the cafeteria’s mashed potatoes. They are thick, hot, and they put a little butter on top that melts. I watch the cafeteria lady when she puts the gravy on them. I think she likes me because she puts extra gravy on mine.” Startled that he had revealed so much, he looked downward, cheeks flaming red.

“Those sound delicious,” I told him. “Maybe we can find out when the cafeteria is serving those mashed potatoes again and I can eat with you. Would that be OK?” He didn’t look up, but nodded his head.

The next day his group filed in. He held a brown paper bag that looked as if something had leaked on the inside, staining the bottom of the bag a dark brown. He beckoned me over to his table and whispered, “I brought some.”

I raised my eyebrows, trying to figure out what it might be. He cracked open the bag and I saw a bowl with aluminum foil over it, a white substance oozing out. “It’s mashed potatoes. I made them this morning. These are the instant kind I made in the microwave. I got up early so I could get them finished before school.” He frowned. “I don’t know how to make gravy.”

My voice caught in my throat. I was speechless as he continued. “The cafeteria didn’t have them on the menu and next week is spring break, so I made you some. Can you eat with me today at my table during lunch? I even brought two spoons.” I took a deep breath, struggling to maintain control. He whispered again, “Don’t worry, I washed the spoons.”

*********************************************************************************

Next week when I return to that campus, I’ll have more than just writing lessons with me. I’ll have my mom's mashed potato recipe, with measurements spelled out and instructions carefully elaborated.

I’ll have a large bag of Idaho potatoes, and real butter and whole milk and the other ingredients. There’s a new potato masher going, too. I’ll be making a stop at the high school first, to talk with the brother/uncle of my dimpled lunch companion. I’ll take an iTunes gift card as a small bribe for this high school fellow to help his smaller relative with the boiling of the potatoes and to sort through the steps of the recipe. And I’ll have a large container of finished mashed potatoes as well as the gravy I learned to make from my grandma. 

Doing the mashed potato never had better meaning.

Confiscated Items in My Desk Drawer

As I count down the final weeks of my teaching career before my retirement, I am going through my posts on teaching. This is a repost with some updates from my early days of blogging.

Almost every teacher has one; a drawer to store things that have been confiscated from students and/or items abandoned and left unclaimed in the classroom. I saw my little stash from last year hidden away in the back of a bottom drawer. Probably nowhere else on earth except another teacher's drawer does this combination of items exist.

1. A giant Mickey Mouse pencil. Nothing wrong with having a large pencil except when you are shoving it up alternating nostrils for the amusement of your friends. FYI- I handled it only with a paper towel and disinfected it with my trusty Germ-x before stashing it.

2. A Mexican wrestler's mask and cape. The story of how I acquired that would take too long to relate here, but suffice to say it's not cool to sneak up behind your teacher while wearing it and yell, "Arriba!".

3. A neon pink condom. Still in wrapper. (Thankfully). It was left under a table and has a boy's name written in ink on it, but I suspect it was a joke sprung on him.

4. A latex glove blown up like a balloon with the letters YOLO written on the fingers. The owner found that while you may only live once, you can also spend what seems like a lifetime in detention if you throw it from the window of the bus when the principal walks past.  

5. A People magazine with Heidi Montag in a swimsuit on the cover, detailing her many plastic surgeries and her huge breast implants. It's always suspicious when a group of boys is huddled around a table, staring down at something hidden from view, and then they immediately jump up when the teacher nears, smile and (poorly) pretend nothing is happening. I think the pictures of Heidi might still have traces of their drool on them.

6. A plastic wind-up penis that hops madly when fully wound, complete with a smiley face on it.

7. A laser pointer that was being directed at girls' chests one day on the way in from lunch. The owner assured me he had no idea it was on or that it had accidentally been aimed at the girls, but that he would never THINK of doing such a thing on purpose, ever.

8. An old book of prayers in Spanish. I guess the prayers were learned/ answered and so the book wasn't needed anymore and thus left behind in my room.

9. A pair of false eyelashes that extend at least 3/4" from the eyes. The poor girl who had them didn't know how to properly apply them and they continually fell off. She kept trying to stick them back on until the whole class was wrapped up in her drama instead of their work.

