He was wandering in the hall, all six years old of him, with a late slip in his hand.
"Chance the Rapper!" I called out.
He half smiled.
"Chance...are you okay?"
He broke into hysterical crying, his words spilling from his mouth in a way that I could barely understand.
"The car, what happened in the car?" I asked.
"Did she yell at you?"
He shook his head, hiccuping and crying.
"Did she hit?"
"Yes!" he screamed.
"Where?"
"Across my face!" he screamed and cried. I hugged him. And he cried low, feral cries from the bottom of his soul.
I really hate Mondays. And there is just so much pain, so much abject pain in every corner of the place where I work. It's deep and dark and way down in the recesses where no one needs to go.
"I have a low...." Adriana whispered, while I set up her computer for small group MAP testing. She and Veronica were absent on Monday and I had hoped they were doing something fun. I always do "highs and lows" at the beginning of my lessons, but I was still surprised that it had infiltrated our normal conversations.
"My mom's in the hospital..."
"Her diabetes?" I asked.
"We didn't buy the $300 stuff from Kroger. We got the $10 stuff...."
I went to check on the Martínez family again, a family who normally is never absent, trying to find out if they were there for testing. I found Alberto, a member of a different family, who came in late though he normally doesn't.
He reeked of urine.
I pretended not to notice, and brought him to the testing room. He has been under a lot of stress, his dad left for another woman, leaving his mom with four kids to care for. And she won't update her phone numbers for us, no matter how many notes I send home. And Alberto, my tough little dude, has started peeing his pants, even though he's in third grade. This was the first time I had known him to arrive in school in that condition.
I walked through the Cafetorium with Veronica and Prem, on the look out for Faba and Juan that are in the Band class, whom we watch, pick up and then, run out to the trailer and do our thing.
Juan was shaking and his head was down. Faba hovered nearby.
"He had to sit out...." Faba whispered.
"He doesn't know his notes... his mom won't let him practice at home...." the Band teacher said, exasperated, knowing that I had gotten him his trumpet so that he could participate and worried what I would think, though I wished he wouldn't worry about that.
I put my arm around Juan and he started to shake. And then, he cried.
"I'll call her!" the Band teacher said, but I knew none of the phone numbers worked.
I knew I was going to cry, too. I pulled Juan to my side and asked him if he wanted to go get a drink of water or stay with us.
"Stay with you." he responded, and we went to the trailer.
"Adult problems," I said over and over.
"We are going to solve this, Juan, because we are adults and we've got this."
I sat with third grade, during the last hour of the day. Alberto still smelled terrible.
"Juan, he's been hurting me...." he said, his strong Mexican accent dragging out his vowels.
"What did he do?"
"He hit me, he hit me a lot...."
"Why?"
"I don't know why.... I just cried and grabbed the puppy and went in my bed, under the covers...."
"I am so sorry, Alberto. This should not be happening. I'll talk to Juan. I will talk to him about this..."
I stood in the Cafetorium, watching kids eat lunch while people yelled at them. The nicest teacher at the school took over the "silent music" that was supposed to signify silence, and played "Santa Goes Straight to the Ghetto", loud as hell.
Children snickered and shoulders grooved.
And the nicest teacher at the school danced for them, right up on the stage of the Cafetorium.
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