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.

FREE HUGS

Never sure why, but some classes just resonate more deeply with you.  The memories of their faces come back with full Technicolor recall.  Names don’t get lost.  I have files full of faces that have long since lost their names.  Few years back, I had one of those Technicolor classes. 

Maybe I remember them because I learned more about myself than they did from me.  These special classes are my marks on the old kitchen wall.  This is how I measure growth now.  And I’ve said it before, but can’t say it enough.  I get way more than I give here, and get far too much credit.  The giving comes back in abundance.  I’m sure this territory has been covered by the Buddha and Christ at some point, so we’ll just leave it at that and move on.

It was fourth period.  They became my anchor.  School was my vessel, my ship.  Familiar territory when the adult world stops making sense.  These guys became the ship’s anchor.  And it was a good year for teaching, but a bad year to be an adult.  Inner demons making their way back up to the surface.  Turmoil.  Large life changes.  And doubt.  Just terrible doubt.  Depression too, I think.  The pill poppers came to my side immediately.  When I mentioned it to a doctor, pills became instantly available.  It was almost as if grief was a foreign concept.  Something that had been eradicated years ago. 

     “No thanks,” I said.  “I think I’m just supposed to be sad for a while.”  I figured I was entitled to the old-fashion, full range of emotions.

So, I threw myself into school.  Keep teaching.  Keep close to the kids and all will be well.  I dreaded four o’clock and was relieved when the bell rang at 7:45 to start the next morning.  And I most looked forward to fourth period.  I was most at ease with these kids.  These were the kids that told me that I was like a pregnant lady with my emotions all over the place. It was true.  They threw me a baby shower to commemorate my condition.  Very clever and damn funny.  These were the kids that researched beards and did a power point presentation as to what beard options would best compliment my face.  I still have a version of the chosen beard today.

And between the baby shower and the beard tutorial, the world slipped away.  And I was myself.  It felt good to be me again, if only for those fifty-two minutes each day.  So it went week after week.

On the last day of school, I only had them for about ten minutes and then they were off to the quad for a few farewell activities.  Free food and signing yearbooks.  I was in much better shape than when I first met them, and felt this urge to thank them.  I stand at the front and wait a moment for their attention.

     “Before you go,” I start.  “For reasons you never need to know, boring adult reasons, this was a hard year for me.”  They nod.  They knew, of course. 

      “That’s why you were so pregnant,” someone jokes.

     “But the best part of my day was at 11:04, when you guys would show up.  I looked forward to it.  Trust me, you have no idea how helpful you all were to me.  So, thank you.”  I usually have a hard time shutting up, but no additional words are required.  Enough said.

I jump into instructions.  “Okay, you may head out to the quad.  Enjoy the band and the food and your summer.”  And with that, I turn to put some papers on my desk.  Distractedly, I look through a drawer.  Thinking about end of the year clean up stuff.  Behind me, I hear the moving of desks and chairs.  After a moment, I get that feeling that I am being watched.  I look to the door and notice that no one seems to be leaving.  I turn and see that a line has formed right behind me.  Not sure what to make of it at first, until the first kid steps up and gives me a hug.  Then the next. And the next.  All thirty-six.  Fun and free food awaits, but they are waiting in line to give me a hug.

Part of me wishes I was in my sixties already because this would be the moment to retire on.  After about ten or so, I say nervously, “This is a lot of hugs.”

     “Well, we won’t be here next year,” the next kid says.  “So save them for when you need them.”

And I do.  Some days, I just close my eyes and there are all their faces.  Names still firmly in place.  Rough day?  Grief?  I quietly push back with my perfect scrapbook memory of the day I received thirty-six hugs.

 

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.