Another Ancient but protected post.... But I unpacked these little guys last week and thought about this story from 4 years ago. Many of you read it before I got paranoid and started protecting things. The heart-breaking bit of this tale is that I saw this child one more time before he disappeared from my life completely- leaving behind a set of little musicians. Even his tapes are long gone....
The Little Musicians From Atlantic City
I have a nice collection of multicultural dolls. Some are collector items while others were children's toys. I have one doll signed by the Author and the Illustrator of the storybook, Mama, Do You Love Me. But one of my favorites remains this cheap set bought for me on the boardwalk of Atlantic City about seven years ago; mass produced, not well crafted, and a tourist item that sells for about five dollars. Given to me, wrapped in newspaper, thrust into my hands, by the shy child moving on to middle school, Dwayne said, "I saw these when my grandma took me to Atlantic City this weekend. And well, I know you like dolls, so here." His eyes were on the ground, and his voice was so soft I could hardly hear it.
He was wearing the dark blue dockers and dress shirt that we had picked out for him to wear to the Mayor Awards Ceremony. He'd worn them almost every single day since then and they were no longer crisp and spotless, but he looked at home in them. As comfortable as if he'd been born wearing preppy clothes instead of hand-me downs or casts off from the bins outside the Salvation Army. His hair was shorn to the skull after I begged our only male Black teacher to take him for a haircut before graduation. I can take them shopping for clothes, but I hate taking young males to the barbershop. It was the first time he'd been to a real barbershop and they returned all smiles. I was horrified at the shortness of the cut, at his sweet curls gone and the z's cut into the back of his head, but they reassured me that it was supposed to be that short, and that it was a guy thing. I guess it was.
I didn't adopt Dwayne as much as he adopted me. I had my hands full with my class of involved kindergartners and trying to do the paperwork the state and district required at the same time. Neither of us were doing very well in our respective classrooms. Dwayne's anger was erupting like Ol' Faithful and he was racking up out-of-school suspensions for fighting faster than I was finishing the necessary reports. His teacher complained about his disrupting the class every morning and with my back to her, my fingers clicking on revision five of the same report, I said, "Send him to me this morning. I'll let him play blocks with my kids or something until he calms down."
Less than twenty minutes later, my door flung open and a ball of tears and fire stormed into my classroom. We looked up from the story rug and watched as the fifty eight pound tornado ripped through our quiet room. I decided to ignore it and went back to reading the morning story with my class.
"Miz," Elvis said impatiently, trying to get my attention. "Look!"
I glanced up. Dwayne was taking every book off the reading shelf, ripping off the covers, and dropping them at his feet. The stack was getting quite high. Our eyes met. His black eyes flashed with bravo and pain. I kept my feelings secret and returned to the story I was reading.
Elvis got persistent, tugging on my book to make me see Dwayne's newest actions. "Miz!" he said urgently. "LOOK NOW!" I looked where Elvis was pointing with his pursed lips. Dwayne sat at my cluttered desk. Our eyes met and he challenged me to stop him from dumping the contents of a drawer on the floor. I smiled and talked to Elvis loudly.
"Remember how mad you used to get, Elvis?" I asked. He nodded, his face serious. Elvis had done his own share of destroying things the first year he was with me. He had learned some coping strategies that worked, but neither of us had forgotten what a demon he used to be on his "bad" days. "Well, Dwayne is that angry right now and he thinks that if he hurts us that he'll feel less angry. You think that'll work?"
Elvis nodded no. "Yous just feel mad at youse!" he replied, pointing to himself.
I gave him a high five, and then went in for the kill, knowing Dwayne was listening to every word of our conversation. "Dwayne doesn't know that yet. I guess we have a lot to teach him, buddy." Dwayne shoved the drawer back in the desk and glared at me. I smiled back.
