Student "A"

Student A, in my class of nearly 45 first graders, is a boy of no more than six years of age. More often than not, he’s in trouble for talking out of turn or not following directions. Imagine that, right? He’s incessantly getting up out of his seat to follow one of his teachers around the room, asking them to look at every other letter or color he adds to his work, persistently tugging on our shirts and tapping our arms, legs, and hips until he gets our attention. But even as you go to admonish his latest behavioral faux pas, you’ll turn around to find him smiling up at you with the warmest, widest grin, which, even still, doesn’t quite reach his vastly sad brown eyes. Why?

During my first week at Cypress several weeks ago, I found out that his mother had recently decided to “peace out” (whatever that means), leaving him in the care of the neighborhood and what I’ve come to find out are his semi-supportive grandparents, among other various family members. Grandpa is recently out of prison himself, naturally, while Grandma stated to Student A’s teacher that nearly all of the adults in A’s life are abusive drug addicts. Super. These brilliant role models, at their best, bully A and take his meals for themselves. Gosh, no wonder he asked for extra food last Friday. Meanwhile, when Mrs. Petersen and I asked Student A why he was coming in to school late all last week, he explained that he hadn’t been sleeping well. Turns out, he’d been wandering the streets until nine P.M., avoiding his own home like some sort of plague.

My fourth week has just come to a close, and not a day goes by now that I don’t get at least half a dozen “hit and run” hugs from Student A. Its protracted-sigh and heart-wrench inducing. Then yesterday, he told me he loved me.

Damn. Six years old. Every day, I bend down in front of him and have a private meeting. You’re not going to stay out late tonight, are you, A? And you’re coming to school tomorrow, right? And you know I love you, don’t you? Perfect. But here I am writing this, curled up in my bed, and all I can think is, “Oh man, where is Student A right now? Is that boy safe tonight?”

All I want for him, and all my students, is the chance to feel valued, cared for, and protected (at the very least well-fed)... and if his safe haven cannot and will not be home, it sure as hell is going to be school. If Miss Sarah has the last word, anyway.