The main action is the learning centers all around the room, which kids can engage with for however long they want. Dress-up is one of the favorites, and not just for girls. One little boy in a fairy princess dress is a riot; some of the girls fix his hair and makeup, and laugh when he falls down trying to walk in heels. There are also centers for computer work, art projects, building blocks, listening to music, and puzzles.
I’m walking by the puzzle table when a girl yanks a puzzle piece away from a boy.
He turns and pleads with a nearby teacher, “Help me. She took my piece.”
“Talk to her,” the teacher encourages. “Use your words. Say what you want.”
The little boy turns to the girl and says. “My piece.”
“I know where it goes,” she says.
He grabs at it, misses. “I want to do it.”
“Okay, but give me another piece. You’re hogging them.”
He hands her two other pieces and she gives him his piece back.
Wow! No yelling, shoving, or name-calling. Hilltoppers could learn from these kids. Why is this classroom so different, happy, full of energy?
Of course. Nobody is making them do something they don’t want to. The kids are in charge. They decide what they are going to learn. And all these centers are not just play. Kids are problem-solving, measuring, pretending, constructing, and learning to get along with others. No wonder Sarah says preschool is “amazing.”
The teachers are also very tuned into each child, helping them deal with their uncertainties and easing the transitions from one exploration activity to another.
I stay longer than I expect to. Just before I go, I join Sarah and some of the other kids on the playground. They chase me until I collapse in the dirt, and then six kids pile on top of me, laughing crazily, until I am laughing uncontrollably myself. When was the last time I felt relaxed enough to laugh like this?
As I dust myself off and say my good-byes, one little boy asks me, “Why are the very tips of your hair yellow and the rest of your long hair red?”
“The yellow bleached out part is what’s left of my surfer days in California,” I explain.
“You said that so sad,” the little guy says, squinting up at me. “Before you were laughing.”
I ruffle his hair. “Little man, you are very smart to see all that.”
“We learn a lot in our school,” he says.
Maybe this preschool’s approach is the best design for any school: happy, lively, allowing kids to decide what to do, letting them be creative, helping them learn to get along with others. I know I’d be a lot happier in a school like this.
Chapter 3: Time to Decide
Once upon a time, my wish was to become unstuck. I believed “out there” could make me right, when actually I needed to find a new personal direction and become whole.
SEAN
Lately, Chelsea and I have been drifting toward the school office and Ms. Carter pretty often, like maybe she can help us get to the bottom of all the upheaval we are experiencing.
Today, as we approach the glass door into the office Chelsea stops abruptly, then backs up around the last corner.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Ms. Carter is talking with a woman in the office. I’ve seen her before—on TV, I think.” She taps her lip. “I know; she’s a reporter for Channel 10.”
“Channel 10? Wow.” That station is based in the biggest city in the region and covers news in our town. It’s kind of a big deal for them to be here doing a story.
“Do you think it’s about Adrian?” Chelsea asks.
“I hope so,” I say. And I do. Adrian deserves to have his story told.
Chelsea squeezes my arm. “Let’s come back after school.”
In the afternoon classes, there is, as usual, no mention of Adrian. Nothing since his death. I ask a guy in my last class, Science, if he went to the funeral.
He looks at me like I’m an alien and says, “No. Why would I?”
Organizing this hike in Adrian’s honor will not be easy.
The bell rings, and I head straight to the office. Ms. Carter’s alone in here this time reading through a huge stack of papers, and she gives me a big smile as I approach her desk.
“Hey, Ms. Carter, I have this idea of organizing a walk on the Appalachian Trail in Adrian’s honor, for Hilltop students and staff,” I say. “Could you tell me how to get in touch with Adrian’s parents?”
She puts down the stack of papers. “Sure,” she says. “But I would wait a few days to talk with them. They have a lot going on right now.”
Chelsea arrives in time to hear these last comments. “What’s going on, Ms. Carter?” she asks. “We saw you talking to that TV reporter this morning and now you look so … I don’t know, stirred up.”
“I can’t really say, Chelsea. But it is a good thing that’s finally happening.”
Chelsea looks lighthearted for the first time since Adrian died.
“Well, it seems we’re getting halfway to the truth anyway,” Ms. Carter says. “Now, I’ve got some work I need to do before I go home.”
We take the hint and head out the door.
“I’m definitely going to watch Channel 10 tonight,” Chelsea says as we walk down the hall.
Me too.
My folks always watch the national news, but not usually the local news channel. To make sure I won’t be overruled in wanting to watch the local news, I make up a story about hearing bad weather might be coming and we should watch the local news.
In the first segment, the reporter I saw in the Hilltop office this afternoon reports about Adrian’s death, interviewing his parents. She makes it clear that Adrian was bullied at school for years. Adrian’s mom also says he would never have committed suicide or killed his dog, Fella, who was found next to him.
“The administrators from the two colleges, responsible for school oversight, declined to be interviewed and the principal did not return telephone messages,” the reporter concludes. “But someone close to events confirmed the parents’ charges of bullying and the lack of disciplinary action for those involved. It was common knowledge in the community that the student was bullied and did not want to come to school.”
