drug dealers

they are boys i have known a long time. three years which is, to them, an eternity. i think of them, these children, as mine. this is how we all see wild and ephemeral things. the bird outside our window every morning. the rabbits hopping across the front lawn at evening. deer in the woods off the road one over. we have to maintain a special balance to be able to see them without driving them away. i constantly misjudge this line. that's fine. if you have ever touched a real wild animal, had a bird perch, even for a moment, on your hand, you know it's worth however still you had to be for whatever measureless stretch of time.

1. i see the first child walking away from me down the hall just after the first bell. he strolls past the front desk security guard proudly displaying beads, colors, hat. these things say drug dealer. they say gang member. these are the things he is but he is also only a few minutes late for class. he is a student. i say his name and he turns and smiles. his eyes are a mess. his whole face is bloodshot. i motion to the hat and he takes it off. he turns back down the hall but when i say "the flag, too" he tucks the bandanna into his left pocket, out of sight. i am taller and am not practicing to be nonchalant so i catch up to him as he turns the corner. "why'd you come to school high?" i ask, although i already know. this is not our first visit about this subject. he looks up at me and his smile slides around all over his face. this is conversation, not confrontation. "i'm o.g., miss." the words ooze out of the smile. they are not true. there is nothing original about him. he is a walking stereotype of a drug dealer. as for the gangsta aspect, i know he has committed a string of felonies, has used weapons against others, but here in this place i know if i hauled off and smacked him hard across the side of his head he would not hit me back. he would apologize for whatever he thinks i might know that is worth slapping him over. this is not because i'm particularly fierce. this is because i am one of a number of women in the building who share the work of being his mother. so i don't slap him. my tired look says the same thing a slap would. i walk him to the stairwell and tell him to get to class. his face, his smile are less addled. "i'll be here every day," he says, swinging open the door to the stairs. "business is business."

2. the next child arrives to class late and we have the hat/phone/late conversation as he scoots into his seat. he is more impish than most sixteen year old boys and when i walk over to him, tired, glaring, and toss our current story on his desk, he pushes it back toward me gently and looks up with the face of an angel. "i read it already." he pulls out a folded copy of the story. i do not believe he read the assigned seven pages and i am right. he started and could not stop reading. he read the entire story all at once. he waits while i digest this information. he knows me well enough to look right at me, watch my eyes for a sign he's managed to make me cry. the other teacher in the room is asking questions and he raises his hand several times. and then after he does this, he answers those questions the teacher is asking. and he answers them brilliantly. i am leaning against the wall near his desk and watch him reach into a pocket for his phone. he glances at it, then quickly texts back. ordinarily this is when he would ask to go to the bathroom. he would be gone about five minutes and would hand someone in the bathroom something small in a plastic bag in exchange for some cash. instead he looks back toward the front of the room, turns his face to the discussion. i motion to him more than once about the phone. he smiles, nods toward the discussion, raises his hand. the child manages to text these little junkies back while raising his hand and answering questions.

i imagine his texts. why yes, i would like very much to sell you some drugs. however, i am currently very deep in the middle of an exhilarating discussion about a short story by the brilliant author mr. james baldwin and am not in a position to leave my literary companions. we are discussing the limited choices these two young men face and the ways they've attempted to escape the past and forge a new future. we are talking about harlem and heroin and jazz. i am sure you will understand if we postpone our scheduled meeting until after lunch. perhaps you'd like me to bring you a copy of the story. i think you'll agree it's far more brutal and lovely than heroin.