MORE POWERFUL THAN YOU COULD POSSIBLY IMAGINE

Here is the perfect gift for your child's teacher.  Trust me, they don't need another coffee mug. "Our Kids: Building Relationships in the Classroom," is available at Amazon.

     Is he going to touch my face?  General rules of personal space probably aren’t applicable at the moment.  It’s the grey in my beard.  Like jingling car keys or blinking holiday lights, the beard has seized his attention.

     “Obi Wan,” he whispers as if he has been searching the galaxy and has finally found me.  And yes, he is lightly touching my face.  True, the original Obi Wan was three decades older than myself so the comparison stings a bit.  But, I mean it is Obi Freaking Wan Kenobi.  A true bad-ass of the universe teaming with understated wisdom and some set of Uber ninja skills.  It’s a fair trade to be seen as a man pushing eighty. 

     This is Enrique.  Big man on campus.  Large and likable.  Infectious crooked smile and big belly laugh.  He is a special needs student, perhaps more gifted than lacking however there is clearly a large disconnect between him and the rigors of reading and writing.  But Enrique has much more to offer.  There is an instant and natural joy you get by being around him.  Joy is its own art form and if you can give it away like penny candy to the masses, that is a skill set not to take lightly or dismiss.  What the world needs now, am I right?

     And for Enrique, for the unique in general, the campus has a Statue-of-Liberty-vibe to it.  Old school Statue of Liberty, not the new one with all the unspoken addendums and asterisks added to it.   If you’re different, if you’re quirky, if you’re sitting out on the fringes a bit, enough kids here will have your back.  Enrique strides through the halls, flag fully flying.

     So now, our keeper of the joy has granted me with a new nickname.  Obi Wan.  I’ve been called far worse by people who were far less, so I will own this one for sure.  But Enrique wants me to earn it.  And a new pattern has taken hold.  He is a man most at ease in the comfort of a reliable pattern.  So, he feels entitled to kill me with the force at least twice a day.  One death in the morning, and one at lunch.  I saw him once after school and he waved.

     “Not now, Obi Wan,” he said to me in earnest.  The next morning though, he whips his big hand into the air as if he about to palm my face.  It is his outpouring of the force.  I reel back on my heels a bit, then slump forward.  The first time this goes down, he looks annoyed.

     “What’s the matter, Enrique?”

     “You do it all wrong,” he said almost embarrassed for me.  “Kill me and I’ll show you.”   So, I thrust my palm into the air and Enrique flails his arms.  He shakes like a cartoon character being electrocuted.  Then, exhausted, he lets his upper body dangle down slightly swaying from the volt.  I make some mental notes and motion for Enrique to force me again.  This time I throw myself into the role.  I let my upper body dangle an extra second or two making it a great shot for the close-up.  Enrique beams.  Clearly, I’ve nailed it.  And it builds.

     And Enrique has worked his joy-mojo on me.  I claim to do this for him, but I am clearly all in.  I notice that I scout him out in the morning rush.  I go on Youtube and look up Kenobi’s classic last line when Vader takes him out.  After a few run-throughs, I use it one morning.

     “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.”  Enrique is thrilled.  Sure, it’s off script, but I think he finds my acting choices bold.

     Joy.  It gives him immense pleasure, and it does about the same for me.  It’s all just an excuse to express some joy.  And it takes precedence over all other conversations.  In mid conversation with other teachers I stop, deliver my line, die, and return to the conversation.  Some ask.  Some don’t.

     The mad genius that is Enrique.  It can be found deep down along the soft underbelly of it all, where the knowledge is kept about how all of our acts are just symbols.  Symbols of joy.  Symbols of love.  Symbols of fear.  We just move through our symbols.  Enrique knows it so well, he has no idea that this is something that is not to be known by most.  The kid just may be the sound of one hand clapping.  No joke.

     About a month or so into it, he walks in to my room to collect the bottles to be recycled.  When he realizes it is my room and sees me standing at the front, he whispers in glee.

      “Obi Wan.”

     “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.”  The force rocks me back on my heels, the upper body dangles.  He smiles, waves, then leaves.  I get back to the lesson at hand.  Most kids are baffled.

