Marjorie
It was November when Marjorie arrived at my classroom door. She was older than most of the other children in the third grade. When she spoke, which was rare, she seemed unable to form complete sentences, and responses to questions often sounded more like grunts. She could not read, could only almost write her name. She had two outfits, and the one she wore most of the time was a dress that barely covered her torn and grayed underwear. The other kids would move away from her and call her nasty. We'd talk about respect and caring for each other, about no put-downs and sharing, but there was no denying that it was difficult to sit next to Marjorie. She reeked of days and weeks of stale cigarette smoke and it was a smell that clung to you for hours.
It was clear that something was terribly, terribly wrong in this little girl's life. I tried to get the gears of the various social service networks to click into place faster. I tried, but "these things take time," I was told. In this case, too much time. Marjorie arrived in November, and was gone by the end of January. They packed up the car and moved on. None of the kids in the class ever even asked what happened to her. No one wanted that smell, and seemingly no one particularly cared about Marjorie.