I am embarrassed that I cannot tell you his name. It was one of those two-syllable J names I ran into all the time in classrooms, Justin, Jordan, Jared, Jason? It wasn't Jacob, I would have remembered that as I remember him, in the corner of the room, back curved so he was always looking down, as if his battered desk held all the secrets of the universe. He was very still.
The teacher told me about him so I would not be surprised that he was quiet, so I would not try to draw him out. But I never would have - I recognized him right away. He was brother to me and all the other people who as kids were thrust suddenly into a world they could never have anticipated - a world so different from the safe sweet world of happy families where kids play sports and do well in school, and moms and dads live fulfilling lives having to do with good work and family. He had entered the world that was in fact the real world, the one behind the pretty curtain.
Jason - let's call him Jason - had been riding home with a friend from their soccer game. The friend's soccer mom was driving them home. I don't know if she had them buckle up - but I'm pretty sure she would have. This school district was a place where moms were wholesome and involved in their kids lives. The boys would probably have been buckled into the back seat, reliving the game, or trading snacks, who knows? But there was an accident-- and "there has been an accident" is what people often say to convey the worst news. There was an accident and Jason walked away from it unscathed (they say "unscathed," too) - but his friend - his very best friend was killed. Jason lived. He lives. His friend dies. Everyone is sorry and eventually Jason is sent back to school, wrapped in the grey cotton wool that is adult concern at its worst.
But, I still had a writing workshop to teach. There was a terrific kid named Billy in that class who did not believe language changed. I could quote slang, even his own, but evolving language was not an idea he embraced, so I ended up bringing Middle and Old English into that classroom to make my argument. Billy loved it. He was totally engaged.
All the while Jason hunkered over the scarred wood that was his desk, his place, still as a vacant spot. I watched him, sad myself, because I knew what was up with Jason.
I knew kind grown-ups were saying things to Jason, things like "I can't imagine what you are going through," or "tell me what you are going through," or worst of all, "I know what you are going through." But Jason was not going through anything. Things were going through Jason. Big things. Windy things. Empty things. Things with question marks as big as ostriches. Those winds were blowing right through Jason and giving him new meaning for words like "zero," "space," empty," "void." They were busy emptying him out, causing words like "know" and "believe" and "understand" to fall away as the meaningless constructions they now were. They really are. Jason was dealing with "not-fifth-grade- things." He was in the place where impermanence is revealed as the only permanence...and that's not a thing the other kids could get. He was alone.
Meanwhile there's Billy, raucous and happy. He is at me about the Middle Ages. He is entranced with the idea now of such a different place, a different time, different spelling, different words, and he wants to know all about it. He tells me about the books he loves and he says he wants a good book about the Middle Ages. He says I should write one. He is talkative and pretty smart, and fun. He participates with a vengeance. He is alive and he believes in everything his teachers and his parents tell him. At least he is willing to be convinced. He is the not-Jason in the classroom, and I need him there. I need that lively 11 year-old brain as I steal glances at Jason, aware of my impotence.
So I wrote the book, the one I'm trying to sell you right now. I meant to write it for Billy - who was as rambunctious and physical as Wyllym is in the book, and of course the book is partly for Billy. But in the end I also wrote it for Jason, who like Edric, was and will always be, sober beyond his circumstances and older than his years. He was the real thinker in the classroom - well, he wasn't thinking yet, too soon, too painful, but he was poised to be the deep thinker, the one who questions the easy assumptions. The one for whom "forever" meant something totally new, the one who now had doubts about the authorities in his life who painted the happy pictures we all must paint for our children. He had seen behind the curtain...and was going to have to live there now.
Oh, I remember now. He was Jacob. How could I have forgotten that? He was named Jacob. He was the boy who wanted one thing and got another.
The teacher told me about him so I would not be surprised that he was quiet, so I would not try to draw him out. But I never would have - I recognized him right away. He was brother to me and all the other people who as kids were thrust suddenly into a world they could never have anticipated - a world so different from the safe sweet world of happy families where kids play sports and do well in school, and moms and dads live fulfilling lives having to do with good work and family. He had entered the world that was in fact the real world, the one behind the pretty curtain.
Jason - let's call him Jason - had been riding home with a friend from their soccer game. The friend's soccer mom was driving them home. I don't know if she had them buckle up - but I'm pretty sure she would have. This school district was a place where moms were wholesome and involved in their kids lives. The boys would probably have been buckled into the back seat, reliving the game, or trading snacks, who knows? But there was an accident-- and "there has been an accident" is what people often say to convey the worst news. There was an accident and Jason walked away from it unscathed (they say "unscathed," too) - but his friend - his very best friend was killed. Jason lived. He lives. His friend dies. Everyone is sorry and eventually Jason is sent back to school, wrapped in the grey cotton wool that is adult concern at its worst.
But, I still had a writing workshop to teach. There was a terrific kid named Billy in that class who did not believe language changed. I could quote slang, even his own, but evolving language was not an idea he embraced, so I ended up bringing Middle and Old English into that classroom to make my argument. Billy loved it. He was totally engaged.
All the while Jason hunkered over the scarred wood that was his desk, his place, still as a vacant spot. I watched him, sad myself, because I knew what was up with Jason.
I knew kind grown-ups were saying things to Jason, things like "I can't imagine what you are going through," or "tell me what you are going through," or worst of all, "I know what you are going through." But Jason was not going through anything. Things were going through Jason. Big things. Windy things. Empty things. Things with question marks as big as ostriches. Those winds were blowing right through Jason and giving him new meaning for words like "zero," "space," empty," "void." They were busy emptying him out, causing words like "know" and "believe" and "understand" to fall away as the meaningless constructions they now were. They really are. Jason was dealing with "not-fifth-grade- things." He was in the place where impermanence is revealed as the only permanence...and that's not a thing the other kids could get. He was alone.
Meanwhile there's Billy, raucous and happy. He is at me about the Middle Ages. He is entranced with the idea now of such a different place, a different time, different spelling, different words, and he wants to know all about it. He tells me about the books he loves and he says he wants a good book about the Middle Ages. He says I should write one. He is talkative and pretty smart, and fun. He participates with a vengeance. He is alive and he believes in everything his teachers and his parents tell him. At least he is willing to be convinced. He is the not-Jason in the classroom, and I need him there. I need that lively 11 year-old brain as I steal glances at Jason, aware of my impotence.
So I wrote the book, the one I'm trying to sell you right now. I meant to write it for Billy - who was as rambunctious and physical as Wyllym is in the book, and of course the book is partly for Billy. But in the end I also wrote it for Jason, who like Edric, was and will always be, sober beyond his circumstances and older than his years. He was the real thinker in the classroom - well, he wasn't thinking yet, too soon, too painful, but he was poised to be the deep thinker, the one who questions the easy assumptions. The one for whom "forever" meant something totally new, the one who now had doubts about the authorities in his life who painted the happy pictures we all must paint for our children. He had seen behind the curtain...and was going to have to live there now.
Oh, I remember now. He was Jacob. How could I have forgotten that? He was named Jacob. He was the boy who wanted one thing and got another.