The Only Way Out is Through

 "Will you be here after school today?" one of my students asked in class this morning.

"Probably," I shrugged, since it's rare that I leave before 4:30.

"Oh, good!" she clapped. "My brother's home from college and he wants to come visit all his teachers!"

I forgot about our conversation until a little while after the dismissal bell rang, when I heard quiet conversation in the hallway. "There's yours!" my student said.

"Right there at the top!" a deep voice answered her. "That's something."

I knew they were looking at the quilt we had made of all the team t-shirts. Her brother's design had won the contest when he was in sixth grade, and that year we had all proudly worn his drawing of a dolphin.

A minute later my student poked her head in my door. "Here he is!" she announced. 

A more mature version of the intense, pink-cheeked boy I remembered stepped into the room, smiling. 

"How are you?" I greeted him.

"I'm great!" he said. "I'm doing well.

As we caught up he told me that he was an honors chemistry student at William and Mary, pre-med with his eye on cardiac thoracic surgery. 

"That's amazing," I congratulated him.

"Thanks," he answered. "I'm really happy. Things are good."

For me, talking to former students is rewarding, but it can turn awkward quickly. Once I've shared a memory or two of their time in my class, and they've told me what they are doing now, the conversation usually lags. A few months ago after one such encounter I decided that I would ask each of them what advice they might give their sixth grade selves. Today was my first chance to try out the question.

"I would tell myself to ignore all the mean and hateful things the other kids said to me," he answered immediately.

I nodded. "You always were a person who spoke your mind," I said. "I can see where that would make you a target."

"You know the story, right?" he replied.

I frowned, and he continued.

"When I was in seventh grade they made a "We hate you" club, and basically every day told me I should kill myself."

I gasped. "Did you get help? Did you tell someone?"

"Eventually I told my counselor and then my therapist, but not before I tried to commit suicide."

I shook my head sorrowfully. "I'm so sorry that happened to you," I said. 

"I'm fine now," he replied, and put his arm around his sister's shoulder. "Everything is really, really good."

I believed him. There was a lump in my throat when I said, "It's a terrible story, and it makes your accomplishments even more impressive."

"Thank you," he said, "and thanks for asking. I didn't expect to pour my heart today."