“Teacher, I got adopted!”
The first day back to school after spring break is always chaotic. I collect homework, comment on haircuts, hug huggers and high-five non-huggers. Chatter is loud, and Josue’s words almost get lost. As students make their way to their desks and dig out their library books, I take a second look at him. He is rarely still, and today is no exception as he strains to hold back the flood of words until I can give him my full attention.
Josue normally bursts through the door a few minutes after the bell rings, with untied shoes, ill-fitting clothes, and cowlicky hair. Today he is startlingly tidy. His school uniform is new: neatly pressed shorts, a clean polo shirt, and bright white tennis shoes. Someone has recently taken both scissors and a comb to his hair. His skin has lost the patchy dullness that often signifies poor nutrition. The lean angles of elbows and knees have been softened by the addition of a few pounds of much-needed weight, and his eyes are no longer ringed by dark circles. This may be the first time I have seen him with clean teeth.
As the other students settle down, I ask Josue to repeat himself.
“I got adopted during vacation. My mom got arrested and so a lady adopted me.” I realize he’s in a foster home, a term with which he is unfamiliar. Physically, he looks better, but I can’t gauge his emotional state. He’s moody even on good days, given to bouts of silence and dark stares when angry. I put my arm around him, give him a quick hug.
“Are you okay? Is it good, weird, or both?”
He smiles shyly. “Both.”
I have many questions, but with two dozen students murmuring restlessly in the background and a desire to respect his privacy, I gently herd him to his desk and ask him to take out his library book. His smile fades, replaced by panic. “My library book is in my backpack!” We take inventory and realize that in addition to library books, his backpack holds a math book, notebooks, and his vacation homework. The backpack is at his mom’s house, a place he cannot go.
I send him to the office, where he’s promptly fitted with a backpack and school supplies. In a quiet moment, I explain to the librarian why Josue doesn’t have his library books and implore her to let him check out books anyway.
As the week ticks on, Josue follows me around at recess like a shadow. He talks at a manic pace about his new house. He’s delighted to have boys to call brothers, but unused to sharing a bedroom. One brother snores; one talks in his sleep. Always possessive of his few belongings, in the new home Josue’s still trying to figure out what counts as his. Mealtimes and table manners confuse him, as does his foster mother’s insistence on use of Q-tips and nail clippers. But Josue is cheerful, and the situation seems like an adventure for now.
A week later, the honeymoon is over. Josue gets into a fight on the playground, slams his way into the classroom, and alternates between yelling at me, clinging to me, and refusing to speak to me. Every day he remembers another lost possession: White-Out, red mittens, Lego men, all at his mom’s house. After years of coming and going at all hours with impunity, he finds himself scolded for not being in his new home at a certain time; he’s held responsible for rules he never knew existed.
State standardized testing begins, adding to both Josue’s stress and mine. He’s close to grade level, and could probably pass the test, but he races through the questions sullenly. I watch his progress on the test with trepidation; the results affect me more than him.
Caught between his well-being and my professional obligation, I coax.
“Sweetheart, this test matters!”
“It doesn’t matter to me.”
As frustrating as it is, I can’t fault him for his lack of effort. The gravity of the test pales in comparison to the gravity of his experience. He doesn’t care about theme, metaphor, or punctuation right now.
I don’t have the luxury to allow him not to. Like so many children of trauma, if he is to be successful, he’s compelled to work twice as hard despite having only the motivation to work half as hard.
For this week though, I let it go. Although it’s an exam with high stakes for me, it can’t become more important than the child in front of me learning to navigate a new and confusing life. His long-term success may be determined by how well he lands on his feet, and perhaps this is the most important test of all.
