Remembering James

                          A Day to Make a Difference

           December 21, James sat in the back of the room wearing his CD player,

bobbing his head.  I asked him to take it off.  He continued to bob and do his work.

I could see the future fights if I didn’t address this behavior.  One more time

I asked James to remove his headphones; James slipped the headphone off his ears

but refused to take them off.  I knew what I needed to do.  After a moment, I walked by James, unplugged the CD player from the headphones and walked away with the CD still spinning.  James stood up and followed me to the front of the room.  I turned to face the student who towered over me by a foot. 

          “Give me my stuff.”

          “No.”

          “Come on, Ms. McMahon.  Give me my CD player back.”

           I told him he could have it at the end of the class.  He stared at me for a moment. I returned his stare.  He shook his head, “You’re too tough Ms. McMahon.  You’re too tough.”

          December 22, I walked into school to sign in.  There was a newspaper article taped next to the sign in sheet.  I quickly scanned the article for a name.  James Stubbs, 17, fatally shot while walking home from school.  I went on to read that he had been shot in the neck with an exit would through his chest.  He died on the street.

          James had squeaked by with a D first report.  Furious, he had claimed he had never worked harder and didn’t deserve this grade.  This was true.  He had worked hard.  He had completely bought into the new curriculum, asking insightful questions as we read, A Lesson Before Dying by Ernest J. Gaines.

          After James’ death I immediately empathized with the main character of the book.  Grand was asked to make a man of a young adult facing  the electric chair for a crime he didn’t commit.  Daily, Grant wrestles with the pointlessness of teaching students caught  in the vicious circle of poverty and likely to die a violent death prematurely.  I was haunted by the questions Grant encountered, had I done my job?  Had I made him a man before he died?  When had this become my job?

          It reminded me of my first year as a full time substitute at Peabody High School. One of my favorite students, who was not mine but who came in to visit me each day during homeroom because I was new and needed to be checked on.  I remember the evening that I had heard Denny had been shot.  In my mind, when someone was shot, it was fatal or paralyzing.  I immediately thought, if Denny dies, I’m quitting.  I can’t do this job and bury children.

  To my amazement, Denny popped into my homeroom the next morning to check on me.  Also, to show off where the bullet had entered his shoulder and exited out of his back.  He pulled back the Band-Aid to expose the bloody wound.  It had been a random shot, Denny being an innocent bystander.  I will always remember him saying, ”I’ve never run so fast in dress shoes in all my life.”  He had run home after being shot. 

           In reflecting on my short career as a teacher of seven years, I have had to do some extremely painful and difficult things.  I want James to know I’m not too tough; my heart still aches at the thought of burying children.  Over the years, the lesson that I have learned and that seems to ring true, especially in light of the Virginia Tech shooting is this: some days you lose your best; and some days you cheat death, but every day is a chance to make a difference.