On Not Being Enough

I didn’t know what to feel when I got in my car.  I’m not sure exactly why I wanted to cry when I shivered as I turned the key and didn’t know how to feel.  I didn’t really want to listen to the fabulous Amy Poehler read her audio book, but since I had no outlet that seemed appropriate, I listened to her talk about the sucky thing she’d done for which she had since apologized.  (Side note, this story, and this book are fantastic, a thing I realized even in the midst of other shit.)

I hadn’t gone to the ninth grade basketball game to feel better about myself, I’d gone because there was a former student that needed to know I still cared about him.  People caring about him were pretty few in his life and I couldn’t bear to disappoint him.   Even though he didn’t actually realize I was there until hours after the game.

Last year, I told my students that I would try to come see any games they were playing in, if they gave me their schedule.  We don’t have middle school sports (boo!) and I had no way of knowing which local league they were playing in.  He was the only one who did.  And I didn’t really want to go—his games were on Saturdays and they were far away from my house in elementary school gyms and I had other plans, usually out of town.  But he kept asking.  He kept telling me that I hadn’t been to his game.  So, the very last one, the only time I was in town, I went.  Well, I tried to.  The directions from Google and Garmin were super sucky and I eventually had to ask people at a different school and lucked into finding it.  I was ten minutes late when I should’ve been twenty minutes early.  Which he mentioned later.

Then he made the rising freshman basketball team in the spring and I went to see more games.  Somewhere in between sitting on an elementary school gym floor in the winter and bleachers that first spring time game, I realized I was the only one who ever came to see him play.  His mom was probably at work, I’m not positive.  All I know is, she wasn’t there.  Ever.

So I came.  Usually I convinced Sher she wanted to come if it was possible, but if it wasn’t, I went alone. I love basketball, but I don’t love 14 year olds playing enough for the amount of times I went to see them play.  I wasn’t always there on time.  Which I usually got grief for, since he started and it mattered to him that I hadn’t been there to see it.

Luckily, for me, I had two other students on the team who were also in my homeroom and who I’d developed a pretty good rapport with as well, and one of their mom’s came up and told Sher and I what wonderful people we were to come and see the boys play.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t to see her son.  She was there to see her son.  I was there to see the skinny black boy with the flat top and half-blond-dyed hair who never had anyone there to support him.  I mean, I loved seeing her son play too, but I wouldn’t have come to multiple games to see someone who has a supporting, loving family. 

I came to see the kid who needed a cheerleader and someone to encourage him.  I stayed past the coach’s speech to make sure he had a ride home and usually gave him a little money for food.  He broke my heart the time he asked me for a dollar and when I asked him what he would buy, he shrugged.  “Whatever they have in there,” he said, jerking his head towards the concession stand.  When I offered him a second dollar, he hesitated.  “I don’t want to ask too much.” (I gave him the second dollar in case you’re feeling hungry on his behalf.)

So I made plans with Sher to see the boys play as actual freshman this week, and was delighted to see how all of them have grown and matured.  But there was only one that made me check the time and make sure I was there before the tip at 4, just in case he started (he did). 

So when he was walking up the bleachers, in his dressed up outfit required of all the team, and he saw me with a half grin, I wanted to wrap him up in a hug and instead simply motioned for him to sit down beside me.  I brushed Cheetos crumbs off his white shirt and tie and navy sweater and watched him eat knock-off Oreos. 

I asked him how classes were going, found out he was failing three, and that he thought high school was great because there was a lot more freedom.  Apparently he had successfully skipped a homeroom type period yesterday without too much trouble.  He ate more cookies and told me he hadn’t realized I was there.  “Ms. Miller told you I was coming,” I said, pointing to Sher. 

“Yeah, but,” he shrugged. 

“I saw you start.  I made sure to be here on time,” I teased him.
“Really?”

“I was sitting right behind your coach and heard him talk about how you were starting because he had faith that you guys would set the tone for the rest of the game.”

He ate more cookies, and after he had made it through half the pack, I asked if he had eaten anything else all day.  He shook his head and told me he’d given lunch away because it hadn’t tasted good.

I circled back to the failing grades and told him he needed to start asking for help.

“I don’t know who to ask.”

“You can always ask me,” I told him. “You have my e-mail.  You e-mailed me a

few months ago.  It just said, ‘Hey, Ms. Short.’”

“Oh, yeah,” he laughed.

Sher and I left at half time and I told him that I thought he had home games next week and that I’d try to come to one of them. He nodded in a way that I knew he had heard me, but wasn’t going to necessarily count on it.  Which means I really have to follow through next week. 

So I got in my car and wanted to sob as I thought of him eating those damn cookies, one after the other.  There’s so much I can’t do for him.  I can’t make sure he has healthy food. I can’t make sure he does his homework.  I can’t encourage him to work hard on and off the court. I can’t help him make good decisions or choose good friends.  I can’t make sure knows that someone cares about him and cares about what he’s good at and what he loves. 

I can go to basketball games and let him know that he matters to me, even when I don’t see him everyday.  I can’t say I’ve done a tremendous amount of good in his life. I can say I want to try to show him that people can be trust worthy and kind and love him in a way that requires nothing more of him than to be himself.  I’m not sure I’m succeeding.  I’m not sure how to feel about any of it.  Which is why I wanted to cry, could think of no one to call who would simply understand without an explanation and who would tell me how to feel. I don’t know how to feel.  So instead I drove him and made a mental note to pick a different day to visit Jade and the baby next week (if you’re reading this Jader, let me know which day besides Tuesday is good), and listened carefully enough to Amy to stop trying to figure out how I feel and why I think crying might be helpful.             

I’m not enough.  I’m not supposed to be.  But I’m not quite okay with that when I come face to face with a kid I love simply because no one else does.  And I realize that even me loving him isn’t enough.