My first year at Some School, I had a really challenging group of kids. One was suffering serious abuse at home (some of you might remember Miguel), one could not be taught to read despite his strange, brilliant mind (he floated somewhere on the autistic spectrum, I would bet you money, and oh GOD I loved that boy), one was depressed and angry and had low self-esteem and I didn't do enough for him, to my everlasting shame. There were other challenges that year, but those three boys are always the ones that leap to my mind when I remember how hard it was.
BUT. There was also Oscar.
I adored Oscar, and not just because he was easy and friendly and had an incredible work ethic and never gave me a moment of trouble. He was good, and I mean good to the core, in the sense of honorable and generous and trustworthy and kind. Some kids are good in the sense that they never, ever misbehave and they try very hard to please the adults in their lives. Oscar's goodness is more complex than that.
Here is a little story about Oscar. There was one of those PTA fundraisers at our school. Not the kind where they send home catalogs of overpriced wrapping paper, but the kind where they just send home envelopes and ask parents to make a donation. I usually explain all the papers that go home, because the kids have to explain them to their parents who may not be able to read in English. I didn't make a big deal about the fundraiser envelopes, because most of the families just don't have money to give. But Oscar came to me and asked me what it was, so I told him. And the next day he brought back the envelope filled with loose change. One dollar and twenty-seven cents. I asked him if his mom had given him the money, and he said no. It was his own. He was so proud and excited and happy to give, but he never said a thing about it to anyone else. This made me want to hug him and squeeze him to death.
I was reminded of him the year after that when a very spoiled child named Polly (oh, I know it's mean to call a child spoiled, but I'm sorry, some of them are spoiled) brought me the same fund raiser envelope with ten dollars of her own money, and a story about each coin and dollar bill and how she had earned it or which grandparent and given it to her, and smirked and gloated and "shared" during circle time about how generous and good she was. "And my mom said I should be sure to tell you that it was all my very own money. But I still have 20 more dollars and I'm saving up for blah blah blah." And you know, think of me what you will, but Polly's contribution did not elicit the same "Awww" that Oscar's did.
Oscar is the eldest boy in a family of 6 children. His mother, Lucia, is a lovely woman in her late 20's, I guess. She is originally from Nicaragua, and she speaks only a little English. She comes to every conference, every back-to-school night or open house, with children in tow and a toddler in a stroller. She is always patient and kind with her children, but also firm. She can quiet them or redirect them with just a significant look or a finger to her lips, and she always makes sure that they clean up the toys that they play with. Lucia walks home with her children after school, and you can see them all talking at once, the boys clamoring for her attention, the little girl running ahead of the stroller.
The three middle children always have red or blonde streaks in their hair. I usually disapprove when parents dye their kids' hair or let their little boys get a pierced ear (go ahead, laugh at me, I'm just an old-fashioned kind of gal), but somehow in this family I didn't mind so much. It was the cousin in middle school who was in charge of the hair, and Oscar was always so happy when he came to school after his roots had been touched up. I could totally relate. The little girl has ringlets halfway down her back, and this year the color has grown mostly out, so she is blond only on the bottom 6 inches or so, which is funny on a fresh-faced little kindergartener with big gold hoops in her ears and leopard-print maryjanes.
Here is another story about Oscar. Last year he was in 2nd grade, and his little brother Tony was in my first grade class. The family went through some tough times, with an unexpected pregnancy and a bad stepfather in the home. Tony confided in me that his stepfather yelled at his mother a lot. I asked him what he and his siblings did when the parents were fighting, and he told me that Oscar would take them all into another room and play with them or read to them. And God, I could just see Oscar doing that, being so responsible and smart and protective, and it just about killed me.
Oscar goes to a different school this year, because our school only goes up through 2nd grade. I saw him waiting for the bus the other morning, and I went over to say hi. He looks different. Older, of course, but there is a slight wariness that wasn't there before. I asked him how he liked 3rd grade, and was his teacher nice? And he said it was all fine, but he didn't make eye contact or tell me anything about it. (Later, his little brother Tony told me that Oscar doesn't like school anymore but Oscar didn't want to tell me because he didn't want to hurt my feelings.)
I need to find out why he doesn't like school anymore, and I need to hunt down and hurt anyone who is contributing to his sense of unhappiness.
Tomorrow I will tell you more about Tony, who is a dear little thing, a chatterbox, and the divulger of family secrets.
