I find out from my homeroom that the entire grade is being
punished for talking at lunch.
Well, that's their
story.
Turns out they're actually screaming at lunch and generally
causing mayhem, therefore the administration has set up a seating arrangement
as punishment. The students explain to
me that they're assigned to tables by homeroom.
While telling me this, they high-five each other and whoop and holler
and dance in classroom the aisles.
At first I think they're celebrating their incarceration, perhaps
a retaliatory reaction much like laughing in the face of danger. But truly and deeply I know better. My homeroom is a regiment of two dozen
whackos, close-knit compadres who fight like siblings and operate like a
Spartan military unit. In short, they
are an inseparable band of the merriest misfits this side of Sherwood Forest.
I've had some memorable homerooms over the years -- the kids
who made me a scrapbook and threw me a party, the ones who wrote me comments
and framed the paper for me to hang on my wall, and the ones who created their
own theme song for field day. I've also
had some duds, like the homeroom kids who collectively took over two hours to
master locker combinations, and the homeroom with the school's infamous Mad
Bomber.
But these kids, this year, this homeroom -- they're
different. They genuinely seem to like
one another, for the most part, anyway.
They share stories, offer advice, challenge each other to basketball
games, and will often play impromptu musical chairs when it's time for group
work to make sure no one is left alone, even if it means getting up and moving
and racing and resorting to mild violence (tossing notebooks off desks) to
claim seats to prevent one another from being left out. They play games with each other, work well
with each other, crack jokes with each other, argue with each other, defend
each other, and cooperate with each other.
I know, I know; I'm thinking the same thing: "Aliens
from another planet."
It is this brotherhood, this familiarity, that draws them to
celebrate their punishment of having to sit together at lunch. I honestly think, gauging from their
reactions, that this is the greatest gift anyone has ever given them. As a matter of fact, I suspect they secretly
covet the idea because now they can ignore their friends and sit with those who
matter most: each other.
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In the crazy excitement that ensues, they invite me to join
them for lunch. I laugh along with them,
hahahahaha, they asked the teacher to
their lunch table. Only thing is, I
realize they're dead-serious; this motley collection of Fagin-mini-me's is
planning where I will sit when I join
them.
Holy smokes, I love
these kids.
I decide to eat my lunch with the adults but watch the clock
on the sly. If I can make it down to the
cafeteria after the class is seated but before the final five minutes of
silence are enforced, I just might find out if they're telling the truth. Was their invitation for real, or are these
kiddos just trying to placate me into believing they're as genuine as I wish
them to be?
I enter the lunch room from the stage side, spotting my
students across the great hall, sitting at a long table that has my name scrawled
on a piece of computer paper.
Twenty-three of twenty-four of them are there. One of my cherubs is seated at a faraway
table by himself, back to the rest of the seventh grade, banished much like the
protagonist of the novel we just finished reading yesterday.
I am spotted by another homeroom, and a few students call
out my name. This alerts my homeroom,
three tables away, and they stand up, wave, cheer, and nearly break out in
song. For one fleeting moment I feel
like a rock star.
I cannot believe they were serious about inviting me. And yet … and yet … This is exactly, I mean exactly, who they are. This
is why I love these kids.
I intend to say a quick hello and be on my way, but I am
greeted with a chorus of "Sit here, no sit here, no sit HERE" as I
approach. So I do. I sit here and then I sit there and then I
sit again over yonder. I go over to the
banished boy and chat with the adult supervisor, who allows Banished Boy back
into the fold after I berate him gently, wagging my finger and giving my
greatest impression of the disciplinarian I'll never be. For a minute or two, we are one, we are
together, we are a homeroom united.
Before I leave the caf, I thank them for inviting me and
tease them that maybe I'll actually eat with them tomorrow, which normal
students would take as a terrible threat of punishment. But, these are not normal students: These are my homeroom students. They'll never be normal because they're more
than that -- They are extraordinary.
Putting them together to eat is not a punishment. The punishment will be mine on the last day
of school this year when I have to set them free and watch them leave the nest
to fly on to eighth grade. I shake my
head sadly even as a smile crosses my face.
One of the adult supervisors asks me what's wrong as I pass
by on my way out.
"Oh, I was just thinking how much I'm really going to
miss these kids next year," I reply.
Her face registers surprise, and she crinkles her nose a
bit. "These kids?" she grins.
I nearly cannot answer her because I suddenly feel a little
teary-eyed. "Yes," I say
wistfully, "these kids. Best class
I've ever had. It's been a great
year."
I mean it, too. I
know, I've said it before, and I'll probably say it again at some point, or, at
least, I truly hope I will. But there's
something crazy-special about this group of rapscallions who invite me to join
them for their lunch detention and manage to make it fun.
Well, that's my
story, anyway, and it's a pleasure and an honor to be able to tell it.