     “What was that?” a kid asks.  After a full explanation, a grand plan is hatched.  Everyone wants in.  The class rehearses a few times during the week.  Many of the kids are not nailing the Alec Guiness accent, and it’s a little frustrating.  Next Friday comes, Enrique walks in.  Smiles don’t get much better than his.

     “Obi Wan” he whispers.  In unison, the class delivers the line.

     “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.”  Enrique is mesmerized.  He briefly jumps up and down.  This is just too good.  He hurls what can best be described as a super-sized version of the force at the room.  His arm quivers.  If he held it any longer, he would have surely broken out in a sweat.  A room of thirty-two feel the force suck the very life from their eternal souls and they collapse.  It is a little like a flash mob, I guess.

     And the boy, who somehow dwells in the sweetest of spots, somewhere between toddler simplicity and old-sage-wisdom, conforming to no one’s expectations ever, goes full toddler.  He giggles and hops up and down.

     Any effort to define the force by a person with only some cursory knowledge of the movies, would be nothing short of blasphemy.  But still, must-attempt-I.  Just maybe Enrique’s obsession is really about all he knows but cannot say.  The ability to instantly stream joy into a greying world.  The sweetest of smiles dipped with audacity into the infinite gloom.  The true force.  Who knows?  But Enrique has a special gift that cannot be denied.  And it can invisibly grab hold of you from clear across a room, with more power than you could possibly imagine.

 

New Memoir, Jersey Boy, now available

New Release from Chris Bowen  

If you're enjoying the blog, here's a book I recommend. "Our Kids: Building Relationships in the Classroom," is available at Amazon.

WIDE AWAKE

     “I’ma  whoop your ass, bitch!”  I try to defuse the situation.

     “That’s an excellent example of an exclamatory sentence, Cecilia.”  Sadly, my well-timed grammar humor goes totally under appreciated.  It’s clearly a rough room. 

     “Ahhhhhhh, HELL no!” Cynthia answers, shaking her head while walking across the room.  And the escalation has begun.  Obviously, “I’ma” have to let rules of appropriate language go for the moment for two reasons.  First, clearly we are beyond the little rules and the objective here has changed.  And secondly, it is painfully true.  Cynthia is a total bitch most of the time.  It’s a reasonable statement.

     But Cynthia is caught in a never ending loop.  It’s like the tedious lineage excerpts from the Bible with all of those “begot’s”.  Poverty begot teen pregnancy.  Teen pregnancy and poverty begot self-medicating and crime.  Crime begot poor parenting.  Poor parenting begot angry teen.  Angry teen begot poor school behavior and terrible social skills.  Follow the trail.  I get it.  Cynthia’s behaviors are easier to see, easier to understand, and easier to forgive.  She is a handful, but she is in survival mode.  She needs her bad behavior to survive so I don’t feel right totally taking it away from her.  I mean, I guess I could scream at her, get in her face, make threats of detention and the like, but why?  I am almost certain that approach has been attempted every year she has been in our educational system and it has clearly failed.  So?  I let a lot go with Cynthia.  I try to squash my own ego and let her go.  Give her one place where she can’t squander all of her good will.  Consider it a bridge I will not allow her to burn while she is in here.  Of course, maybe I wouldn’t be in this escalating situation if I had become one of the screamers.  Who knows?  Back to Cecilia.

     It is clear that this is no bluff.  Cecilia’s body language is in full fight mode.  I stand between them like a human shield.  Right now my body is about the only thing that has put this brawl into pause.  As a small man with a big mouth, I have some experience in getting walloped, so I think I’m good here.  I try one last thing.

     “As a favor to me ladies, can you not do this in here?”  This is a pause.  Just the sound of their heated breath.  “I’m not moving and I bruise very easily.”  I manage to catch Cynthia off guard.  She snorts out a quick laugh.  The fight, for the moment, is diverted.  And it is not the first time a little well-place humor has gotten me out of a beat-down.  You can feel the tension leave the room.  You can see it ease in the shoulders of the two girls.  “Cynthia, why don’t you walk this off?  Take Lydia and slowly make your way to the restroom.”  Cynthia shrugs and heads out.  She is usually quick to anger, but she is also quick to let it go.  Again, it is more about survival than fighting.

