They sat around me, sprawled on crudely-carved, graffiti filled desks
with small metal and wood chairs. It was nearing the last day or so
of the school year and this particular group of students didn’t want
to leave. It was the last period of the day, and I sat on a desk with
my feet on a chair in front of me.
“Mr. Reilly, we just want you to know that it’s not your fault.” said
Billy, the leader of the group. It was sort of strange that these
particular boys were hanging out in my classroom, for they had been
the students that had gotten the least out of my class, and school in
general. They were common visitors to the principal’s office and
denizens of detention.
Biily continued, “We’re screw ups. There was no way you were going to
teach us.” he smiled at me. The others smiled too.
“We know you tried, Mr. Reilly” now they became a little more
serious. “You’re not so bad for a teacher.” The others nodded agreement.
“Guys, you aren’t screw ups. You’re good kids.” I responded reflexively.
“No, no; none of us like school. It’s so boring. You tried to make it
interesting; but we didn’t need half the stuff you tried to teach us.”
Kevin chimed in, “I liked the books we read.”
Michael added,”I liked the goofy music you played and the poetry”.
I shook my head, “You guys are pretty smart. Why did you make it so
hard on yourselves?”
It struck me how kind they were. How appreciative. They accepted the
consequences of their actions, they were peaceful with their plight.
They weren’t angry or holding grudges, because they felt they had
been treated fairly. It was like they were professionals at this…no
hard feelings…business is business. You were being you – “teacher”
and we were being us – “screw ups”.
But they weren’t screw ups. They were really nice kids with good
senses of humor. They were just completely out of place in school.
They had other, more important things going on in their lives. If you
saw them outside of school, you’d be amazed at their competence and
confidence.
“Let me look under the hood Mr. Reilly.” I think I see what the
problem is. Let me fix it.” and sure enough Billy reached in to the
bowels of the complex machine that was my car and began to work.
Any of them could tell you where to hunt, point out the quiet fishing
hole where trout gathered on the edge of the frothing current, or
where to lay a trap in a hidden Adirondack bog. In the fall, when the
bullhead were plentiful one of them would catch a dozen and bring
them to me wrapped in plastic. I remember pushing aside the brown
lunch bags in the teachers’ refrigerator in the faculty room to make
space for them.
These were the school rejects, the poor kids. They were like a Greek
chorus in my teaching life because they were so real. They weren’t
going to “play” school like the others. They weren’t going to
“pretend” this was important to them. I could count on them
reflecting back to me the best and worst of my teaching. If I was at
my best I would see them engaged fully. Anything less, anything that
was not relevant, not well planned, not taught well; and they would
find something else to keep them busy. Generally, something that got
them in trouble.
They are all grown men now. I suspect that some must have children of
their own. They are frozen in time for me, in my life’s memory. So
many students entered and left my life; but these, the professionals,
remain. They represent the best of those I taught. My Huck Finns, My
Greek Chorus; too young to really be my friends; but always my soul
mates.