"Ise teaching him," Elvis said, running from the morning circle towards the boy twice his height. I reached out to retain him, but he eluded my grasp. Dwayne quickly stood up, pulled his fist back to punch the child as soon as he got close, but Elvis grabbed him around the middle and hugged him tight. He smiled up at the mountain of anger and introduced himself. Uncomfortable, but unwilling to push the child away, Dwayne was captured. Elvis grabbed the tape dispenser off my desk and yanked an unwilling Dwayne towards the pile of broken books. He sat on the floor and patted the floor next to him. "Yous sits here," he commanded. Elvis' unwilling captive followed orders. "Ifen yous makes a mistakes youse hafta' fix it. Den, things be ok, ok?" Elvis asked the confused older child. Elvis pulled off a long strip of tape. It stuck to itself, to his hair, to his pants, and by the time he went to apply the tape to a book, it was a ball of unstickiness. Elvis shook it off his hand and reached for another piece. Dwayne grabbed the tape dispenser away from Elvis' well-meaning hands.
"You put the books back together, kid. I'll do the taping," Dwayne said meanly. Elvis smiled and patted Dwayne's knee.
"Youse gonna be ok. Ok?" Elvis asked. I didn't have the confidence Elvis did, but finished the story and moved the group along towards math time. Elvis and Dwayne patched the books as well as a six and twelve year could. It took months of yard sales and trips to thrift stores to replace the damaged books. Dwayne got really good at finding copies of the books he destroyed and putting them in the cart or on the stack. He'd offer me the money in his pocket to buy it. Usually it was only a nickel or a dime, but I took it. We didn't talk about the day we met until the day we said goodbye, the day he gave me the little musicians from Atlantic City.
"I will never forget you," he said as I opened the carefully taped newspaper and pulled out each figurine.
"I will always be right here in Room #106. You can stop in anytime to see me," I said carelessly. He picked up one of the little guys off my desk, and traced its features gently.
"They look like me," he said, rubbing the hair.
"You before the haircut," I agreed, caressing the hair on my own figurine.
"You're the only one who's ever believed I was important," he said as if I wasn't talking. "Remember that day I ripped up your books?" he asked as if either of us could forget it. He set down one figurine and picked up another one.
"You were in rare form, that day," I answered.
"Yeah," he said. We were silent. I remembered the temper tantrums in-between then and now, the play rehearsals, the long talks in the car while we went shopping for props or supplies, the nights I took him home to an empty house, the time he was locked out and spent the night at my house, the day I took him and his best friend to Red Lobster to celebrate his passing fifth grade, driving him back and forth to the summer theater program and watching him perform on stage for the first time in something I didn't direct, buying his first pair of sneakers that weren't bobo sneakers, talking to the teacher who didn't understand why he refused to make a Mother's Day card, talking to his grandmother about his special gifts, and buying his new back pack and school supplies for sixth grade.
"You sure you're gonna' be here?" He asked. I nodded.
"You can do this, kiddo. You're prepared. You've met the drama club teacher at the middle school, and in three years you have an offer to attend the School for Performing Arts if you keep up the good work on stage," I said, but neither of us were wholly convinced that he'd make it through sixth grade, much less middle school. I'd talked to the Principal of his new school and had given him my home phone number. I'd met with the disciplinarian and discussed Dwayne with him. I'd begged my principal to talk to his new Principal and she'd obliged. The child was marked as one who had someone who cared about him, but neither of us was sure it would be enough.
He gave me a hug goodbye, and walked to the door. "Wanna' lift home?" I asked. He shook his head no. "Wait! You left your tapes in my car," I called out.
"I'll get them next time," He said laughing before he shut the door. Seconds later, he poked his head back in, grinned, and said, "I love ya, you know!" and then he slammed the door and ran down the empty hallway. He waved to me outside my classroom's window and I waved back before returning to finish the bulletin board welcoming my new students.
I unpacked the little musicians this week and searched for a place where they'd be protected. I dusted them off and laughed, remembering that I'd given Dwayne $10 to spend in AC when he told me his grandmother was taking him on vacation for the first time in his entire life. He'd never had that much spending money before and he'd spent half of it on me.
He's not been back to Room #106 for years, and now it's gone and I'm gone too... just like him. His tapes? They're rattling around in the glove box of my car, just where he left them.
Partly because I am thinking a lot about the places we've been instead of the places I want to go and partly because I need the discipline of writing something besides screenplays right now and can't begin a new work, I'm going to take you with me to revisit a few of the places we've been to. Let's see how many places I can revisit before I get bored with this topic. 
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