precious baby

during second period the classroom phone rang. the dean's office had one of my precious babies and planned to keep him for a two day suspension. could i send down some work the phone voice asks. now, earlier, yesterday, i saw kids peering out a window in the stairwell, muttering about an arrest and as i tried to get past them i yelled, "let that poor man get arrested in peace!" a few hours later a teacher pulled me aside to let me know the arrested man was actually one of my precious babies, a past one, one i dearly love, one who has been all but lost for a very, very long time. according to what i could decipher, my old precious baby was in the process of handing one of my new precious babies something. a sharp thing, pointy. not likely to be confused with any other things. not easily confused with gum or money or even a cheeseburger. so my old baby is, as far as i know, locked up somewhere and the new one stews in the dean's office.

when my second class shows up with the two other adults who attempt to wrangle them with me, i gather up a notebook, pen and all my snarling anger and head to the dean's office. it is just after 10 am on friday. one of the deans is standing in the doorway. a girl is sitting at a desk. my own precious baby looks tiny in his desk sitting centered at the back of the room. i am tired. i want to adopt him, take him home, feed him food that isn't primarily dorito-based. i want to yell at him until he cries and says he'll never do anything this stupid again, but i know i don't even know where to start. what i do know is he has a parole officer and that holding this sharp, shiny object for someone is stupid because it violates his parole. it is stupid because he knows this.

i ask why he is sitting in the dean's room and he tells his version of the story, a version that ends with the phrase "i didn't do nothing wrong." i surprise both of us by saying a very long string of words he's never heard me say, ending with "that is absolute bullshit!" he is mad. maybe he is hurt. but he knows i am right. "i don't want to talk about it!" he yells at me, pulling his hood over his head and slamming himself face down onto the desk. turtle in a shell. all pulled in. i want to shake him. i want to scream. what i do instead is reach up to the top of his head and pull his hood back as gently as i can. i tell him to quit being so ridiculous but i can feel my eyes getting liquid and i think he must be able to hear it in my voice because he looks up, wary but curious. he is a child who had done grown up things, cruel and stupid and selfish things. destructive things. but when he looks up he is trying to keep his angry face together and the fact that he's trying so hard makes him look even more like a small, small child.

i ask what he was thinking. he says he didn't know. i spend at least five minutes making fun of this because i don't know what else to do. i tell him i need to hear him say he knew what he was doing, knew that it was stupid. because if he didn't, i worry he'll do it again. he does not want to say that he knew what he was doing. "i'm retarded!" he says, instead, by way of explanation. he says it without all the letters- "retaaaaatad". i realize he's never read the word, only heard adults say it and this is why so many of the kids in my school can't spell. they're spelling words that only exist in their own homes. i insist that he's not retarded, try to explain retardation, but he persists. it's better to be stupid than guilty. i tell him i'll prove it. i go to the office and get his file. i read to him what teachers say. he's bright but angry. he's really good at math. he smiles. he knows he's good at math. this is why i am here. this child who had this sharp, pointy object that he brought right here into my school is really the little boy i know he is. he's proud of the fact that he's good at math. i keep reading because he asks me to. he wants to know. he's not retarded.

i make him get out two sheets of paper. at the top of one he writes "i am not retarded because..." we start making a list. he is good at math. he does all his work in my class. he has excellent social skills. and so on. the second sheet is where i ask him to write something for me. something that will help me not worry about this precious little baby of mine getting stabbed or shot or otherwise demolished. i do not know what he will write, but i will read it monday. i tell him as i get ready to leave that if this page is good it will make up for everything he'll miss the two days he's out. he nods. i tell him if he gets stabbed or shot, he gets no credit. he smiles. i mean it, i tell him. you think i will feel bad and will give you the credit if something happens to you and although it is true that i will feel bad and i will cry, i won't give you anything. he knows this is true just like i know this isn't the last fight we'll have over sharp things and criminal behavior.