     The room goes back to dull.  Kids go back to reading or pretending to read and today I will take either.  I take a seat next to Cecilia.

     “Why are you going to fight Cynthia?”

     “She’s a bitch,” she says matter-of-factly.

     “But why let her get you so crazy angry?”

     “Cynthia didn’t really get me very angry at all.”  I am a little confused.

     “But you were ready to slam her.  AND, you used harsh language that I know you have never in your life ever used before.”  She chuckles and relaxes just a bit.

     “Cynthia didn’t get me angry.  Cynthia was just my excuse to BE angry.”  She can tell I don’t understand.  “I’m angry when my dad drinks too much and passes out in the front of the apartments, but I ain’t allowed to be angry about that.  And then I am angry when I have to watch my little brothers all night, don’t have time to get any of this stupid homework done, and get yelled at in class.  But, I ain’t allowed to be angry about that, either.  I’m angry about stuff that so far I just have to pretend didn’t even happen, so obviously I can’t be angry at none of that.  So, when I’m angry at Cynthia?  I’m really angry at about ten other things.  At least I’m allowed to be angry at Cynthia.  So, I dump it all on her.”

     You can say what you want about Cecilia, but for someone who sleeps through a lot of classes she is wide awake.  Self-aware.  Conscious of the stacked deck and every elephant in her room.  I look into her eyes.  They have a sense of surrender to them.  Her world has been laid bare, for the moment, and she doesn’t care who is watching.

     She looks back into my eyes as if searching for something.  She doesn’t see it and looks away.  It is sad when a wounded soul seeks solace in your eyes, maybe some silent comradery, and they cannot find it.  The reality though, is that it is there.  The thing she is looking for?  I know it.  And I have it.  I know exactly what she wants and I have it in abundance.  I am a master at masking.  My coping skills have become quite extraordinary over the years.  In the wake of her surrender, I feel the need to join her.  Truth is, I often grow tired of coping.  Tired of being an adult.  Tired of being a man.  Sometimes, I just want to be a person.  There is so much I can’t and shouldn’t say, but a new one seems okay to surrender to her. I talk quickly because I don’t want the moment to be lost, or hear those words that I know are coming.  “You wouldn’t understand.”  I also talk quickly because this is the first time I am really saying this out loud outside of my home, so nerves have caught me off guard.

     “In June, my father killed himself.  He shot himself in the head.  He left no explanation.  No note.  When I was little, my father was my hero.  I remember actually hoping I would get a receding hairline so I could look more like him.  And when I was about six, I would sit out on the curb and wait for his car when he was working the day shift.  As he got older, he became more depressed and more isolated and all but vanished from my life.  He is not here to be mad at, so I go around looking for other things to be angry about.  And anytime I hear myself sounding just like him, I get angry and scared that I will one day, with no note, shoot myself in the head.”

     Cecilia just keeps staring.  And then, she stares some more.  She is too surprised to speak.  I am too surprised to listen.  Finally, she says something.

     “You won’t,” she says in a very small voice.

     “How can you be so sure?” I ask.

     “Cuz I’ma have to whoop your ass if you do.” It just might be the best thing anyone has ever said to me.  We laugh.  We laugh for a while.

     And that’s it.  The writer in me is hunting through the pages for the magic moment that will bring all of this full circle.  But, I don’t feel much like being a writer today.  Or a teacher.  Just taking a moment to be a person.

 

New Memoir, Jersey Boy, now available

New Release from Chris Bowen  

If you're enjoying the blog, here's a book I recommend. "Our Kids: Building Relationships in the Classroom," is available at Amazon.

CAN YOU DO ME A FAVOR?

     “What’s the matter?” she asks.  And the bait is taken.  I don’t have the acting chops to pull off Othello in summer stock, but I have just enough to get a fourteen year old to believe I am troubled by my thoughts.

     “Well,” I start, and then I stop.  See, that’s a key part of the routine.  It has to seem like you want to tell them, but are hesitant about trusting them with the information.

     “What is it, Mr. Bowen?”

     “Maybe I shouldn’t say.”