When a new segment begins, I turn to Mom and Dad. “What do you think?” I ask.
“It’s awful,” Mom says.
“We can’t jump to conclusions about any of it,” Dad says. “This is a local news station, not the Washington Post. I haven’t heard anything at the college about all this.”
“Could you ask?” I say. I’m not usually snarky, but this time it sure popped out.
Next morning, a follow-up news report is all over TV saying our principal has decided to retire at the end of the year.
At school I ask, “Chelsea, did your parents help make this happen?”
“Are you kidding me?” she asks, her face grim. “They were shocked at both of the news reports, last night and this morning. I point-blank asked if they had talked with anyone. Mom simply shook her head no. No other comment. I was so pissed, I walked out of the room. I was afraid I would lose it.”
After catching her breath, Chelsea tells me a volunteer for the community Rescue Squad is in her homeroom and that this morning he whispered to the Government teacher, loud enough for Chelsea to hear, that he was on the call when Adrian’s body and his dog’s body were found below an overlook. He said they found sneaker footprints up top on the cliff edge. Adrian was wearing hiking boots. The police concluded the footprints could be from any of hundreds of people hiking the Appalachian Trail since the last rain.
We head straight to the office to ask Ms. Carter about the footprints and the police decision to not investigate.
“The city police don’t look for trouble when the universities are involved in incidents,” she says.
“What can we do?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. “The college administrators don’t come down here anymore. They would
n’t listen to me anyway. They probably figure I’m the ‘someone close to events’ in the TV news report. All the colleges care about is their image and how an incident might affect recruiting students and faculty for coming years. They’ll do what they can to hush up any controversy.”
“We can’t count on our parents to do anything, either,” Chelsea says, trying to control her rage. “If they won’t stand up for me, they certainly won’t stand up for Adrian. Or jeopardize their jobs, god forbid!”
“I saw Adrian’s mother yesterday,” Ms. Carter says. “She told me they have been contacted by hotshot lawyers from Richmond that were hired by the colleges. She’s so frail right now, I felt like I couldn’t ask what that was all about. She and Adrian’s father have tried to pressure the police to investigate more but the police have bought into the misguided stereotype of tragic gay guy commits suicide.” She sighs. “I told them when they interviewed me he had been confused, talking with a psychiatrist, but he was a strong person getting happier. It breaks my heart every time I hear him portrayed as a pathetic person. He wasn’t.”
“That’s true,” I say. “Adrian was strong. He stood up for himself with the bathroom bullies. Something is very wrong with this whole thing. Nobody is listening to us peons.”
Chelsea and I are now a regular event at lunch and people have quit staring. Today, she tells me she received acceptance letters yesterday from both UVA and Oberlin.
“The battle with my parents starts,” she says. “I don’t know if I’m prepared to win. I can’t figure out how to handle this. I want to go to Oberlin to escape, go as far away as I can, but I have no real plan of what I would do there. It just seemed so neat when I was there. Everybody was chill and friendly and seemed happy. That’s what I want. But my parents will say there are so many more opportunities at UVA, and since I don’t know what I want to major in, I should go there.”
A fight breaks out by the entrance of the cafeteria, and we turn to look. The only adults around are the cafeteria ladies, average age about sixty. There have been quite a few fights lately, and the teachers are getting really disgusted at being bouncers instead of scholars. It takes quite a while for them to show up and stop the fights. I see three bloody noses.
“This place is getting more and more disgusting,” I say, wrinkling my own, blood-free nose. “Back to important matters: how was your visit to UVA?”
“It was like a big Hilltop. I felt like a little fish in a huge pond, with no idea what I wanted to do. It’s weird, but since that night researching Adrian’s name, I’ve been thinking it would be so neat to see old history, old art, learn Italian—to go to Italy and really experience the place. UVA has a study abroad program with locations all over, including in Florence and Siena. At Oberlin, I would likely have to organize something on my own, but probably neither school would sponsor me to go until a few years of being there. And I really just want a change now. I’m tired of always having to pay my dues now to maybe get something later. How do I know if I want to do something until I try it?”
“Think about poor me, two more years to go in this place,” I say with a shudder. “So, you would want to travel now?”
“Yeah, and by myself, but that would never fly with my folks. And I wouldn’t want to just travel for a week or so with them, tourist style. I didn’t show them the college letters yesterday, so I’ll just keep quiet until I can get clearer about how to deal with all this.”
Chelsea’s preoccupation with college choice sinks into my brain, and when I get home I tune into an article in the local paper. Since things flared up at Hilltop, my parents have subscribed to the local paper and are starting to watch local TV news too. The headline news story in today’s paper is still about Adrian—or rather, the college administrators saying that his supposed suicide had nothing to do with Hilltop Academy. But another article about college is the one catching my attention: the principal of Stone Creek High School is quoted about the big increase in the number of Stone Creek seniors who have been accepted to colleges for the coming fall. A community group wrote grants to some foundations to get money and the school counselors worked with the colleges that students applied to, getting a record amount of scholarships and grants for students. This information would definitely impress my dad. Particularly in light of the fact that my Hilltop counselor handed me my schedule on my first day of school and I haven’t seen her since. She wouldn’t even know who I was if I walked into her office.
