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cryin outta joy, tell me how good dis feel or I’ma

hit ya’gain!” He was yelling, but he never lost his

rhythm not even when he hit her.

She complied through the tears, “You’re so big it

hurts baby, that’s why I’m cryin, ya know I love

it. Please don’t stop.” Her bloody, fat lips

quivered as they released the words. He pushed

her head into the bed with one hand and held my

head closer to his penis as he suddenly stopped

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moving. He collapsed on top of my mother with

my head stuck between their bodies. Neither of

them moved to let me free.

The smell was musky and strong, and I tried to

pull my head loose. Bobby’s weight was too much

for my tiny body, and I remained stuck. I held my

breath to avoid the smell. As my mouth forced

itself open to breathe, Bobby rolled to his left and

away from my head and Debbie’s body. I thought

we were free. When I had watched them have sex

before I was always allowed to leave when Bobby

rolled off of her. Thinking it was over I waited to

be dismissed.

“Come here you little sonuvabitch,” he said

playfully as he grabbed me under my armpit and

pulled me toward him. He was at the head of the

bed, lying comfortably with his head resting on a

stack of pillows. He pulled me to him, flipped me

over and tucked me into the curve of his massive

chest with his left arm holding me firmly against

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him. Debbie had somehow gotten herself on his

opposite side in nearly the same position.

“Ya know I loves yer momma. And I woke ya up

to tell ya that I love ya momma so much I been

wantin us to be a family,” his words were soft and

slow.

“Ya momma don’t always believe me when I tell

her I loves her, but I know you know. Doncha

boy?” it wasn’t a question. He continued, “Reach

on over inta that draw and get that big box fa’

me,” he said. He relaxed his forearm and popped

his bicep, which propelled me into a seated

position. I leant to my left toward the nightstand

and opened the drawer. I pulled out the box that

I had held so many times. They kept their drugs

in the box, and I was regularly sent to fetch it

from the other room. I handed the box to Bobby.

Thinking I need to cook some dope, I started to

get up to get his lighter that I could clearly see on

the other side of the room.

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“Where you goin’ boy? I got what you want right

here; get back over here.”

He pulled me back toward him and placed the

box on his belly. I lay there confused, trying not

to breathe, waiting for the blow that didn’t come.

His body odor was strong and frightening, his

sweat burning the cuts along the right side of my

body.

“I’m aunna marry ya mother boy and I’m gon’

be ya daddy from now on,” he said. From the box

on his belly, he pulled a smaller black box,

placing it in front of me.

“Open it. That’s what I woke ya ass up fo’,” he

commanded, shaking his head at my ignorance.

The box was hard but covered in a soft velvety

fabric. It felt good in my hand, and I didn’t want

to let go. When I tried to open it, I didn’t have

the strength. Frustrated, Bobby grabbed the box

from my hand.

“Ya dumb mufucka can’t do shit.” He opened the

box. “Look at
that
mufucka. Dat’s ya mom’s

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weddin’ ring. We gettin’ married someday, and

you and Matt gon’ be mine just like ya momma

is.” He pushed the box closer to my face.

“When you wanna get married baby?” he cooed

at my mother.

“Any time you want baby. I can’t wait till we’re

married, and I can wear that ring. It’s beautiful.”

“Come on now, get up. I gotta piss.” He kissed

Debbie’s head and pushed me to the floor.

“Put dat shit away and getcha ass to bed. And

don’ let me catch ya fuckin ‘round witchya

brother neither.” Nearly stepping on me as he got

out of bed, I heard him using the toilet before I

was off the floor.

I crept back to the room I shared with Matthew

and snuck into the bed. He was sprawled across

the bed, but I was still small enough to lie at the

other end without unsettling him. Awake and in

pain, I wished that this were all a dream. I

wanted my whole life to be the dream of an

infant, hoping that any minute I would awaken as

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a newborn child in the hospital nursery. This

couldn’t be my life; this couldn’t be anyone’s real

life.

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When the kids act up in class, we just deal with it.

I have a special relationship with my kids and

their families, and to do this work, we all have to

know and trust each other. I make a concerted

effort to know each of my students and their

families, and thus gain their trust. However, when

my kids get out of control or make poor decisions

outside of my classroom, the consequences are

beyond my control. Such a situation occurred one

afternoon, and the student was lucky not to have

been arrested, which would have broken my

heart.

Jack was a strong, athletic young man. He was

very intelligent, but frequently refused to show it.

If I were to ever mention it out loud, he would

explode in anger as if I had insulted him. He had

a reputation to uphold, and in his world, being

smart was equal to being soft. He had had a very

hard life coming up. From the day he was

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abandoned in the street as a newborn until the

day he found himself in my class, he had

struggled and fought for everything he had and

for every breath he took. He was a survivor in

every sense of the word. I identified with his spirit

and resilience.

Teachers are not supposed to have favorites, but

Jack was my favorite in his class. In casual

conversation about the year’s class, I told my

principal that Jack would be my toughest

challenge of the year, but if he were to make it to

the end, he would also be my biggest success. And

I meant it.

