By Coleen Armstrong

Craig’s father was dying. He’d been sent home from the hospital, but was now bedridden. Craig had been absent from school for the past six weeks. Today he was back, hoping to salvage whatever was left of his quarter’s credit. We stood together in the hallway while the rest of his class worked on an assignment.

“It doesn’t look good,” I told him, scanning my grade book. “You know, with so little time left, you might be wiser just to work hard the last nine weeks and then be sure to pass the exam.”

“You’re probably right.” Craig’s voice was flat, unemotional.
 
“How are you doing otherwise?”
 
He shook his head. “Not well.”
 
Some of Craig’s friends were giving him a rough time, he told me, razzing him about missing so many days, even insinuating that his father’s condition was a handy excuse to stay home.

“Sometimes,” he said softly, “I want to pop those guys right in the mouth.”
 
Craig was certainly the person to do it. He had a husky build and a grim, burly demeanor which had long kept people at a distance. No one got close to Craig. His hostility, his short fuse and his frequent explosions were too well-known.
 
But today he seemed more chastened than angry. “If you want to know the truth,” he said, “I’m afraid that if somebody says the wrong thing to me, I’ll start to cry. I love my dad so much. Now I have to face losing him.”
 
I wanted to reach out, place a consoling hand on Craig’s arm, but I didn't quite dare. He was still so stern, so forbidding. He leaned against the wall and stared at the floor, talking almost to himself, letting the details of his growing-up years spill out like marbles across a rug.
 
Craig and his father hadn’t always been close. They’d spent much of their lives together bickering. About Craig’s irresponsibility, about money, drinking, poor grades, scrapes with the law. For years Craig had dismissed his father as a pompous blowhard. Now, seeing him blur into a transient figure, he was straining for a clearer, more accurate image.
 
He was puzzled, though, at the odd, half-forgotten memories which had begun to surface during those quiet hours when his father slept and Craig couldn’t. Craig at age five, backing the family car into the street. Craig at age eight, pulling a chair out from under an elderly aunt and then laughing. Craig at age twelve, filching batteries from a neighborhood drugstore.
 
He’d been punished each time because, his father said, “I want to teach you respect for others.”
 
It hadn’t worked.
 
“I’ve always been such a jerk where other people are concerned,” Craig admitted. “Now I’m feeling guilty about causing so much pain.” He grimaced. “Now I know what it feels like myself.”
 
He’d touched the cracks in his own armor, that vulnerability he’d worked so hard to conceal. At first it had frightened him. Then he slowly began to understand that he was simply as needy, as isolated, as insecure as everyone else.
 
“I’m listening to my dad now,” he said. “Really listening. He’s telling me stories about when he was young. I’m finding out how much alike we are. That’s probably why we used to argue so much.” He gulped. “I guess I’m trying to speed things up, cram as much as I can into whatever time we have left.”
 
Craig rubbed his eyes. “This hurts. But somehow it feels good. Like I’ve figured out something those other guys don’t know yet. Does that make sense?”
 
It did. While living in the fullest possible present, Craig and his father were finding their mutual past. Craig would carry it into the future he faced alone. He’d be tougher, yet softer. Quicker to feel pain, yet more resilient. But I couldn’t say any of that aloud. He’d have to find that out for himself.
 
Suddenly he began to chuckle. “I can’t believe I’m standing here talking to a teacher about this,” he said. “I’ve always hated teachers! Another change I never thought I’d see. Makes me wonder what else is in store. Scary, isn’t it?”
 
The temptation to explain, to console, to shed light, was almost overwhelming. But instead, on impulse, I took a risk. I put out my hand to squeeze Craig’s arm in silent understanding.
 
What a nice surprise. He didn’t pull away.

Coleen Armstrong’s distinguished teaching career includes several state and national recognition awards.  She is the author of Please Don’t Call My Mother:  How Schools and Parents can Work Together to Get Kids Back on Track and The Truth about Teaching:  What I Wish the Veterans had Told Me.