Falling into my usual pattern when I need help about something important, I call Dr. Lewis’s office to schedule an appointment. When I tell his receptionist, who has always been really nice to me, that I’d like to come in as soon as possible, she says, “Can you be here in twenty minutes? Dr. Lewis had a cancellation.”
“I’m on my way.”
I leave the newspaper, folded to the Stone Creek story, on the dining room table. Too bad the story’s not in the Washington Post. He would find it much more impressive.
After catching Dr. Lewis up on my life, I tell him I want to transfer to Stone Creek. I want his help to convince my parents.
“Why do you want to transfer, Sean?” he asks.
“I need to find out who I am. I want to do stuff I’m interested in, be involved. Not be so down all the time.”
With his usual expressionless face, Dr. Lewis says, “I don’t see you as down or depressed these days. I think you’ve really come out of a slump. A good example is all the work you are doing organizing the walk for Adrian.”
“But if I can convince my parents that I’ll be happier at Stone Creek, maybe they’ll let me. I think they are still shook up from what Adrian did. I know they don’t want me to get depressed again.”
“I don’t think it is right to play with people’s emotions, to worry your parents into doing what you want,” Dr. Lewis says. “I think you should be honest with them. Focus on the first part of what you said to me. You want to discover things you’re interested in, pursue those now, before college.”
Excited that he might be on my side, I blurt out, “Will you help me? Will you talk to my parents?”
“I will help you think through what you want to say to them,” he says. “You can speak for yourself. And I believe they will decide what they honestly think is best for you.”
I deflate. Dr. Lewis assumes the best about everyone. But one, I don’t feel prepared to speak for myself, and two, my parents don’t have a track record of listening to what I want. For the first time, I feel like Dr. Lewis has let me down.
The last comment Dr. Lewis made during our session, about my parents deciding what is best for me, goes beyond bugging me to making me super tense. Why should all the weight be on their point of view? It’s my life. I need to buck up, get my arguments together, and feel confident in my own decision.
Today is the first official day of spring, and I wake up determined to relieve the tension I’m feeling and clear my head. To achieve that, I turn to my old coping mechanism: I decide to get back in the saddle and go for a bike ride.
My early Saturday wakeup prompts a sarcastic comment from my dad: “Is hibernation over already?”
“Whatever,” I say, and keep walking toward the garage. He looks surprised when I just let it go. Even doing maintenance work on my bike—a necessary precaution, since it’s been sitting in the garage for so long—does not dampen my anticipation. Finally, I pack a big lunch of my favorites: PB&J, Cool Ranch Doritos, and OJ. Sometimes I love still being a kid.
I like my hybrid bike: it gives me a bit of a workout, and frees me from the anxiety of flying down country roads on super skinny tires. I am compliant enough to wear a helmet, but I don’t do fancy riding gear, just jeans and a T-shirt.
Minutes after I begin my ride, the freedom of the open road floods me with good feeling. “I’m back!” I shout into the wind.
It’s a sunny day, with the bluest of skies, puffy clouds, and that Virginia way the sun rays billow through the clouds.
I head off along
Heron Creek toward Chelsea’s, but break off in a different direction about five miles out from town. I cross a low water bridge to the other side of Heron Creek and follow a one-lane road along the creek, going I don’t know where. This road is at a lower level, with easier access to the creek. Looking for a spot to gaze at the sights, I come upon a perfect rock outcrop. I lean my bike at the bottom and climb on top.
A fisherman is a ways upstream, in the water, fly fishing. I hope he doesn’t mind me invading his space. Observing his technique is mesmerizing, how he flicks the line back and forth. There’s no sound here except for the water spilling over the jumble of rocks in the creek bed. I can’t help comparing this water to the sea, my master teacher about life. The power of the creek water is more gentle, but determined, and obviously effective in forming the creek bed structure. The vastness of the sea is always apparent, while the narrow creek originates high in the mountain to the west. Herons with six-foot wing spans hunt here, quiet, nothing like the gulls with their loud calls. The movement of the water is constant and in one direction, instead of the back and forth pull of the tides.
The sun brightens the depths of the transparent water below me, and also the bank’s wild growth. Schools of minnows entice me to dunk my toes for a tickle. My awareness of the creek’s character strengthens, rather than diminishes, my memory of the sea. My definition of happiness: feeling alive, a part of all the forms of life around me, soothed as when I would come out of the ocean after a morning of surfing.
Lying in the sun, on my back, my consciousness drifts to a fuzzy place, memory trying to let out long-ago witnessing of … can’t catch hold of the memory.
Coming to, curiosity leads me on a short walk upstream, and I strike up a conversation with the fly fisherman. Long white hair flying in all directions frames the most peaceful face I’ve ever seen, welcoming me not with a smile but an openness that states, “This is the way of the world.”
He talks to me without taking his concentration from his fly-water-fish moment.
School Tales Page 6