One thing I confiscated but didn't keep very long was the item in a small brown paper bag a quiet girl brought to school one day. She called me over before class and asked if I wanted to see what was in her bag. I assumed she had an interesting item for lunch, so I dutifully peeked in. The girl had been hunting with her family over the weekend and gotten her first deer. Inside was a fresh deer's tail. The principal's horror at seeing it equaled my own as she and I debated what to do with it. The girl's dad eventually came up to get it that morning.

So there it is; the good, the bad, and the just plain weird of what is in that drawer. Time to clean it out.

The New Shoes

Slap, SLAP, slappity slap...

I looked behind me and pulled out one earbud to ascertain if the strange noise was coming from behind me or actually coming from me somehow.  I stopped running and heard it again, advancing closer. SLAP, SLAP, slappity slap...

I waited. Mona soon came into view from around the corner, huffing and working mightily to keep a controlled gait. She stopped when she saw me, a wide grin breaking out on her round face.

We were on the second mile of a two mile run in the girls' fitness class I teach last period. Mona was a delight. Having been born with Trisomy 13, which causes mental retardation, and starting the year at almost 100 pounds overweight, she'd already built her strength and endurance where she could run part of the two miles, which she was doing now.

"I running!" she exclaimed joyously.

"I see, darlin', and I'm so proud of you!" My gaze fell to her shoes, and the source of the noise became apparent. "Oh, Mona, what has happened to your shoes?"

Her broad feet spilled out the sides of the worn canvas fabric. I could see more of her bright green socks than I could of the fabric attaching to the soles of the shoes. One toe wiggled out of a hole at the front and the left sole slapped loosely, almost free from its tethers, with each step.

"Honey, how can you run, or even walk in these?"

She looked at me with her ever present smile and shrugged her shoulders. "Grandma say we can't get shoes now. Have to wait till money comes."

Mona was being raised by a grandmother who loved her desperately, but who had few financial resources.

"Is this the only pair you have, honey ?" I asked.

She shook her head from side to side, her black braids swinging. "Other shoes in my closet, but they not fit." She giggled. "My feet grow real fast!"

Her shoe size was an 8.5, neither my size nor my daughter's. I'd heard some other teachers talking about how they were cleaning out closets of excess shoes and clothes, so I sent an email out to all the faculty, explaining I had a student who needed a pair of size 8.5 shoes.

Replies started coming back within minutes, each saying they would check in their closets that night. Just before I left for the day, though, one last email hit my inbox.

"Shelly," it said, " I don't wear a size 8.5, but I want to buy her a pair of new ones. I'll go to Academy tonight and pick her out a pair.  I want to get her some really nice ones." It was from Annie, a lovely fourth grade teacher who was new to our district.

Annie met me the next morning before school, an orange Nike box under her arm. She held it out. "Do you think she'll like them?" I opened the box and caught my breath. I know running shoes well, and these were not just any Nikes, but high-quality shoes that also came with a nifty price tag.

"Oh, Annie! These are beautiful! She will adore them, and they will really help her with her running. But you didn't have to spend so much and get the top of the line ones- she would have been thrilled with anything that fit."

Annie blinked few times and drew in a deep breath.

"I grew up really poor. My birth mom gave me up to a family who loved me, but had no money. It will always be burned in my memory of going to school with hand- me- down, faded clothes, never anything new, and of shoes that didn't fit, were worn out, or looked like they belonged to an old lady."

Before she could continue, tears welled up and streaked down her cheeks.

"The teasing, the name calling, the other stuff ... well, it's hard to forget...." her voice faded.

She brushed the edges of her eyes and smiled. "It really gives me such joy to be able to do this. I have more than enough, and to be able to share some of that with Mona helps me, too; somehow makes me feel I'm also helping that little girl I used to be."

The first bell rang and kids flooded into the hallway.

We brought Mona into the workroom and Annie gave her the box. Mona's breathless silence as she pulled it opened and cleared away the tissue paper morphed into squeals of delight as she immediately wiggled out of her old shoes and into the new ones.

Annie knelt and helped Mona pull the laces tight. Mona stood and giggled. "Thank you!" she declared as she jumped a few small hops.

Annie raised to her feet. She said softly, "And I thank you, Mona."

  



 

A Family Always

"Come on, David, you need to be a part of the group and not lag behind," I reminded the lanky, dark headed 8th grader in whispered tones as we moved through the Holocaust museum. Hands in his pockets, he averted his eyes and sniffed a little, but joined the back of the group.

