He was referred to me because he was failing. His English teacher told me that he was impossible, that he rarely came to class and he “just wasn’t interested in writing.” At the time I was working at the “alternative school” running an independent study program. My job was “to catch the students that were falling through the cracks” or “to retrieve the students who’d already fallen.” To this day, the language kills me.
We talked. We laughed. The assignments I gave him were about fun and breathing space. After three sessions, when he trusted me not to judge him, he came to our appointment with a thick black binder. It was very old. The seams were ripping. It was a sacred object. He tapped his fingers on the cover, still deciding whether or not to share it with me. He wriggled in his chair, vulnerable.
I will always remember the moment he asked, “Can I show you something?” I felt honored. It is what I always feel when an artist comes out of hiding and shares their work with me.
He gingerly opened the binder. It was literally bursting with stories that he’d written and alive with illustrations that he’d drawn. This young man was ditching English class so he could hide in the football stadium and write stories.
I asked him to read to me. As he read, he made marks on the page. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Making changes.”
After a few sessions I asked questions about the characters. He shared his illustrations. One day, he came to our session with a new story complete with sketches that we placed in sequence across the floor. As he read, we stepped to the next drawing. And the next. He made more marks on his pages. He made notes on his sketches.
One day I asked if I could read one of his stories to him. As he listened to me read, he began to coach my reading. “Whoa! Did I write that?” he said, grabbing the pages from my hand. And then he asked, “How can I write that in a better way?”
“I don’t know,” I smiled. “What does it mean to be better?”
read Kerri’s blogpost about BE YOU
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The Direction of Intention 