A work of fiction, informed by an educator’s 12 years spent as a high school teacher, which highlights the beauty born of ensuring no child is left behind…
by: Arvilla Fee
I’m listening to Matt read from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, Act III Scene 2. He’s giving a rich, booming rendition of Mark Antony’s impassioned speech to the fickle crowd. “Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones. So let it be with Caesar.” As drawn as I am to Matt’s voice, I still can’t help but notice Alejandro’s head on his desk, one arm flung out in front of him, one arm hanging by his side. Another couple of minutes, and he’ll most likely be snoring. I’ve tried to engage him, and he did grudgingly read a couple of Brutus’s lines yesterday, but for the most part, all he wants to do is sleep. Before the bell rings, I make up my mind to ask Alejandro to stay behind.
He shuffles warily towards my desk upon request. His dark hair is disheveled, his shirt half untucked from his jeans, his sleepy face still bearing the crease of his shirt sleeve.
“What’s up?” he says, rubbing his eyes.
“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” I say, keeping my voice low, nonconfrontational.
He shrugs. “Don’t get enough sleep at home, I guess.”
“No? Why is that? Can we talk?”
Alejandro sighs and flops down in a chair in front of my desk. After a beat of silence, he says, “Es complicado. It’s complicated, comprende?
I nod but allow him the space he needs to explain.
He sighs again. “Been picking up some work hours after school. My dad desaparecido. Disappeared. You know? Mom’s running short on cash. Turns out you need cash to buy food.”
I wince inwardly at the desperation in his voice. “I’m sorry,” I say. “How can I help?”
He shrugs, looking much older than his 16 years. “Just let me sleep. You’re the only one who doesn’t yell at me, the only one who doesn’t call me perezosa. Lazy.”
I can’t stop the sting in my eyes, and I swallow past a lump in my throat. “But I can’t let you sleep all the time, Alejandro. You have a D in this class right now, and I don’t want you to fail. Perhaps I could get you a tutor? Maybe stay after a couple days a week?”
Alejandro leans forward and says, “Mrs. P, you know I think you’re cool, chido, right? But this…” He taps his textbook, “This has nothing to do with me. Tell me how Shakespeare can help me buy hamburger, and I swear I’ll try to stay awake.”
And here it is, the moment for which all teachers are supposed to be prepared. The moment we tell our students how the work we do in the classroom is relevant to them. I spent over seven years in college to answer this kid, but I’m not sure my answer will suffice.
I’m barely aware that my fingers are pressed together under my chin, like an unofficial prayer when I say, “Alejandro, Shakespeare may not help you buy hamburger today, but he may help you get a high school diploma, which in turn may help you go to college, if that’s what you want, which in turn will help you get a better job, which in turn, will help you get the things you need.”
Alejandro nods thoughtfully. “So basically, I need to be valiente? Brave?”
I wait, not sure I understand.
“You know,” Alejandro says, “Like Caesar? ‘Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.’”
I smile at Alejandro, even as tears make twin trails down my cheeks. “You were listening,” I whisper.
Alejandro grins. “Sometimes,” he says, “between snores.”
Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio with her husband, three of her five children, and two dogs. She teaches for Clark State College, is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine, and has been published in over 100 magazines. Her three poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon. Arvilla’s life advice: Never travel without snacks. Visit her website and her new magazine: https://soulpoetry7.com/.