He was a tough one. He had transferred into our school district, sent by an overwhelmed mom to live with his dad and stepmom. He resisted efforts from the other kids to include him in their groups and discussions and showed disdain for his parents and their rules. He had once written in a journal he had no family, although clearly both his mom and his dad were trying their very best to keep him on a safe path.

He showed little emotion when other students were visibly moved in our reading of Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl and the related study on the Holocaust. Mostly, he appeared disinterested.

Now that we were touring a renowned Holocaust museum, he looked away as the docents explained the exhibits. Even as we stood in an actual rail car that transported Jews to Auschwitz, he assumed the stance of the bored; hands in pockets, head back.

I matched my steps to his, to ensure he didn't slip away from the group. "What do you think so far, David?" I asked him as we moved into the next gallery.

He pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders.

The docent led us to a group of pictures of Latvians about to be executed by Nazis and Latvian collaborators. This picture in particular has always pierced me deeply and we stopped in front of it.

 

 

Our docent explained, "These women from the Epstein family had been forced to strip and were about to face a firing squad. Their dead relatives and neighbors are all around them. The elderly woman in the middle was not a part of their family. The mother of the girls, Sorella (some sources call her Rosa) Epstein, second from left, saw her, pulled her over with her daughters, and they all linked arms together. They didn't want this elderly woman to die alone, so they included her in their family."

 

My students couldn't take their eyes off the picture as she continued. 

 

"You can see that even though everything else had been brutally stolen from them, down to their very lives, Sorella and her daughters valued family enough to hold on to it until the end. Even in their last moments they stretched their family to include this woman, so she could die with family next to her."

 

The docent moved to the next set of pictures and the students followed, again with David staying behind on a bench near the picture. I moved closer and around to the side, and although he still couldn't see me, I watched him.

 

He stared intently at the picture. I wondered what he was thinking although I didn't have to wonder very long what he was feeling. A lone tear streaked down his cheek. He pulled the collar of his shirt over his face and wiped it quickly. He raised his head, looked at the picture again, and then turned and joined me.

 

We walked a few steps and I patted his back and asked, "What do you think?"

 

He cleared his throat as we joined the rest of the group. "Family," he said as he nodded his head. "Family."

 



A Border to Cross

It was a year when heat blistered the land. Rain deserted the region like an adulterous lover, although humidity blew herself up to full strength and forced her sodden belly onto the earth, smothering it.

Already on that particular morning at 7 AM, beads of perspiration were forming on my face as I walked from the far end of the parking lot to my classroom. In the office, I grabbed a tissue and dabbed my face as the secretary said, "We've got a new student. Spanish only. He's going to your 7th grade language arts class."

"Did we get any records on him?" I asked.

She shook her head sympathetically. "No. Evidently in Mexico, he was out of school for a long time, like maybe never was in school at all. An aunt checked him in yesterday afternoon."

I let out a breath of exasperation. It was already a large class, and now I had one who didn't speak English and who may have never even been in school period.

When the 7th graders filed in later that day, I noticed Jaime immediately. He was thin, almost gaunt, and had a new haircut and an ill fitting school uniform. Long lashes curved over his brown eyes.

I showed him where to sit and patted him on the shoulder as I got the other students started on a warm up.

I knelt beside his chair and asked quietly, "Habla Ingles, Jaime?"

His deep eyes widened and he shook his head rapidly side to side. "No, no," he whispered as he stared down at the table. His brow furrowed as he bit his lip. He was the same age as my daughter and my heart melted.

I patted his back again and reassured him in Spanish. He kept his head down until I finished talking, and then he gave me a tiny peek. I smiled at him and although he didn't smile in return, his face softened, just a little.

In the next few months, Jaime initially struggled as he worked to master new lessons and build his English. Soon, though, just as his body filled out from regular meals, his English vocabulary also flexed muscle. He was still shy and introverted, but answered more and more questions in respectful, hesitant English.

One afternoon after school, he was the lone student in tutoring. He labored over a paper he was writing and then sighed and rubbed his fingers as he put his pen down.

"Jaime, how is it going for you? Are things getting easier?"

He looked up, a slight smile on his face. He nodded his head and said haltingly, "Yes, some things better, some things not."

I moved over to his table and sat across from him. "Would you like to tell me about it? How did you end up here? En Espanol?"

