To date, I have been in 16 hours of training for this new job that I keep talking about. We have 56 more hours until my supervisors consider me trained enough to work with thirty at-risk youth at a local (ish) junior high. We are learning about a long list of things that put them at-risk: neighborhood gang presence and peripheral involvement, bullying and the rise of the commercialized sexual exploitation of children; poverty and single-parent households, lack of support, the education system on a macro level. On and on and on. We are learning to fill up our schedules with the stories of thirty kids who might not pass their classes, that might not make friends, that might become truants, or maybe they have a dysfunctional family; maybe they have nobody to help them with their homework, to make sure they are eating well, to tell them that they are loved and valued and that their dreams matter. Thirty kids that might not have dreams at all.
You might not know--dreams are my thing. I can't imagine a better thing for me, for my heart and my strengths, than to help somebody to dream big things, God things, redemptive and new things, for their lives. I could not be more excited to set up my classroom and spend an entire school year turning ideas into reality, showing kids their value, loving them, helping them see their potential. (This is tricky--I don't really ascribe to the If you can dream it, you can do it idea, but I do believe, unwaveringly, in the power of a dream and the necessity of commitment and work and so much of yourself invested to make it "come true." More on this later.)
And yet, I'm hesitant. I know that the next 10 months promise to be difficult: Working with junior highers. (I remember junior high. I remember myself in junior high. It was awful.) Mentoring 30 kids. Meeting the goals of the program: a decrease in truancy by 100%, a marked improvement in all core subjects, finding service projects that they will invest themselves in. Doing enough. Sleeping enough. Budgeting and commuting and surviving traffic on the 5. Maintaining my life and relationships and sanity outside of this job.
Today, in the midst of reflecting on the struggles that are sure to come, the lives of at-risk youth, the disappointment and failure and shame that is wrapped up in poverty, the difficulty of adolescence, I am thankful for a story that inspires hope. Today I am particularly inspired by a little story about a boy called Lula:
Lula was a skinny kid, who looked straight out of the Third World, undernourished, filthy. He was standing by himself, and no one seemed to include him or pay him much attention...'My name is Luis, but everybody calls me Lula,' he said. I remember this a week later, when I pull up to an intersection and see him entering the crosswalk alone, his walk clumsy and self-conscious. I roll down my window and catch his attention.
'Hey, Lula.'
You would have thought that I had electrocuted him. His whole body spasms with delight to be known, to be called, to hear his name uttered out loud. For his entire trip through the crosswalk, Lula kept turning back and looking at me, smiling.
Lula didn't do well in school...When Lula first started to come to the office, shortly after I met him, he'd make a beeline to my office and just sit there. He was not much of a conversationalist. One day, when Lula passed by all the other desks and staff members to get to my office, several called him back. 'Hey, where do you think you're going?' They proceeded to explain to Lula the whole 'what are we, chopped liver?' concept, that it was rude to walk past folks without greeting them. They suggested he try it again. Lula goes to the front door, exuberant at the mere idea that folks would actually want to be greeted by him. He walks in again and in a singsongy, lilting voice, nearly approximating Gregorian Chant say, 'HELLLOOOO, EVERYYYYBOOODDY!' He would enter our office for the next five years with this exact same greeting. Lula came from a huge family, and he was attention deficient, except in our office. Everyone lavished Lula with care he didn't get otherwise.
Ten-year old Lula walks into my office one day and stands in the doorway. I wave him in. He hands me [his report card] and stands by my side, resting his elbow on my shoulder. His glee cannot be contained. I glance across the piece of paper in front of me and locate the subjects. F, F, F, F, F, F. All Fs and nothing but damn Fs. I think, Why's he so excited to show me this thing? I am frantically perusing every inch of this report card to find something, anything, for which to praise Lula. I find it.
Absences: 0.
'Lula, nice goin', mijo, you didn't miss a day (I'm thinking, a lot a good it did ya)--you didn't miss a day."
[Father Gregory Boyle//Tattoos on the Heart]
I can't help but wonder, and maybe secretly hope, that I have a Lula on my caseload. If interactions with my students will parallel this story. Not all of them, I'm sure, but one or two. Maybe even ten or fifteen, fingers crossed. But, I'd be happy with one. One for the hard days, to remind me of the importance of simply loving somebody. Knowing them, calling their name, lavishing them with care, celebrating their accomplishments, big or small and encouraging them on.
A guest speaker, a former gang member, encouraged our team on Friday. I'm holding onto it, right there with Lula, as I begin this new journey.
Make this your passion, your calling, your ministry. Nothing could be more important.
...and I think I just found the first quote for my classroom :)
