were regularly deloused.
But it was one thing to see an occasional skinny, unkempt child at school or in town; it was another thing altogether to see them here. I kept riding, a bit embarrassed, as if we had caught them naked. Brett ran along beside me and glanced over at them, but then kept his head down. The children just stared as we went by, but left us alone—to them, we might have been a ghostly vision. But I saw them all clearly, and could not look away—the dullness of their eyes, the unhealthy yellow tinge of their skin. People in town rarely mentioned these cast-off people, and when they did, it was in hushed tones of disapproval, not compassion. Even though I now work with teenagers who live in the inner city, I have never seen anything close to such poverty. These set-aside people were isolated, ingrown, removed from the life of town. As far as everyone else was concerned, they might not have even existed.
The next day, ten students from Mrs. Hebig’s class were absent. There seemed to be an illness circulating among them that bypassed the rest of the school. But from what I could tell from the proud postures and self-conscious gaits of the fifth graders at recess, those who remained with Mr. Garrett were enjoying the attention. Since no one would talk to him, and no one else except for me had heard him speak, Mrs. Hebig’s fifth graders were subjected to all kinds of questions from both children and adults: What does he talk like? Does he have any smell? Does it make you feel scared when he looks at you? And the teachers, for their part, seemed strange and agitated. They saw him but wouldn’t talk to their students about it, despite the persistent questions. Did anyone sit next to him at meetings or in the lounge? Would anyone touch the coffee pot after he had touched it first? There was excitement and curiosity in everyone’s questions, as well as the edge of something else I couldn’t quite define. And there was anticipation too, the awareness that sooner or later something had to change, had to give.
The next day, and the next, there were fewer and fewer students in Mrs. Hebig’s class, until by Friday only eleven reported to school. What I wonder now is not why parents kept their children at home, but why other parents let their children continue to go. I’d like to believe it was a decision that came out of deliberate thought, the strength to do what was right in the face of the town’s small-mindedness—that was the choice I know my father would have made. But more likely the children who remained in class had nowhere else to go, or had parents who somehow didn’t know or care that the regular teacher was gone. Whatever the case, the other teachers spent more and more time talking to each other on the playground and after school, and Miss Anderson seemed more nervous every day. On Friday morning, as she was handing back a spelling test from the day before, she stopped at my desk and cleared her throat. And since she so rarely looked at me or talked to me directly, I knew I was in trouble.
“Michelle,” she said, looking down at me, “why don’t you write in small letters?”
I just stared at her, not knowing what she meant. She waved my test in my face, the red marks of correction vivid and harsh, exposed for everyone to see.
“Small letters,” she said slowly, as if I didn’t understand. “You wrote all these words in capital letters.”
I continued to look up at her. Since I’d written in capital letters all that school year and the year before, I didn’t see why anyone should have a problem with it now. Looking more closely at the words that she held two inches from my face, I saw that she hadn’t corrected any spelling. And yet the paper was covered in red, because what she had done was rewrite every single word in small letters.
“Michelle,” she said, with a hostile edge to her voice, “do you even know how to write in small letters?”
And it must have occurred to us
But it was one thing to see an occasional skinny, unkempt child at school or in town; it was another thing altogether to see them here. I kept riding, a bit embarrassed, as if we had caught them naked. Brett ran along beside me and glanced over at them, but then kept his head down. The children just stared as we went by, but left us alone—to them, we might have been a ghostly vision. But I saw them all clearly, and could not look away—the dullness of their eyes, the unhealthy yellow tinge of their skin. People in town rarely mentioned these cast-off people, and when they did, it was in hushed tones of disapproval, not compassion. Even though I now work with teenagers who live in the inner city, I have never seen anything close to such poverty. These set-aside people were isolated, ingrown, removed from the life of town. As far as everyone else was concerned, they might not have even existed.
The next day, ten students from Mrs. Hebig’s class were absent. There seemed to be an illness circulating among them that bypassed the rest of the school. But from what I could tell from the proud postures and self-conscious gaits of the fifth graders at recess, those who remained with Mr. Garrett were enjoying the attention. Since no one would talk to him, and no one else except for me had heard him speak, Mrs. Hebig’s fifth graders were subjected to all kinds of questions from both children and adults: What does he talk like? Does he have any smell? Does it make you feel scared when he looks at you? And the teachers, for their part, seemed strange and agitated. They saw him but wouldn’t talk to their students about it, despite the persistent questions. Did anyone sit next to him at meetings or in the lounge? Would anyone touch the coffee pot after he had touched it first? There was excitement and curiosity in everyone’s questions, as well as the edge of something else I couldn’t quite define. And there was anticipation too, the awareness that sooner or later something had to change, had to give.
The next day, and the next, there were fewer and fewer students in Mrs. Hebig’s class, until by Friday only eleven reported to school. What I wonder now is not why parents kept their children at home, but why other parents let their children continue to go. I’d like to believe it was a decision that came out of deliberate thought, the strength to do what was right in the face of the town’s small-mindedness—that was the choice I know my father would have made. But more likely the children who remained in class had nowhere else to go, or had parents who somehow didn’t know or care that the regular teacher was gone. Whatever the case, the other teachers spent more and more time talking to each other on the playground and after school, and Miss Anderson seemed more nervous every day. On Friday morning, as she was handing back a spelling test from the day before, she stopped at my desk and cleared her throat. And since she so rarely looked at me or talked to me directly, I knew I was in trouble.
“Michelle,” she said, looking down at me, “why don’t you write in small letters?”
I just stared at her, not knowing what she meant. She waved my test in my face, the red marks of correction vivid and harsh, exposed for everyone to see.
“Small letters,” she said slowly, as if I didn’t understand. “You wrote all these words in capital letters.”
I continued to look up at her. Since I’d written in capital letters all that school year and the year before, I didn’t see why anyone should have a problem with it now. Looking more closely at the words that she held two inches from my face, I saw that she hadn’t corrected any spelling. And yet the paper was covered in red, because what she had done was rewrite every single word in small letters.
“Michelle,” she said, with a hostile edge to her voice, “do you even know how to write in small letters?”
And it must have occurred to us
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