He searched my face for a moment, looking me in the eyes for the first time. He took a deep breath and began, in Spanish.

"I came here to find my mom. She crossed the river and came to Houston to find work so she could send money home to my grandma so my little brother and I would have enough food to eat."

"And your dad?" I asked.

"He's never been around. I don't even know what he looks like. We were so sad when my mom left. My little brother would cry for her at night. I told him it would be OK. She loved us and she was trying to help us.

"She sent money and letters, and we were able to get food for all of us. Sometimes she'd call our neighbor's house and we'd get to talk to her. She always told us she loved us.

"But then, we stopped getting letters from her. She didn't send anything, didn't call... We didn't know what had happened. My grandma heard very bad stories about what happened to ladies sometimes who come up here by themselves.

"One night I had enough. I was the man of the family and I had to find out what happened to my mom. So I found the coyote (human smuggler) who helped her get up here. I had a little money saved from what my mom had sent us. I left a note for my grandma and took off with them.

His eyes clouded for a moment. "Many bad things happened on the way, Senora." He exhaled.

"Jaime, you're so very brave. I'm so sorry you had to go through all that."

"That wasn't the worst, though. Once we got across the river, I thought it would be better. El Coyote told us he was dropping us off and we'd have to walk maybe two or three days through the brush to stay away from the Border Patrol, but then he'd pick us up again and we'd get to Houston."

I cringed, remembering the record heat wave we'd had around the time Jaime had arrived and mentally calculating the 47 miles of uninhabited, rugged brushland they'd had to navigate.

"We didn't have any water, but we found some cattle troughs we drank out of along the way. We were so thirsty, all the time. One lady with us got too sick and said she couldn't walk anymore. Her lips looked all weird, really big, and she crumpled onto the ground and closed her eyes and wouldn't talk anymore. I saw her quit breathing. I didn't want to leave her behind, but the leader said we had to, or we'd all die.

"Sometimes, I thought I heard my mom's voice talking to me, but I had to tell myself it wasn't real. More people from our group disappeared. I don't know if they died or just turned themselves in to the Border Patrol."

He paused. I hesitated to ask more because our laws say school employees cannot ask children if they are here legally or illegally, so I waited for him to continue with what he wanted to share.

"I'm not even really sure, Senora, how I was able to find a ride here. The lady I stay with now is a friend of my uncle's, from back in Mexico, and she came to get me when she found out I was here. She's nice to me, but I'm not going to stay here long. I still have to find my mom."

The bus arrived and Jaime had to leave that afternoon. It wasn't but a few days later when he disappeared, withdrawn from our rolls. The "aunt" he was staying with was also gone.

Maybe, just maybe, some day a tall man with long, curving lashes and deep brown eyes will approach me, an older woman on his arm, and say, "Senora, I'd like to introduce you to my mom, my brother, and grandma. We are together again."

I have strong opinions about adults, specifically those who wallow with drug cartels, who cross  borders illegally. You can read it in some of my earlier posts. But where children are involved, my heart is open wide, and always will be.)

The Poetic Boy

I've wanted to write this for a long time. I've wanted to not write this for just as long. It was difficult to get out, but I believe there's great good to be learned from it. My next post will be much lighter- promise.


"My son is going to be a lawyer, " she told me proudly. "The first time I saw him after he was born, I saw how beautiful and smart he was, and I knew then that he was going to do great things! I tell him that everyday, that he's going to be somebody." She smiled a smile that was missing a few teeth and her eyes had a too-bright look, but there was no diminishing the pride she had in her youngest son, Johnny Joe. She was his only parent and loved to indulge him in whatever she could get him.

As a brand new teacher, I enjoyed getting to know not just my students, but their families as well. Johnny Joe was tall and filled out for his age, especially in comparison to his peers. He looked tough and most of the other boys gave him a wide berth.

I knew deep down he was his mama's boy. He wrote artful, well thought poetry about her and about the beauty he saw around him that he showed only to me. When she disappeared from his life, he was devastated. By the time he was in 8th grade, he'd become a full fledged fighter, landing in ISS often for throwing his fists around as much as he used to throw adjectives in my class. He still had a soft spot in his heart, though, for me and other women teachers, no doubt vainly looking for a replacement for his mama. He'd stop by to say hello every now and then and to update me on his life.