Early in the school year, Jack was called to the

office to see his guidance counselor at 11:30. He

wasn’t gone long, but when he returned he had a

letter in his hand and a scowl on his face. I

assumed it was a letter from his father. Since the

beginning of the school year, he had been writing

to his father who was incarcerated in another

state.

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“What’s wrong little brother?” I asked trying to

break the mood.

“Damn office opened my fuckin letter,” he

blurted out, as he shook his head like a bull ready

to charge.

“Sir, please don’t use profanity in class.” I said.

“I’m sorry Mr. Love, but I’m pissed off. They had

no right to open my f’n letter.” He continued, as

he slammed his tense body into his chair.

“Sir, how do you know that someone in the office

opened it? Did they tell you they opened it, or do

you think they opened it?” I asked quickly.

He jumped into an acrobatic tirade, speaking

frankly of his dislike and distrust of the school and

its staff. As they had all been taught to do, the rest

of the class continued on with their work while

Jack and I spoke. When I attempted to continue

on with class and asked the boys to work on their

science, we all noticed that another student had

fallen asleep during the commotion. Jack

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immediately became verbally abusive of the

student.

Jack, like so many students, would throw a

tantrum and take up everyone’s time without a

single thought about the other students or the

work they might be trying to complete. However,

unlike most any student I’ve ever had, Jack could

throw a tantrum, exhaust himself, then sit down

and complete the work he should have been

doing in the first place. He would even complete

it with greater accuracy and in less time than

most anyone else. With the student asleep,

everyone knew that our time was wasting away.

When students disrupt the class, including falling

asleep, that time must be made up by the class in

order to get the day’s work completed. Jack’s only

thought was of having to make up this time by

missing his free time in the gym. When I tried to

redirect him and remind him that he already

owed me his time for his previous outburst, his

rage switched from the other student to personal

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attacks on my assistant and me. He used

profanity-laced tirades to describe the atmosphere

of the class, our personal lives, and how poorly we

treat him. I cocked my head toward the door,

which my assistant understood was our signal to

escort the rest of the class out. Jack’s frustration

went on for nearly an hour. When I told him that

he was getting too excited and agitated about the

letter issue and that I was sure I could help him

get to the bottom of it, he began to cuss again and

said he did not care about the letter. Then he

pulled it from his pocket, ripped it up, and threw

it away. I knew there was no turning back for him

now. I had pulled a similar move with a letter

from Debbie when I was a few years younger

than Jack.

He began to wander the room in a frenzy. He

was picking things from my desk, the podium and

other places out of his assigned area. He began to

threaten to kill teachers in the school who, he

said, had him locked up. He then threatened to

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kill both my assistant and me, in addition to

blowing up the school. In a typical school setting,

this type of behavior would be grounds for

expulsion. However, in an Alternative setting this

behavior is dealt with on a more individual basis.

I approached Jack from across the room and

pulled a student desk toward him, sitting him in

it. Then I placed one hand on the back of his

chair and one hand on the desktop, blocking him

in the chair. He told me to get away from him

and again became verbally abusive.

I stood at his desk for just over twenty minutes,

speaking with him about his father, his feelings,

and his warranted anger. I also discussed other

ways he could have dealt with his anger. He

spoke with me calmly, and we had a very mature

conversation. Going back to the cause of his

outburst, I asked him if he really believed that the

office staff had opened his letter, since they had

never opened any of our letters before.

Immediately he clammed up and made a sudden

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move to get up from the seat. I blocked his exit,

and he was forced back into the seat. He began to

swing at me in wild, frantic motions, as he

struggled to get out of the seat. He thrashed

violently and got to his feet. Once out of the

confines of the student desk, I was able to restrain

him, though he continued to threaten me. He

told me that when he got free he was going to spit

in my mouth, among other things. I told him that

I would let him loose as soon as he settled down,

and then I quit talking.

He calmed quickly, used to the routine. I let him

free, and he sat quietly for a few moments. He

apologized for threatening me.

“Mr. Love, I didn’t mean nothin’ against you.”

He said tranquilly as he sat cross-legged on the

mat we were sitting on. I could see his anger

rising on his face, as he spoke about his father’s

letter. Without warning, he darted to his feet. He

pushed some electronic equipment from a

classroom media cart that was close by. Running

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across the room, he stood with his back to a

corner and threw a desk across the front of the

room, knocking over several other desks. As I

strode toward him, he grabbed his book bag and

headed out the door. This all took place in a

matter of seconds.

I followed Jack outside of the room, where I saw a

guidance counselor. My assistant had alerted her.

I asked the counselor to contact the school’s on-

staff police officer, known as an SRO, as I

followed Jack out of the building. The SRO is a

School Resource Officer, a sheriff’s deputy

assigned to the school. Most schools have at least

one as part of the staff. I followed Jack for several

hundred feet to a stop sign by the front of the

school. Pausing briefly, he turned to look at me.

Hesitantly, he continued to walk down the road

with me behind him. He knocked over three or

four mailboxes along the roadside, which I tried

to place back upright as I walked by. Calling

behind him, I finally convinced him to stop, and

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he spoke with me briefly as I approached. The

SRO and my principal arrived simultaneously

upon the scene. We all spoke with Jack quickly

until he agreed to return to the school. The SRO