She was light. Light that sometimes screamed. Light that sometimes cursed. Light that sometimes even sat on the floor, in the corner, forbidding anyone to say a word to her. She was light, yet, her emotions marinated in the darkest of hours; weighing heavy on her heart. It took us nearly a year, inside of a classroom, with hard top desks and metal framed chairs to catch a rhythm. One in which mutual trust and respect was established; understanding came a bit later.
We spent two years together. Feminine energy clashing with masculine features inside of a world of books, mathematics, jokes and silent ball. I wore red lipstick, she could fit in anywhere. I was mistakenly called “Mom” and she was argued with and defended as a sister. There were days I’d sit on the floor wiping her tears after a hard night at home, a broken heart, and/or a rough call with her mom. We argued about Instagram postings, what not to say to boys, and supporting thematic text evidence. There were mornings, she would stand at my door post, greeting students, knowing she didn’t wish to speak, just to interlock her forearm with mine. She didn’t know it at the time, but I needed those side by side moments, as deeply as she did.
Her class was my introduction to teaching middle schoolers; at an alternative school. Her class was home. I’ve spanned education and nothing has ever comforted the realms of my heart quite like the laughs and sarcasms of uncertain preteens. Nothing has ever shocked my spirits like their stories of what happened when the school bell rang. I was determined to create a space of comfort for them. Our classroom would be home. I would be home and wherever we breathed and laughed together would be a space of solitude. Solitude to keep our minds sharp and our hearts soft.
She graduated in the 7th grade and went to a different school. We lost contact. I’d look for her, yet would only receive a word every once or twice a year of how she was doing. It’s been 3 years. I’ve never stopped wondering. She was light and in the shadows of yesterday’s sunset, my phone rang; it was her. She is almost 17 years old now. We greeted each other with surprise, tears, and memories of a photo taken her 7th grade year. One that she keeps in her home and one that I hang in my classroom every year. She reminds me of why I teach. She told me that the years haven’t been easy. Yet, she has held onto her memories as I have.
That year, the year of my first 7th grade class, a family was born out of love and learning. Sure, we were placed in the same room, but we chose each other. I often explain to my students that sometimes we have special moments, in life, where we can choose our family. That year was a moment. And, in the shadows of yesterday’s sunset I was reminded that sometimes, we can travel back in time and grab moments.
*Photo courtesy of Pixabay *