I lost track of Johnny Joe after high school until I saw his picture in the paper. Now 20, he was accused of entering a convenience store, pulling a pocket knife on the store clerk, also 20 and a college student named Clay, and demanding all the money. Clay gave Johnny Joe all there was in the register, $25.65. Johnny Joe stabbed Clay ten times and in a coup de grace, slit Clay's throat and ran. All was captured on video tape from the surveillance camera. The images show Clay still alive and struggling to call 911 when Johnny Joe fled. He bled out before help arrived.

Filled with remorse, Johnny Joe himself called police from a nearby motel to turn himself in almost immediately afterwards. Prior to calling police, he made another phone call; to 911 to request help for Clay.

Johnny Joe was arrested and made a full confession.

The video tape provided stark support to Johnny Joe's admission.  The news carried interviews with Clay's parents, utterly shattered at the murder of their only child. A poignant moment with his mom included her telling the news reporter, "I'm so sad for us, because our family line ends here. We will never have the joy of knowing Clay as a full grown man. We'll never attend his wedding, never enjoy his children...," her voice trailed off. "But I'm so sad for the world, because I truly believe Clay would have made a difference in people's lives, had he lived." Clay's former teachers and pastor all told of what an upstanding young man he was and how deeply focused he was in his Christian faith.

Johnny Joe's trial ended with his guilty verdict and the sentence of death by lethal injection. In his appeals, he only fought against his death sentence. The case wound its way through the courts and his death sentence was upheld and an execution date set.

Three weeks before his scheduled execution, Clay's mother took the unprecedented step of requesting to meet with Johnny Joe. They spoke for four hours and Johnny Joe apologized profusely and asked forgiveness. In an amazing act, Clay's mother not only gave it, she also petitioned the parole board and governor for a commutation of Johnny Joe's sentence to life in prison. The mother who lost her son and the son who lost his mother found heartbroken peace with each other.

In a 9-8 vote, the commutation was denied and Johnny Joe was moved to the death chambers. Because of death row rules, the only human touch the condemned can have at this point is with the guards. Clay's mother was the last non-prison person to physically touch Johnny Joe when she stroked his hand at the end of their meeting.

On the morning of his death, Johnny Joe told his lawyer he found peace in Jesus although he was nervous. When they came to escort him to the gurney, Johnny Joe told them he wouldn't fight them, but he also wouldn't walk. They'd have to carry him, so they did.

His last words included a plea to the news media to be sensitive with his mother, who'd reappeared out of the shadows in the publicity of the case.

It took him longer to give his final statement than it did for him to die.

I grieved at Clay's gut wrenching murder. I cried almost the whole day Johnny Joe died, thinking of the boy with the poetic soul who chose to take such violent, irrevocable actions. My students every year hear of their stories.

Both families have sought peace in the wake of the horrible. Clay's parents started a foundation to help countless others in his name. The nephew who bears Johnny Joe's name does well in school and in life. His mom has found a better way and lives to bring good, as she can, now.

And stark lansdscapes laid bare by winter bring forth flowers again in the spring.

A Little Love Story

Every day could use a little love story.

Carlos had bounced from foster home to foster home by the time he'd reached 8th grade. The only memories he had of his real parents were dark and painful. His mild cerebral palsy and autism necessitated him taking all his classes in a self contained special education unit, where he began to thrive. Carlos read voraciously. He was also selectively mute, only using gestures or on the rare occasion, a simple spoken word. He self-soothed when he became nervous by fluttering his hands near his face, as if they were silent doves. His expression was always serious, never loosening into a smile.

Rachel had lived with her grandmother most of her life. She was a happy, bubbly girl, grown large with her grandma's delectable cooking. Although in 8th grade, she had the mental age of a 6 year old. Her speech was limited, but she also loved coming to school in the same self contained unit Carlos attended.

On a grade level field trip to a state park, their regular teachers were unable to attend. I kept a close eye on them, both to ensure their safety and because I didn't know how the other kids would treat them.

I was proud of the other 8th graders. They were kind to Carlos and Rachel and went out of their way to include them in the tour groups we had. Carlos and Rachel both seemed a little overwhelmed, but kept up well with all we did that morning.

Our scheduled lunch was a picnic near the river in a scenic spot canopied with enormous oak and elm trees. The other students grabbed their lunches and gobbled them down, eager to play and explore our area. I sat at a picnic table with Carlos and Rachel.

