Gangly, awkward, pockmarked adolescents

Every day, my students come into my classroom and sign in. It's a simple procedure: 8-10 means you're having such a great day you can hardly stand yourself; 5-7 means pretty good/can't complain; 4 means you're having kind of an awful day but you don't really wanna talk about it; and 1-3 is Red Zone, which means you're having the worst kind of day, and you've accepted the fact that Mrs. LeBlanc is going to come bug you about it to make sure you're okay. The sign-in process serves two purposes: 1) it helps me take attendance (Bonus!) and 2) It helps me connect and understand my students better on a daily basis.

Yesterday, one of the quiet little guys in my gifted class signed in at a 1. Now he's usually a happy-go-lucky kind of kid; the day before he was a 10. He's not one of my "frequent fliers", someone I have to touch base with regularly.

So I stop by his desk during their independent work time, crouch down next to him so only he can hear me, and ask if everything's okay. He's gives me this look like he wants to say something but doesn't want anyone to hear. It's a painful look, one that I can't stand for very long, so I tell him to wait and we'd talk after class.

Class ends--it was a fun one. Everyone was participating and laughing and actually learning. One of the rare days I feel like I know what I'm doing--and I can see my little guy is lingering. He's trying to wait without making it look like he's trying to wait.

I walk over to him and say, "So what's going on with that number, buddy? You never sign in so low."

He takes a deep breath before he says, "Well... I have this dream," and bursts into tears.

Context alert! Before you can understand this next part, you need to know this: this kid's father and sister were killed in a car accident when he was very young. He lives with his mom, brother and other sister, but the tragedy of his life is something he carries with him daily. Literally. He carries a picture of his dad that he'll take out periodically and look at during class.

He continues.

"I have this dream that my dad comes to talk to me." He starts crying so hard he can't speak, so I ask questions. How often do you have it? Every night. Has that happened ever since your dad died? Yeah. Every night since. He collects himself and is able to keep going.

He comes to me every night and talks to me in my dream. But last night-- His voice breaks and he lifts his glasses to pinch the tears out of his eyes with one hand. Last night, when he came he told me he couldn't come talk to me anymore. He said there was something I didn't know about what happened to him, but I wasn't ready to know until I was 17. He said he wouldn't come back to see me until then.

Naturally, I was speechless. I asked more questions.

Were you able to speak to him last night?

Yeah. I kept asking him to tell me what it was and he wouldn't. I kept telling him not to go. But he just kept inching away from me.

Did you tell your mom?

Yeah.

What did she say?

She said that she thinks maybe it's a good thing. That maybe it's because-- He can't talk anymore, so I try to finish his mom's sentence.

Your dad wants to try and help you move on? He nods.

Then it becomes clear that he's said his peace. The proverbial ball is now in my court.

"Honey, I don't really know what to say right now. The only thing I can think is that there are some people out there who would have a hard time believing what you're saying, but I am not one of those people. I am a firm believer that there is a whole world around us at all times that we don't know about and couldn't understand if we did. I guess I think that what your dad gave you--with those visits at night--was a gift, but now that you don't have that anymore, it's not that he's gone. I think it's a little like a one-way glass now; he can see you, even if you can't see him. And I know 17 feels like a lifetime away, but it will be here in the blink of an eye. I know that doesn't help now; right now it just sucks. It just sucks that you don't have your dad to help you grow up."

I asked him if I could give him a hug; if it would be alright. He nodded. Funny middle school trait, though: I hugged him and he stood stock-still, arms at his side. I wanted to laugh out loud when he did that.

I wrote him a pass to his next class and cushioned it with a few minutes so he could go to the restroom or get a drink of water. He smiled at me and wiped his eyes, took the pass and left. My other team leader walked into the room to tell me something, and I burst into tears just as my student rounded the corner away from me.

People wonder why I teach middle school. There aren't words sometimes for the beauty that hides inside my little gangly, awkward, pockmarked adolescents, so I don't really know what to say to them.

But I do know that a battle is raging inside that kid, and he's probably waking up right now and crying, afraid of a life ahead without guidance from the most important man he ever knew. It's the most important battle he'll fight in his life, and I get to bear witness. And maybe, if he lets me, I get to bear arms against his demons, too, and show him that there is light still left in the world, even when his own light has gone out.