Leroy crashed into my world with deliberate, disturbing intent during the middle of class three weeks after school started in my first year of Texas teaching. My 28 charges were deeply enthralled with CLA III, a low level English program supposedly designed for students not having the ability to master more rigorous subject matter. CLA stood for Correlated Language Arts, but teachers’ lounge interpreters informed me CLA really meant “Can’t Learn Anything.” I soon began calling CLA III “Combat English,” and think it’s a pretty accurate description of the job, if not the curriculum.
After a most belligerent charge, Leroy hovered over my desk like a bear sizing up his next meal. He then proudly announced his extended absences were battle casualties requiring recuperation from six different stab wounds suffered in a gang fight. He tossed a hospital-issued absence excuse in my direction to prove his injuries, and I never questioned the gang part. I already entertained elements of two opposing gangs, one African-American, the other Hispanic, and the additional reinforcement on the African-American team could not have been more unwelcome as the current roster was potent enough.
Before I could speak, Leroy moved like a field marshal to the far corner of the classroom, all six foot four, over two hundred and fifty pounds of him, and from his vantage point surveyed his new dominion.
“Hey, teach, you know you the only white person in this room?” he said.
Honestly, up to that point, I hadn’t made the observation, possibly because in my teaching life, it wasn’t particularly unusual. I use this, though, to demonstrate the young man’s quick, observant mind. In two minutes, Leroy sized up the teams and blew the whistle to play.
For the next month we did battle daily. I did manage to teach Leroy, and most of his contemporaries and antagonists, a little more English, and Leroy certainly gave me a first class education on urban instructional methodology. He continuously challenged me at every turn and left me absolutely drained at the end of each period. While I already grudgingly valued the challenge he presented, I never thought he cared at all about me, until my first formal Texas evaluation.
As was my custom, I told the class about the visit the day before, saying, of course, that I certainly wouldn’t mind it if my eager pupils decided to be on their best behavior.
Leroy laughed and let out a long, low whistle. I knew I was doomed.
The following afternoon an assistant principal sat down one row from the back wall, right in front of Leroy. On her last year before retirement, she wore a face I knew all too well and would eventually wear myself. Worn and wrinkled, tired beyond exhaustion, just hanging on quietly while waiting for her magic number to come up, she slowly pulled out her memo pad and looked up dully at me.
So prompted, I launched a sentence writing exercise to a class I’d never met before. Hands shot up and side comments were absent. Leroy didn’t make one Mexican joke, trying to bait Juan, who often inquired if Leroy’s mother had any interest in pancakes to get the old Aunt Jemima joke rolling. While I always condemned the statements, I’m still thankful no one was stabbed, shot or beaten, at least in my classroom. Beyond it, I harbored no such illusions.
But on this hot October afternoon a writing exercise grew so quiet I could hear the air conditioner’s hum, and the administrator actually fell asleep, snoring loudly enough to draw Leroy’s attention. He got out of his desk and loomed over the sleeping administrator while I wondered where I’d find future employment.
Instead of some widely inappropriate action, which I fully expected, Leroy put his hands to his head, bending his huge head over in pantomime of sleep. He then sat down, folded his hands together, and smiled broadly up at me. The administrator snorted, woke up from her brief catnap, and I resumed teaching my class of newly converted angels.
Veteran teachers already recognize what happened. I was being given a great gift from the entire class, and especially from Leroy. They sensed my anxiety, knew my job was in potential jeopardy, and delivered their very best performance. Such behavior is not at all uncommon and savvy administrators also understand the dynamics. What this represented was earned respect and subsequent care and compassion. My students knew the game well and played their part in the evaluation, which actually is more concerned with what students do than what I did. Had these relationships not been previously established, and, quite frankly, I didn’t think they had been, the results would have been considerably different.
Veteran teachers will also understand that the following day it was back to the same old murder and mayhem with Leroy and Juan nearly coming to blows and more off task behaviors than usual as partial payback for the previous day’s present. For one specific example, I had to demand the execution of a wounded scorpion, the first I’d ever seen in real life, being used to scare anyone remotely interested, but mostly me.
But this wasn’t the big present. That came four years later.
I had a particularly trying day, a series of unfortunate events ranging from a conflict between two of my student yearbook editors that had no easy solution to the usual too much work and too little time in which to do it. On top of that, I’d unwisely eaten the cafeteria enchiladas and had a bad case of heartburn.
To this backdrop, I looked down the hall between afternoon classes to see a very large black man heading in my direction. I instantly recognized him.
“I’ll bet you don’t remember me,” Leroy said. “But I remember you Mr. Brown. I wanted to come back to thank you and tell you myself that you were right.” My hand was soon enveloped in one twice my size, it was vigorously shaken, and then I had the breath squeezed out of me with a bear hug that would rival the actual animal.
“Of course I remember you Leroy,” I managed to say after most of the air had been removed from my lungs. Actually, most teachers never forget their exceptionally challenging students, but so many good ones often do fade into blurs over time.
“I just wanted you to know I’ve cleaned up my life, graduated from high school, and I’m in my second year of college. Got a full time job, too,” Leroy continued. “I wanted to thank you because you really got me thinking and helped me get there.”
The last time I’d seen Leroy was sometime in early December of my first year in Texas. Leroy never finished the semester and just vanished, relinquishing his desk without notice and leaving no forwarding address. I assumed he was jailed or worse. He was subsequently dropped and I never thought I’d see him again. What’s more, I had absolutely no belief I’d made the slightest impact on Leroy in terms of getting him to reassess his current life and begin contemplating a better future. I had long since put Leroy in the lost column, chalking him up to another negative and failure on both of our parts. Honestly, I did nothing exceptional for Leroy and actually looked at our relationship as little more than the establishment of a very shaky truce, but it’s also for this reason I treasure Leroy’s gift enormously.
The first part of this great gift was that it was completely unexpected, especially four years after the fact. The second part is even more important and enduring, a life lesson that I fell back on time and again to bolster spirits when they were particularly low, one that I can give to anyone struggling with a problem child. The message is simple: Many times we plant seeds and never see them germinate. Teachers and parents often impact young people every day but never recognize they’ve done something significant, or worse, feel as if they’re complete failures. But if we just try, even when we don’t see results, we’re making a positive impact and always need to keep remembering this, especially when times are hard.
After Leroy’s priceless gift, nearly every time I felt discouraged about a given student and my part in the situation, I thought about him and took solace in knowing I might not be seeing the entire picture. I knew something good might be hiding deep down or far away. Maybe I’d live to see it, and maybe I wouldn’t, but I now had much more energy and faith to keep trying.
When it comes to rearing the often wildly insane creatures commonly called “teenagers,” we just have to endure and also fully understand we don’t control the schedule. That’s in God’s hands, as always. Why we are so often presented this challenge I’ll leave to much wiser minds.