This text woke me up. It came from my boss, sent last week:
“Could you call the classroom and talk to Richard? He’s upset and wants to say goodbye to you. If you call now, he will be crying.”
Last week was the final week of classes at our high school. I missed all but one day of it due to a well-timed flu. I say well-timed because I was prepared to murder every last person I saw in that building if I had to go in again. Either I didn’t come in, or I would be imprisoned. Walking through the halls of the school means running into other teachers and hearing the count of days until the end of the year. By May, every student has a bull’s eye on their forehead. Still, I can’t say that final week was rougher on me than it was on my coworkers. Richard gets upset when some preferred routine is interrupted. The drama class I mentioned a post or two back is a good example. It has plenty of male staff and lots of enjoyable repetition, so naturally he loved it, and when it got canceled (which happened often, because God was testing us) he would go through his typical fit. These could be as mild as crying at his desk and whining to teachers or as extreme as running out of the classroom, screaming (deafeningly and suddenly–it startled me EVERY TIME), stripping naked, throwing whatever was at hand, clearing tables and desks, and intentionally pissing himself. These behaviors could last anywhere from ten minutes to an hour. I can’t claim to have been the front line for his fits every time–that dubious honor goes to our head teacher, who has an impressive endurance for it–but I was called in for the majority of them, if for no other reason than I knew him pretty well, and I was his favorite TA. He probably kept my attendance square better than any other factor. If any staff wasn’t in, he might have gotten a little upset, because their absence disrupted a familiar routine. If I wasn’t there, the whole morning was shot (or so I was guilted into believing). This both fed my ego and frustrated me. Any other staff could call in without much trouble, but I was made to believe that when I wasn’t there, the building all but caught fire.
I was mostly asleep when I got that text. I sat up, read it, and immediately called. It rings once or twice, and then I hear incomprehensible sobbing. This kind of emotional output is reserved for receiving news of a dead spouse or a burning home. It sounds heartbreaking until you see him react the same way to disappointment over a snack not being to his specifications; after that, it’s all bullshit.
“Richard! Hi!”
More sobbing. He’s inconsolate.
“Richard! Are you sad that I’m not there?”
More crying and moaning, and I think I hear a “yes”.
“Okay buddy, but I’ll see you this summer!” I felt guilty for saying this. At the time, I doubted my employment at summer school (due to the summer program’s awful hiring practices). I resolved right then to at least visit once, so I wouldn’t be a total liar. “Okay, Richard?”
More sobbing.
“Richard, I’ll see you this summer, so you need to stop crying!”
I regretted saying this as soon as it came out of my mouth. “Stop crying”? He would stop only and precisely when he wanted to. But he stopped when I said so, for the first time. There was silence on his end, except for voices in the background.
“Can you say ‘I’ll see you this summer’?”
“Yeah.”
“No, Richard, say ‘I’ll see you this summer’.”
“Yeah.”
I laughed and said “okay, buddy, I’m going to go now, okay? Bye!”
“Yeah.”
“Say bye!”
“Bye.”
“Okay, now hang up the phone, okay?”
There was silence for a moment, and the phone clicks.
I laid back in bed and stared at the ceiling. I thought about Richard, and the year as a whole. A lot of things ended with this school year. The day I called was the last day that students would be at the school. The next two days would consist of preparing the classroom for summer school. That conversation confirmed the fact that while he had caused me the most stress this year, he also made it the most enjoyable. I’ve rarely been as frustrated at a student as I’ve been with him, but I’ve also rarely had as much fun. He loves being around people. He hates being outside of any group activity, even if his goal is to be the most annoying member of that group. Going on trips to the community was a sociological experiment regarding how people react to strangers introducing themselves and asking about whether or not they own any pets. Since he lives in the area (and for going out to eat) he knows most of the staff at any place we visited. That included all sorts of fast food restaurants, the rec center, public transit, and probably more we never saw.
But the feeling I had wasn’t so much that I’d miss him. I’m not going to be working in his classroom next year, but I’ll be in the building (hopefully), so I’ll see him, probably often. The three month break between school years gives a full stop, separates each school year neatly into eras. Summer school is short and a relaxed and truncated atmosphere; there’s no real thematic continuity. (If years can be said to have themes, which might just be too pompous to suggest.) I realized even if I came back to this classroom, that year would be gone. Yes, of course, years come and go and I’m guessing for most veteran teachers they tend to blend together. Reflecting on the passage of time isn’t new, and I’m not pretending this post is breaking new emotional ground. Even though summer is a myopic goal by February, by the time it comes I realize that I’ve been digging my heels in, resisting it, resisting the change that I supposedly couldn’t wait for, until I careen off the edge of the school year and tumble into summer. There were things I hated, loathed about this year, so my restless discomfort with its end doesn’t make much sense. Maybe this is the sort of limpwristed reflection reserved for those privileged enough to spend their lives in education. But for whatever the movement into a new season means for me, transitions are chaotic for the students I work with. Richard isn’t the only one that lives and dies by ritual and routine. For anyone else, it would be like becoming a refugee from your home country every time June comes around, forced into an alien culture where you can never be sure anyone will give you what you think will make you happy. His home life didn’t change much, to be sure. His parents are wonderful, and I’m sure after fourteen or fifteen years they’ve found ways to help him ease into new eras, but someday he’ll have to leave his house, and there’s really no way to make him certain that the people who love him will make sure he’s cared for. That concern alone validates programs that take on students after high school. The nature of life is change, and for someone who hates and fears it, programs that can provide meaningful experiences are absolutely necessary.
Summer school starts for real this Monday, so I’ll be back to my regular misanthropy by then.
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Stephen Hull is roughly a quarter-century old and writing in places like Canceled Forever, Some Experience, his notebook, bathroom walls, etc. He lives around Chicago.
Awesome article Stephen… and btw, that is an exquisite pic of you!