He wore sunglasses indoors, spoke of studying engineering,
loved hip hop and would rap to himself, coming up from the basement,
knew more about sneakers than I about teaching him, and appearing
to sleep in class, nonetheless, when called on, to my amazement,
mumbled answers correctly without pausing. Girls paid little attention.
And some grow-ups paid even less, taking it as a blessing
when he would skip class on a whim and his name was not mentioned
during the grade-level meetings designed with the pressing
needs of our students in mind. Before the end of the term,
he would drop off a packet of made-up assignments without so much
as “I’m sorry, I’ll try to do better.” I tried to be friendly, tried to be firm,
tried to show him a future to strive for, so he wouldn’t lose touch,
so he wouldn’t lose hope, so he wouldn’t stray far, but the ice
was too thick. He began failing tests. I remember his mother berating
him in front of us all, I remember his tears and the red of his eyes,
yes, the red of those eyes. Deep inside, we kept waiting.
Give the young man some time, and he’ll figure it out. Yes, the glass
was half-full, and the future was bright, if he makes a small change,
if he comes back next week with a pen to the class.
But he didn’t come back.. He was shot at close range.