We Must Go On With Our Lives

In the months after 9/11, a quiet boy named William was moved into my math class.

I suppose it is sort of a compliment when people think of you as a “nice guy”. The guidance office uses this information to straighten out situations that might otherwise cause a problem. It was several months after “9-11” that William entered my classroom. He was a quiet boy with a patch of brown freckles clustered around his tiny Irish nose. William’s manner and demeanor were both withdrawn and strained. He had lost his dad in the World Trade Center tragedy. The man whom he loved and admired most, the person who took him on vacations and helped him with his math homework, his best friend, was gone. There was no rhyme or reason for the father of four to meet with such an unkind fate. He and hundreds of his coworkers were simply going about the business of providing for their families. Their office comprised the top five floors of tower one. In short, they didn’t stand a chance. All of us were shocked by the live television coverage of the attack and its devastating aftermath; this boy’s father was an unfortunate victim of misplaced hatred and twisted fanaticism. His memory will live on in the minds and hearts of many. May his soul rest in peace.

William was switched into my math class. He had been earmarked as a child whose father had died on “9-11”. I was given a short synopsis of the rationale that brought about this change while I was down in the guidance office, and I assured them that I would do whatever I could. William looked exactly the way I would have looked under similar circumstances. He was barely functional and doing his level best to cope with his tragic loss. He was performing one of life’s most difficult challenges, he was showing up. I strategically placed William directly in front of my desk. The seat was already vacant (I wonder why?) so it was a natural place of inhabitance.

At first, William spent most of his time in class with his head on his desk. It’s difficult to believe that anyone would not find the last period of the day to be interesting, especially in my math class (lol). Bit by bit, I started to create tiny episodes of dialogue between the two of us, but nothing very profound. We found common ground, though, in the area of sports. I rooted for the Mets and William, like his dad, rooted for the Yankees. I liked the N.Y. Islanders and William, of course, liked the Rangers. These harmless rivalries gave us an opportunity to have some boyish fun as we playfully taunted each other about our respective teams. William’s work, though, was still in jeopardy. His tests were only half done and his notebook (homework) was virtually vacant. Sometimes his notebook wasn’t even in class. I mentioned the notebook to him one day and he started bringing it to class (a small victory on my part). The inevitable day came when I kept William after class for a few brief words. You could see that he was uncomfortable and anxious to join his friends for the walk home. “William,” I said, “I just want to let you know that I am always available if you need me for anything.” He looked at me with a peculiar glance. He knew and I knew that was all I needed to say. With typical middle school acuity he replied, “Is that it? I’ll miss my friends.” I responded, “Yes, William!” and he flew out the door with an enthusiasm rarely seen in the classroom.

Observing William and his daily struggle to survive and cope was unsettling. He really couldn’t function on an academic level for long periods of time. His mind would start to wander and his head would fall down on his folded arms. My only way of bringing him back into the lesson was to call on him with a specific question. I usually tried to select a question that I thought he could answer. Somehow, William usually managed to rise to the moment and respond with an appropriate answer. This process I repeated whenever I saw him drifting away to that other world that had ceased to exist. He seemed to handle these occasional questions fairly well and seemed to accept the fact that I would keep getting him involved. We were starting to make a little progress, but William found it almost impossible to keep up with homework and test performance.

On the evening of parent teacher conferences I discussed this concern with his mother only after I praised him and her for their strength and courage. His mother responded, “We have no choice. We must go on with our lives.” That being said, I assured her that I was well aware of her son’s ability. I made this statement based on his placement scores and William’s ability to answer my questions, despite his inability to stay focused on the lesson. My gut feeling was that he was starting to slowly regain his interest in the learning process. Lastly, I told his mom that I would not let her son fail for the year and I assured her that I would do my level best to get him back on track. She thanked me and after a warm handshake we parted, I guess the guidance department knew what they were doing. William needed a “nice guy” in this time of crisis, and I would not let them down!