6th graders are kryptonite

I'm only two days into the school year, and I've already cried on the subway ride home.

I'm teaching 6th grade this year.  I've never taught people quite this little before.  They're small and fragile, which was exactly why I didn't want to teach this grade.

Seventh grade has been MY grade.  Some 7th graders may still be small and fragile, but they'll fight to the death to hide it.  The #1 goal of 7th graders is to perfect the swagger, the tough bravado, the I-don't-care attitude.  Those 12- and 13-year olds act like they want nothing to do with their teachers, or any adults, and they resist the structure we establish with the last bit of strength they've got.  Every 7th grade teacher knows the phrase, "Choose the hill you want to die on," because everything is a battle.

Everything.

And that's been great, because I'm an excellent soldier.  I like the action.  I'm good in crisis mode.  I can handle high drama.

I have lived in my identity as a 7th grade teacher for most of my educational career, even when I was out of the classroom and working as a literacy coach.  In my eyes, 7th grade is no joke; 7th grade is hardcore.  If you can handle 7th graders, the neurologically insane (it's true!), you can handle anything.  So, I've basked in my story that I am a 7th grade teacher because it says
I am invincible.


Of course, I met my 6th grade classes, and everything changed.

On our second day together, I asked my 6th graders to show me what they know how to do - to show off for me - by writing the best personal narrative they know how to write.  For 45 minutes, I watched them, their heads bowed over their papers, intensely focused on the task at hand.  When I gave a five minute warning, there was an audible gasp.  Oh, the pressure!  I thanked them and smiled as I collected their stories, and told them how excited I was to spend my weekend learning all about them through their writing.

I'd planned to settle in at home on Saturday and read all their work right after my morning cup of coffee when my mind is its freshest. But my commute on the train is an hour door-to-door, and the stories seemed to call to me that Friday night.  I pulled out the folder from my backpack and began to read.

And you can't believe the stories they wrote... you can't believe the beautiful secrets, the tender hearts they held out to me.  I have known my students for two days - I don't even know all their names yet - and they are already trusting me with these beautiful, vulnerable pieces of themselves.

One student wrote:
Now I'm going to tell you who I live with and why.  Me talking about this gets me a little sad because it's not good at all.  I live with my aunt and I live with her because my mom can't take care of me.  I wish I lived with my mom because I always think about her.  I love my mom and dad so much and I miss them.

How brave he is.  How incredibly brave.

This 6th grader has gone and done it; he's gone and proven that I am, in fact, not invincible at all.  I am all exposed nerves, just like these amazing children that I am so blessed to teach.

Maybe my tough exterior is as thin as the candy coating of my 7th graders'.  Maybe I'm not all warrior after all.

Lucky me.

Prophet

I first noticed him a couple of summers ago. I was riding my bicycle downtown, and he was sitting on a wooden bench on the sidewalk in front of St. Nicholas Park.  This giant, onyx-black man dressed in layers of dark not-quite-raggedy rags and sat statue still, seeming to take the world in with the fewest movements possible.  There was a peacefulness to him.  He seemed... content.  It struck me as odd, because by all appearances, he looked homeless. (The clothes hinted at it, but the overflowing shopping cart next to him confirmed it.)  The homeless in New York City generally don't look content. Desperate, haunted, down on their luck, even strung out, yes, but not content.  


And as I continued on my way, I felt a slight lift; a little buoyancy. Odd.


After that first spotting, I started to look for him whenever I went by the park.  He was often right where I expected to see him, calm and still. 


For weeks I just took him in silently, but finally, I broke the barrier.  One day, I cycled by and yelled, "Hello!"  I raised my hand from the handlebar and gave a wave.  He lifted his head up in recognition and beamed the most beautiful, open smile. It seemed almost as though he had spotted me too over the past couple of weeks.  Maybe the watcher had been the watched!  Whatever the case, interaction had been established.


I looked forward to seeing him.  Our exchanges were so mutually enjoyable, like that of two old friends.   I would spot him and yell my "Hello!"  and we would both wave, and always, I left feeling lighter - happier.


One morning I was on my way to cycle with a friend before church, and I spotted him.  I waved and yelled hello, but this time, I turned around and cycled back.  I parked my bike at the curb and walked over to him.  He opened his arms wide, and without hesitation, I accepted his embrace.  And I know this seems crazy because even as I write it, I cringe a bit.  I mean, you have to be careful in the world today.  Don't let your guard down, and certainly not for a homeless stranger whom you know NOTHING about. He is a big, big man.  Who's to say he couldn't have just snapped my neck like a twig?  In almost every way, it was the most ridiculous thing to do.  Why would anyone be stupid enough to risk it?


So now you know, I'm not always the sharpest tack.
Close friends will say I'm hopelessly optimistic and incredibly naive.  That's fair.  
But the life I am blessed with is only possible through these qualities.


Let's get back to the story.  My friend Lindsey is a REAL writer, and in real writing when you digress from the action of a story, it's called a stop pause or a stop gap. (Right, Linds?)  It's not good to get too far off-course.  Umberto Eco can do that stuff, but not a little blog writer like me.


So, yes, I hugged this homeless stranger. The gentle giant enveloped me.  He was warm and smelled of something like cinnamon. Everything about that moment was comforting and safe.  Who knew? I laughed and he released me.  


"What is your name?"  I asked him. "It's only right that we should have a proper introduction."
He replied in a think accent.  Jamaican, maybe?  I couldn't understand so I asked him again.
"My name is Prophet,"  he smiled.
Now it was my turn to beam. 
Prophet. 
"Nice to meet you, Prophet.  I'm Stephanie."  We shook hands.  
"We must talk.  Can you stay and talk?" Prophet asked.
"Oh, no, not today.  I'm on my way to meet a friend, but yes, let's talk another time."
"I will tell you my story," he said.
"I'd like that, Prophet," I replied.  I let go of his hand and headed back to my bicycle.
"Be careful," he said.


(Oh, it's too late for that now, isn't it?)


I've seen Prophet several times since then.  Sometimes I've just waved on the way by, and sometimes we've shared a quick hug. Always he asks when we will talk and always, I've been on my way to somewhere else. 


I think about that sometimes.  I'm delaying listening to Prophet.  Hmmm.  


I haven't seen Prophet since the colder months, but I've started to keep an eye out for him again.  I wait with anticipation.  Part of me worries that he's been okay, and part of me thinks he can manage just fine without my concern. 


I think about Prophet on this Easter weekend.  Funny where we find our prophets. This one has come in the lowliest form, he travels alone or with others like him, but he is open and inviting and generous of spirit.  He seems to live right in the present, always willing to stop and just be grateful for what and who is right in front of him. And he wants me to hear his story.


May you find your very own prophet.