Ch. 15 Dennis
Dennis loved me. I loved Dennis of course, but that pretty much goes without saying. I love all my students, some more, some less (OK, Chris, the one who almost got me shot and wouldn't shut up while I was blocking the bullet path to save his scrawny ass - maybe I love him more as a concept or principle, maybe not so much as someone to hang out with. No mushy love there.) But Dennis - Dennis said he loved me many times.
I've got a picture of me and Dennis and Raven. Raven: tall, elegant, hair slicked back into a long braid, classic Native American stoic protrait. Dennis: Afro puffing out around his baseball cap, pants sagging low, exhuberantly grinning and hugging me. Me: funky, disheveled leprecaun, short, plump, bespectacled, protective of these big boys.
The boys were in a halfway house for recovering addicts. I worked there, they lived there. We taught them a language of love, self-love and service. "I love you" wasn't a rare expression.
Loving is beautiful, necessary, but not always the most useful emotion. Most of the kids had been loved plenty, not always in a healthy way, not always continuously. One more person loving them and then leaving their lives may or may not have been a lifeline useful later on. Maybe my stingy, grudging love of Chris was more useful in the long run than my effusive love of Dennis. Dennis way stoned the last time I saw him Chris was alive. His new teacher said he was doing well.
Dora Van Gelder Kunz stabbed a knife into my post-hippie 12 Step mush cloud when she told me my students didn't need my love. My students needed to be safe.
My job has never been the same.
I play with my kids, hug them, sometimes still say I love them.. But it is my job, my sacred trust as a teacher, to shut down every bully's unkind word, to open my door to every tearful, fearful 11-year-old, to watch, to insist on nonviolent language, to challenge every innuendo of unkindness, to listen to every secret entrusted to me. It is not someboy else's job. I must be the one to refer to counselors, parents, CPS, but I must first be the one who believes and cherishes each child, regardless of the razorwire of their personalities, regardless of the elusiveness of their best intentions.
Dennis, though stoned, hugged me when he saw me. I, of course, loved him back. Unconditionally. Still do. Are you OK, Dennis? Chris, are you OK? Have your dreams grown bigger than a blue bandana?
And Raven. Are you OK?
Are you all safe?
I've got a picture of me and Dennis and Raven. Raven: tall, elegant, hair slicked back into a long braid, classic Native American stoic protrait. Dennis: Afro puffing out around his baseball cap, pants sagging low, exhuberantly grinning and hugging me. Me: funky, disheveled leprecaun, short, plump, bespectacled, protective of these big boys.
The boys were in a halfway house for recovering addicts. I worked there, they lived there. We taught them a language of love, self-love and service. "I love you" wasn't a rare expression.
Loving is beautiful, necessary, but not always the most useful emotion. Most of the kids had been loved plenty, not always in a healthy way, not always continuously. One more person loving them and then leaving their lives may or may not have been a lifeline useful later on. Maybe my stingy, grudging love of Chris was more useful in the long run than my effusive love of Dennis. Dennis way stoned the last time I saw him Chris was alive. His new teacher said he was doing well.
Dora Van Gelder Kunz stabbed a knife into my post-hippie 12 Step mush cloud when she told me my students didn't need my love. My students needed to be safe.
My job has never been the same.
I play with my kids, hug them, sometimes still say I love them.. But it is my job, my sacred trust as a teacher, to shut down every bully's unkind word, to open my door to every tearful, fearful 11-year-old, to watch, to insist on nonviolent language, to challenge every innuendo of unkindness, to listen to every secret entrusted to me. It is not someboy else's job. I must be the one to refer to counselors, parents, CPS, but I must first be the one who believes and cherishes each child, regardless of the razorwire of their personalities, regardless of the elusiveness of their best intentions.
Dennis, though stoned, hugged me when he saw me. I, of course, loved him back. Unconditionally. Still do. Are you OK, Dennis? Chris, are you OK? Have your dreams grown bigger than a blue bandana?
And Raven. Are you OK?
Are you all safe?