About a Boy

My most worrisome students are boys: boys affected by poverty, boys with dyslexia, boys with poor social skills, boys in danger of failing -- angry boys, hungry boys, fatherless boys.

Here is another story about a boy. He moved here after the school year had started. His father had been without a job for more than a year, and they’d ended up in Texas. He was hungry and completely untrusting of everyone. He once cracked open a pecan in my classroom after recess -- pecans are a playground treasure for some of my students (the hungry ones?) -- and proclaimed, "Pecans are the only thing I like about Texas." I don't blame him for feeling that way. One Monday, he shared that someone had beaten up his dad the previous Friday, landing his dad in jail for a few hours. A few weeks later, he said someone had shot at his dog. I believe both stories. This boy has fear in his eyes.

When we wrote and illustrated poems to be displayed in the hall, he created a folding cover for his poem and wrote on it: DO NOT OPEN. I displayed it this way (he still wanted it displayed!), taped shut, until he took it down because kids were opening it. Nothing makes a fourth grader want to open something like a sign that says not to open it.

Last Friday, the last day of school before the holidays, the boy had a blow up. He spent the last half of the day in the principal’s and counselor’s offices and didn't get to finish his craft projects we were making in class. I promised to glue them and bring them by his house in a few days. So today, I visited, carrying his artwork, plus a few small gifts.

His street and neighborhood were not as bad as I had envisioned, from hearing his stories. The front porch was shielded by a sheet of plywood. A lanky puppy greeted me at the front door. I rang the doorbell, and the boy's mom invited me in. I followed the puppy. The house was warm enough, and a big Christmas tree took up one-sixth the living room. My boy was curled under a blanket on the couch. His mom said they'd just gotten their heat turned on (we've had some REALLY cold days recently, and I cannot imagine being without heat), and they'd all taken turns being sick. The puppy nosed him, and the boy sat up, his eyes glassy. He looked sad.

I admired their tree. It was covered in handmade ornaments from the boy and his siblings -- along with some more intricate ones I learned were made by the boy and his mom. My crummy photo above doesn't do them justice. They're made from Christmas cards the family has received, though the mom mentioned that they'd hardly received any this year, because of their moving around.

"Which one did you make for your teacher?" the mom asked her son, though I suspect that the boy didn’t want to part with one of his ornaments. His mom scanned the tree. "Was it the snowman?" she asked, then answered herself, "Yes, I think it was." She took the snowman ornament off the tree and gave it to me. I cradled it gently, oohed and ahed, and got instructions on making my own. (Each ornament takes 12 two-inch circles cut from the cards. The edges are folded so that each circle becomes a pentagon, and the folded edges are glued together to form a round-ish ornament.)

I am thankful that this boy has a puppy. And heat. I am thankful he makes things with his mom. And now, their snowman brightens my tree. I will think of my boy and his family this Christmas. I will hope for him, and all my boys, that 2010 will be a good year.