“…I’ll never know exactly what turned his life around. Perhaps it was the poem.”

One Teacher Makes a Connection Through Writing

A Hand Reached Out
Sheryl Armstrong

Eric was just a name on my sophomore fifth period roster, until he finally decided to show up to class several weeks into the semester.  His tall frame, with shoulders bent slightly and head cocked, ambled into my classroom.  He walked toward me with confidence, showing that interrupting a class already in progress did not faze him one bit.

“Here,” he said, shoving his program card in my face.  When I directed him to a seat, he scowled but delighted in the fact that he was now the center of attention.  All eyes focused on Eric.  Our free-write silence broke with his heavy footsteps and slump into the chair.

I continued my instruction and asked all students to move their chairs into a circle for a group journal share.  Eric stayed on the outskirts, rolled his eyes, then inched forward to comply, but only on his terms.  Not another one, I thought.  Not another troublemaker.  I had liked the community I had started to build in that class, but now it felt strained, tight, in the hot September air.  The other students fed off of his nonchalance and hid under his dark shadow.  The usually lively class sat like dead weights, and I took a deep breath, sighed to myself, and dreamed of being anywhere but where I sat in the front of that room.

I know it sounds horrible, but I hoped that Eric wouldn’t return, that he’d continue missing class like he had during the previous weeks and that through referral after referral, he’d be dropped, and I’d have my 5th period back.  That didn’t happen.  Instead, Eric showed up to class on a fairly regular basis.  Each time, we clashed.  I wanted my ordered classroom, with students ready and willing to work; however, Eric would rather storm out than conform to those rules and expectations.  We both felt frustrated.

Then one day, during a silent reading time, I gave Eric a book about a boy escaping gang life.  “I read this and thought you might like it.”  He looked over the cover, scanned the back, and nodded his head.  “I’ll keep it here for you, and you can read it during class.”  Eric read.  Then, with some prompting, he wrote his own life story.  The words were simplistic and honest.  He wrote about his friends and his world outside of the school grounds.  I jumped for joy.  It was the first piece of writing Eric had accomplished all semester.  “Eric, it’s wonderful!  Keep it going.  You’re doing an amazing job!”  My smiled reached out to him, and he beamed.

“OK,” he said, “but what else is there to write?”  We started from there, forging a friendship, and working towards allowing his powerful writer’s voice to shine.

Weeks had passed, when I was up in the office to talk with one of the Assistant Principals.  As it turned out, she and Eric’s parents were lifelong friends.  I bragged about what a great person he was and how impressed I was that he had written his first essay.  Her jaw dropped with disbelief.  “Eric’s been up here so many times,” she said, “that he’s going to get himself kicked out.  Evidently, yours is the only class he’s been attending.”

The next day, I shared the A.P.’s praise with Eric.  His cool style did not allow for much emotion, but I could tell that he was pleased.  I got the familiar nod of the head he used to acknowledge a person’s presence and a slight smile.  We continued to work, and Eric’s participation in class increased with each passing week.

However, my feelings of success disappeared during the final exam on the last day of the semester.  When my back was turned, Eric got up and left, no explanation given.  I visually searched the classroom, all the while answering questions from students and monitoring their progress.  Eric was gone.  My heart sank.  What on earth was he thinking?  Where had I gone wrong?  At the end of the period, I wished my students a wonderful summer and closed the door to cry.

Students can come into our lives, sit down at their desks, and proceed through the school year without much interaction with us as their teachers.  Or they can become a vital part of our classes, more than just names on a roster.  Eric was such a student to me, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about that last day of school and how he had walked out on me. I second-guessed my teaching, my words, my actions, anything to give meaning to the events of that day.  It seemed surreal, like I was a part of a dream.  Everything had been going so well, and I had never felt such success as a teacher.  Then it was all gone, an ephemeral moment in time.

I finally worked up the courage to share that story with my writing response group.  It was through those discussions that I realized I needed to write about my anger and disappointment of that last day of school.  The final result was a poem I composed for Eric:

Dear Eric,
From the moment we met, you were my nightmare:
surly, insolent, bored by the confines
of school and of society.
Our mutual distrust underlied
any relationship we might build.

On days when you did show up for class,
raw anger surged from your veins, and
you stared at me
with granite eyes,
goading me to send you out,
to liberate you from that hell.

You blew up at me, yelling,
screaming;
I threw you out,
complying with your wishes
again and again.

Then the storm between us ended.
The dust settled, and the smell of
rain refreshed our senses,
was cool and inviting
against our dying tempers.

Together, we found a break
through the darkness.
My hand reached out to the person
behind the stoic exterior
and received a response, a reaction,
not of anger or frustration, but of
hope, friendship, and trust.

You wrote your story,
told me about life
with your friends, the homeboys,
taught me about your world,
your language, and your honor.

We formed a bond, and with that,
you broke free of the
constraints of your circle.

You shared a part of yourself with
the subtle tilt of the head,
the slight wave,
seemingly inconsequential gestures,
but all meant to acknowledge me,
your teacher.

You blossomed; I soared.

Then on the day of the final,
that magic was broken.
I noticed the empty space and the
fact that you weren’t in your chair,
and my gaze went swiftly,
hopefully, across the room,
looking for your frame but
being met by others.

I panicked from a feeling of loss,
not  fear.
“Where’s Eric?”
I asked of your classmates,
my calm carefully hiding my
realization of the truth.

“Don’t know,” they replied,
and their words and your tracks
were swallowed by the
flurry of activity
and the sounds of the remaining
31 voices.
You had slipped out unseen,
but not unnoticed.

You made the choice to leave,
and I am left bewildered and stuck in a
twisted replay of the events that
led you forth.

Please tell me, Eric, about what
pulled you out of class that day.
Tell me why you left
while my back was turned.
It was such a cowardly act, Eric,
and one that broke my heart.

My catharsis complete, I resolved to give that poem to him should our paths ever cross.  I shared it with my fellow writers and answered one colleague’s query if Eric would ever graduate with, “I doubt it.”  He seemed to be just another student lost in the system.

However, that September, I followed through with my decision.  Eric’s girlfriend was a student in one of my classes, and I asked her to see if he would stop by my room.  He did, but standing before me, he did not meet my gaze and shifted his eyes nervously.  Nevertheless, I gave Eric the poem and, this time, watched as he left my classroom.

Weeks went by before we met again.  Thoughts swirled in my mind.  Did I do the right thing?  Did Eric read the poem?  Did he throw it away?  My questions were answered when I next saw him on the way to another class.  I got the familiar nod and the slight wave of the hand.  “What I did,” he said, “was wrong.  I know that now.”  No more was said.

Eric requested to be placed back in my class again for concurrent work with the continuation school.  He passed my class that time, made up credits he’d missed and graduated with his class.  Eric had achieved despite the odds stacked against him, and I’ll never know exactly what turned his life around.  Perhaps it was the poem.

Today society is bombarded with negative images of our teenagers.  We see violence in schools, place blame on video games and media, and scowl when the newest styles do not match our own.  Yet, as teachers, we have the opportunity to see beyond those depressing views of youth.  My year with Eric changed me.  When students walk into my classroom, I no longer see them as names, but as people with their own stories, their own experiences.  I reach out to them, not always finding the success I had with Eric, but constantly reminding myself what an important profession I have chosen and what impact I can make on my students’ lives.