They shyly and quietly ate their lunches. Rachel giggled a few times as I tried to engage them in conversation, but Carlos kept his grave expression as he finished his sandwich. He stole a few glances at Rachel and his hands began fluttering.

He turned on the bench and faced her. She had her eyes on her food, still smiling, oblivious to Carlos' attention to her.

"Rachel," Carlos murmured softly. She continued to look at her food.

"Rachel," he said louder. This time, she swung her head towards him.

His hands fluttered even faster.

"Rachel, you are my heartbeat," he said clearly, without cutting his eyes from her.

"Huh?" she asked, uncomprehendingly.

"You are the air I breathe, Rachel," Carlos said with fervor.

No one had ever heard this boy say more than two words together. I felt like I was intruding on a sacred moment. I held my breath.

Rachel moved her head slightly towards Carlos.

"What it mean, Carlos?" she asked.

"I love you, Rachel. I love you," Carlos replied. His hands finally stilled themselves, his gaze intently fixed on her.

"Aw, I wuv you, too, Carlos," Rachel answered. She giggled and pulled open a bag of chips, crunching one loudly.

Carlos' expression softened and he exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. A small smile curled up at the corners of his mouth. The other teachers and kids loudly jumbled back to where we were and it was time to load the bus.

They did not sit in the same seat on the bus, but he looked back every now and then and grinned at her. She giggled back at him. His whole frame loosened and his hands rested calmly in his lap.

As we unloaded back at school, they still did not walk close to each other, but each time he looked at her, she smiled and giggled and he crinkled his eyes and beamed tenderly as they made their way back to class.

The End of Summer, the Beginning of a New School Year

For the 28th consecutive year, I've unlocked my classroom door to begin preparing for the new school year. My summer is over (we are a year round district) and I'm ready to roll.

It always makes me a little nostalgic to walk in for the first time in a new year. I think of all the literally thousands of middle schoolers I have taught, some of whom are now my colleagues.

I think of those who have gone on to smashingly successful lives and careers, and those who haven't.

I remember Johnny Joe, a doughboy of a teenager. He was his mama's only son and she spoiled him. She disappeared from his life to pursue her addictions just before I got him. He gravitated toward women teachers. I lost track of him after he went to high school, only to see his picture and name as the lead in a story about how he'd been arrested for a senseless murder he'd confessed to. I cried for hours the day he was executed several years later.

I think about Troy, who was such a perfectionist. He loved to argue and debate the finer points of literature. He questioned everything, a trait that is exasperating at times, but is also the sign of a great thinker. He is now the senior pastor of a very large church in a very large city.

I smile to think of Wesley, whose dad dropped him off at school every morning on a tractor, and Jesse, who  rode his horse to school on fair weather days (we are a very rural district). They also make me recall Andrew, who rode a bladeless riding lawn mower to school. Although he never went faster than 3 mph, he followed his mom's instructions to wear a helmet.

I think about Rebekah, the shy girl who came alive in her journal writing. Her mother told me she'd been concerned about her being so withdrawn until she found her voice and outlet in writing. Today Rebekah is a professional writer, composing music reviews for magazines and newspapers.

I remember Lucy, the very unique girl with a half grin who would speak in only one word snatches. "Water," if she wanted to get a drink, and "Restroom," if she needed to go to the bathroom. I grieved several years later when she died giving birth to her first son. I did chuckle, though, when that son, now in middle school, showed up in my class last year with his mom's half grin and asked, "Water?"

I also recall Brian, a troubled boy who often got into fights and sneered at rules. It really gave me a kick when he showed up at my school as part of an elite SWAT team on career day. My students were open mouthed as he told them, " I was a real jackass when I was your age. I hope you make better decisions than I did." They were delighted when he fastened me into his body armour and helmet and handed me his unloaded automatic rifle to pose for pictures with him.

I think of Donny, who was new to our school when Christmas rolled around. The last day before Christmas break the kids brought baked goods and sweets to share with each other. He showed me little round concoctions he said he'd made with his grandma the night before. When I inquired as to what they were, he answered, "Deer Balls".

I was thinking along the lines of spice balls and Rudolph, so I asked what they were made of. My own jaw dropped when he answered, "Deer testicles".

As I pray the silent blessing I pray everyday in my classroom, I know endless potential and possibilities are soon going to be walking through my door. It can't happen soon enough for me.