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