I live and teach at Joshua Station, a Christian community housed in a renovated motel that provides “transformational housing” for homeless families in Denver. In the process of tutoring and providing homework help for the kids here, I find I’m getting educated.
I've been struggling to relate to one of my neighbors, a second-grade boy. This is a bright, capable kid who usually finishes all his homework, all by himself, but still somehow needs a tutor sitting right next to him. He wants to be recognized for the things he's good at, but shuts down immediately when things get challenging. (Should I tell you how much I relate to this kid?!)
Last night he failed to finish a timed math worksheet. Instead of staying and working with Erin, a wonderful volunteer tutor, on the flashcards that would help him “pass” the worksheet, he stormed out in a huff.
"Please don't leave again!" Erin called after him, and then slumped in her chair. He does this a lot. We sometimes feel hopeless that we'll ever be able to keep him from quitting.
Later, the same boy wandered back into the room. I was working late with a couple of kids who couldn't come earlier, and a couple of others were sitting at a table, just coloring and hanging out. Tyler got hold of the Scotch tape and wrapped it around and around the case of a DVD he had carried into the room. I'm not sure what he was thinking, but I didn't mind until he decided to open the case, tearing off all the tape and throwing it into the trash can. The wasteful act really bugged me.
I knew I was taking a chance, but as he was leaving I decided to confront him (gently!):
"Hey, can I talk to you about something?"
He puts his head down. He senses a storm brewing. These conversations don't end well in his
world.
"Buddy, was that your tape that you used?"
"Yes." Lying is just a tool in his box. I've given him a way out, and he's gonna take it!
"Really?"
Silence.
"Really? Was it your tape?"
Silence.
"Was it mine?"
"Yeah." He is now kicking the floor and looking sideways at the door.
"Do you know what might bother me about this?"
"I used your tape."
"No, that's fine. But you used a lot, didn't you?" I laugh a little.
He looks up cautiously. Maybe this won't be so bad.
"It would help me if you would apologize. Can you do that?"
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"I'm sorry I used up your tape."
"Look at my face. I want to tell you something."
He does—but I can tell that he doesn't really want to. I get down on his level and look him in the eyes. It feels a little silly, a little dramatic, but it also feels right. Maybe he needs me to make it a little dramatic.
"Listen, now.” I want so much for him to hear me clearly that I emphasize nearly every word. “I forgive you. That tape isn't important to me. You are. You are more important than any of the stuff I have. I love you. You are important to me."
That's all it took. There it was—the little boy smile. I've seen him smile before, but I haven't seen “this” smile. I've seen the popular guy smile, the one he uses working the room with friends; and I've seen the schmoozer smile, trying to get something from me. This was different. This was his little boy smile, the smile of a child who longs to trust and connect with an adult, who wants to feel safe with someone stronger than him who loves him. It's just a start, but it's real.
If the eyes really are the window of the soul, maybe last night my young neighbor and I looked through each other's window and found someone we like. Now I want to see if he likes me well enough (and believes enough that I like him!) to come back to homework time and STAY with me, even when the math worksheet makes him feel crummy.
Lori Ventola
Grew up in a children's home her parents ran
Believes Joshua Station is the end of the rainbow
Is the fattest sometimes-vegan you'll ever meet
For more information about Plumfield Cottage School at Joshua Station, you may contact Lori at lorilamp@gmail.com.
