Fuck you, I Need a Hug

Damien entered my classroom loud-- with a foul mouth and an empty backpack. He came in with a combat-ready face, shoulders thrown back and phone in hand.

'Hi Damien, welcome," I said.

"I ain't talkin'," his dark, angry eyes shot back.

My small, cozy 9th grade class sat petrified, stunned.

"Please put away your phone," I said, aiming to fold him into the activity.

"Fuck you." He retaliated, lashing me with a curse.

The class and I quietly, imperceptibly nodded our heads.  So that's how it's going to  be, we thought. The kid who compels a double standard,-- absolving himself from the rules that others must follow.

"I can't tell you why he's in foster care," his counselor told me. "When kids do adult things like that...." She shook her head, her wide eyes frightening mine.   "He wants to be with his mom, but she lost custody of him.  Good luck," she added. "If you need help text the dean."

Damien sat.  For the better part of the first month he sat, self-sequestered to the back corner of the room, playing games on his phone.  I remained steadfast in my persistence to turn this around, to bring his face up and out toward the others, to involve him if even just as an observer.

Occasionally he'd come in with a good mood shining on his face.  On those days, he would shout out random comments or answers to our questions-- subtle confessions that he was listening, wanting to be part of the discussion.  On other days, the storm that rolled in with his fiery stride pushed all the good mood aside, a wave of rage overpowering the class into silent compliance. Little by little, though, he watched the other kids. Took note of their work. Saw their collaboration, their harmony.

One day, he took me up on my offer to join a group on a small assignment.  It was a fortuitous moment-- the serendipitous coming together of a common overture and a rare acceptance. It was his tipping point.  The point at which he decided he could be a member of the class after all.

From that point, things got easier with Damien. He participated more than not.  He decided that being social was a good thing-- something that allowed him to shrug off the angry guise and live for a little while with a friendlier persona. 

Then, he did something remarkable that solidified his place in the social circle of the class. The assignment was a paragraph on someone they admire.  Damien chose to write about Michael, a quiet classmate with a hearing disability.  They had established a rapport playing video games after school; they laughed easily together.  Damien wrote about how nice Michael was, how fun it was to hang out with him, what a good friend he was. Michael was transformed.  Damien had transformed him.  Damien glowed with the pure joy that comes only from making someone else happy. 

Then, in late October, on Homecoming day.  My Leadership students were decorating the gym for that night's dance.  In walks the dean with his fast purposeful stride. Damien a few steps behind him.  "Ms. Kungie, Damien is having a challenging day.   More specifically, his teachers are having a challenging day.  Can he stay here in the gym with you?"

"Of course!" I smiled.  "Damien, ask any of the Leadership kids how you can help.  There's lots to be done here." 

Whether it was the open-ended freedom of the large, airy gymnasium, the eager solicitation of my students, or release from the tug-o-war with teachers, something clicked.  Damien was the man with the extra hand. He bopped around, group-to-group.  Hanging streamers, blowing up balloons, bringing chairs out to the round, large tables.  Unanimously, the class invited him to come back to the dance that night, his ticket comped.  He had liked being helpful; they had liked his unconditional willingness.

He returned that evening a new man.  Black suit, shiny black shoes and a snappy hat.  Most notable was the big, loose happy smile on his face.  He'd found a purpose.  He sat with me at the door checking tickets, teasing each couple as he fastened paper straps on their wrists. 

Fast forward.  Damien applies to the class the following fall. He is accepted with enthusiasm from the students-- and with cautious optimism from the teacher who helps him self-regulate his emotions. He stands with the new class in the new year on the stage at the dean's "rules and expectations" assembly.  He gets a standing ovation.  The principal calls me in.  "I don't know what you did with that young man, but it's working.  He's a different person."

Damien makes it through the fall semester. He initiates frequent check-ins with me.  He is uncertain how to behave with kids like this-- kids who work so effortlessly with one another.  Kids who communicate well, who read and write well,  who have that balance of character that comes from a solid family, a good breakfast, and a good night's sleep. 

Over Christmas break, something happens. He doesn't show up in January.

He's sick, his social worker tells me.  The kids make and send him a big get well card.  They've all signed it and added personal notes.

He's not sick, his social worker tells me.

Something went wrong with his brother, his counselor tells me.  The Leadership kids call and leave him a few voicemails.  They miss him.

I miss him.

Fuck, we all miss him.