Off Target

As luck would have it, I ran into another former student today, this time at Target. I guess it's not really that surprising that I should encounter people around town whom I once taught, I think my total student count runs to roughly 1500 at this point in my career, all educated in this same little 26 square miles of land that I also call home. I teach 11- and 12-year-olds, and so the oldest of my former students are 27 and 28, some with children of their own, and even though we live next to the big city, this county has a lot of small town left in it. I'm waiting for the day when I sit across the conference table from a parent who was once in my class. I know it will come.

Many of the kids I bump into are cashiers, and so, long ago, I had to get over any hang-ups about having them scan and bag my personal items. I don't think knowing that I may run into students or parents changes the way I behave when I'm out; I'm a pretty demur person to begin with (in public, anyway), but I'm shy, so even after all these years, there's still a little turtle impulse that makes me want to hide or pretend I don't see them. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. When I'm the next person in line at Target, and we've already made eye-contact, there's some small talk a-comin'.

How different this interaction was from the one on Saturday: this guy called me by name right away, and I recognized him at once; his face hadn't lost its sixth grade softness. "How old are you, now?" I asked him, and he told me he was 20. He was from the same class that the other boy was from, but if I were ever to wish middle school amnesia on someone, he would have been a good candidate. He was so often in trouble for not doing his work and challenging the teachers' authority. Even so, I had to ask him, "Do you remember sixth grade?"

"Yep," he answered, "I do."

"But only the good stuff, right?" I resorted to humor.

"Well... not so much, actually," he answered honestly. "Those were some tough times."

"Yeah," I acknowledged.

"But I'm doing great now," he continued. "I've finished a couple years of college. I'm going to transfer to Georgetown." His voice was hearty, but there was something in his manner that made me doubt him. It reminded me of so many conversations we'd had. Oh yeah, my homework's done. I just don't have it with me. Still I was moved by this offering; he was trying to give me proof of his success, his redemption. I wanted to absolve him, absolve us both from that painful and unsuccessful stretch he did in middle school, but our transaction was over, and there was a line behind me.

"I'm so glad to hear it," I told him. "Take care."

"Did you find what you needed?" he said to the next customer as I pushed my cart away.

Not really, I thought.