     “No, it’s okay.  Tell me.”  I’m pretty sure the allure of securing potential coveted gossip is her biggest driving force here, but I do think she is also just a bit concerned for my well-being.  “You can tell me,” she adds with an assuring tone.  I try not to laugh.  It’s almost too easy.  Well, maybe not.  I have developed this relationship for several months now, so a considerable amount of prep went into my performance.

     “Okay.  It’s these new books I was sent in the mail.”  I show her the first one.  Beaten is the title and the girl on the cover is clearly looking to be in crisis.  She takes the book from my hand.  It’s the first time I have ever seen her voluntarily grab for a book.  She turns it over and reads the back.

     “See, I’m worried that it’s not school appropriate material.”  She begins flipping through the pages, clearly looking for dirty words and sexual references to pop up off the page.  “Can you do me a favor?” I ask.  She nods sincerely.  “Can you read this book for me and tell me if it’s school appropriate?  Can you see if it has maybe dirty scenes in it?  Cussing?  You know?”

     “Sure.  No problem.”  Beaten gets quickly stashed into her back pack as if I might realize my foolishness.  Then she looks up, a bit apprehensive.

     “But, I’m not like the best reader or anything.”

     “But you are the best person in here.  Mature and trustworthy.”  She beams awkwardly not sure how to handle the compliment.  “And please,” I add.  “Please don’t show it to anybody until you’re sure it’s okay for school.”

     “I promise,” she says.

     The next day, she gives the room a once over before sliding the book back to me.  It feels like some sort of illegal transaction has taken place.

     “Well?”  I say, sort of on the down low.

     “Mr. Bowen, I read the whole book last night.  It was like a hundred pages.”

     “And?”

     “It was really good.  And there were no bad words or bad parts.  Her boyfriend is hitting her and she has to make a tough decision to tell somebody and get help, but nobody in the book cusses or does like, you know, relationship stuff.”

     “Thank goodness.  Thanks.  I really appreciate your help,” I say.  She nods, feeling proud and useful. 

     “What about the other two books they sent you?”

     “I don’t know.  I mean, they’re probably okay.  I know this one is the sequel to Beaten. “

     “I’ll check it out for you.”

     “Are you sure?  I mean I feel like I am asking too much.”

     “No, I don’t mind, Mr. Bowen.”

     “But what about your other homework?” I ask.  She chuckles.

     “Mr. Bowen, we both know I ain’t doing a lot of homework.”  I smile and hand her the next book with a sincere thank you.

     She comes to my room before the school the next day.

     “Well?”

     “It was so good.  Emily was really able to turn her life around.  She even started doing better in school.  I was like so happy for her.”

     “And it was okay?”

     “It was great.”

     “But, I mean was it appropriate?”  She looks at me, totally confused for a moment, as if she has forgotten her mission.

     “Oh yeah,” she remembers.  “Yeah, it’s totally fine.  What’s the next book?” she asks eagerly.

     “Here it is,” I say, pulling it off my desk.  “But, I’m sure it’s fine.”

     “I’ll double check,” she says swiping the book from my grip.

     The next day, she returns with an inspired smile.  “All three of these books are really, really good.”  She pauses.  “That’s the most reading I ever did.  It like made my head feel smart.  Yesterday, I kinda forgot I was reading.  I was just doing it.”

     “Me, too.  I like that feeling.  It’s like my brain is exercising.”

     “I know, right?!” 

     “Thank you for all your help.”

     “No problem.”

     “I got you a gift.”  It’s the whole ten book series.

     “Whoa!  Thank you!  That’s a lot!”  As a teacher that orders these books often, the publisher gives them to me for just a few dollars apiece.  The gesture looks far grander than it really is.  No matter.  It’s not lost on her, so I’m good with it.  “Wow.  I might need one of those bookshelves, like the kind you see in the Target commercials.”

     “Well, I do really appreciate your help.”

     “So, these are safe to put on YOUR bookshelf.”  With that, she leaves.  I scoop up the three small books and, as per her recommendation, I put them on my shelf.  They fit easily because I put them right back in the same spot they’ve been for a few years now.  And that’s where they will sit and wait for just the right person to take them home and do me a favor.

 

New Memoir, Jersey Boy, now available

New Release from Chris Bowen  

If you're enjoying the blog, here's a book I recommend. "Our Kids: Building Relationships in the Classroom," is available at Amazon.