you were born with a wanderer's soul

someone: wonder what they’re thinking abt

It’s 1981 and my Mom is six months pregnant. It’s been a rough pregnancy; two miscarriages came before this one and the doctor is already throwing words around like “bed rest” and “high risk.”  My Mom is stubborn, refuses to give in just yet, because her students need her. She’s their only spokesperson at school, the only one who seems to care about the kids with too much anger in their little bodies, the kids who are reading four grades behind where they should be, and the kids who don’t talk and are afraid of anyone but her.

The special education kids don’t get the bigger classrooms; they get the leftovers. No matter. She knows how to make do with just the scraps. The students sit one on top of the other. They pretend it’s cozy. Everyone knows each other’s business. She leans over a student’s desk while handing back papers; there isn’t enough room for aisles for her to easily walk down. The students shout either in joy or defeat when they see their grades. A chorus follows her passing. She gets to Jamie, a fifth grader who is far too serious and angry for a ten year old. He looks at his paper, looks up at her and says, “I’m gonna kill you.”

She pauses for a moment. What do you say to a ten year old whose first reaction is to always lash out? She laughs, a nervous response, then smiles. “Well, come see me after school, and we can talk about that.”

He has it rough at home; he’s not alone. Most of her students are poor and either living with only one parent or being raised by grandparents. All of them have a rage in their chest ready to explode. She chalks it up to the shouting that probably kept him up all night, talks to him about working on his grades, and sends him home. Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.

The next morning a handful of students come rushing into her classroom early. “Teach, teach, Jamie’s got a gun. He had it on the bus.”

Jamie follows them into the classroom. He slams his backpack on the desk and rests his head on top of it. My mom shoos the students out, then kneels the best she can at his desk.

“Jamie, what’s going on?” He doesn’t respond, just sinks lower in his seat. “The girls told me you had a gun. Is that true?”

He looks up at her and nods.

“Okay. Can I see it, please?” She still doesn’t believe a ten year old could get his hands on a gun so easily. It has to be a toy.

 He reaches into his bag, pulls a revolver out, and points it at her.