“I need more commas.”

I looked up from my desk.

Peter was standing there, holding a piece of paper.

Peter was one of those students in a sea of children. He had surfaced like a bubble and drifted to my desk.

He wanted something, needed something. His excuse was the paper, but I could tell there was more.

He was dressed the way he always was, his shirt buttoned up, the long sleeves rolled down. The shirt looked like the one he wore yesterday.

We lifted the paper together onto my desk.

“I need more commas.”

I drew three commas in the margin on the right, and watched him decide where to put them.

He still stood there, trying not to tell me something. I said, “How are things at home?”

He said, “I’m a bad boy. I’m a very bad boy. I don’t pick up after myself. I don’t always wash my plate. I need to do better on my homework.”

He had trained himself not to cry.

I knew there was more he wasn’t telling me.

“How’s your mother?”

He said, “I’m not supposed to talk about things at home.”

By still standing there, he was providing an opportunity to wedge an opening.

I lifted him onto my lap and said, “Tell me what you can’t tell me.”

We were a school where most of us teachers were old school. We cared about our students. We taught them how to live in the world, not just to add and subtract.

We knew children will never become people if they’re never given a chance. I had children of my own at home and loved them more than anything. I had so much love it spilled over into the world. The world was my classroom. It was filled with the love of life and living. The children were hungry for it, ate and drank it up.

They were all my children and I had them for a year. I worried about their placement next year, and made careful recommendations which I tried to oversee. Most of my colleagues, I want to say most, are like me. We have the same mind. I know, I know, there are others who do not.

Even if we try to be unaware of and removed from what’s happening in that outside other world, we know that’s where we all live much of the time. Fortunately, we have a school administration, a Principal, who is on our side.

I saw everywhere how school funds were cut, personnel replaced, the big world reaching into my little classroom where I hunkered down and tried not to let the children see me hunker.

Children need stability, and I tried to fill that need.

“How’s your father?”

“He’s not at home,” said Peter.

The dam had broken, and it seemed OK to talk.

I said, “Aren’t you too warm with your shirt buttoned up and your sleeves rolled down?”

Peter said, “Yes.”

I loosened the top button and rolled up the sleeves.

There were the marks, some fresh. Some from burns.

Peter said through the tears he tried not to shed, and the words came in a flood. “I don’t want to be bad. I just can’t help it.”

I reached for the phone and called the nurse. We were friends and worked together.

“Hello, Mrs. Hempel. Could you come down to my room? I’d like you to meet Peter.”

Peter was so grateful because both of us made him feel safe. The nurse took him to her office and made some phone calls.

After school, I joined a small group. The nurse had asked Peter, “Is there anyone you know, maybe a relative, who lives not far away?”

Peter had answered, “There’s Aunt Gladys. She’s nice.”

I met Aunt Gladys after school with Peter and the nurse and another friend, a kindly woman from Child Protection Services.

We drove over to Peter’s house. His mother was half lying on the couch, still in a bathrobe, her hair all messy. The air smelled like cheap alcohol.

The CPS woman took Peter into his room and packed some things.

The mother was defensive, hostile, then started to cry.

“He left me,” she said. “He’s living somewhere in a little room. He said he didn’t want to keep being a burden because he couldn’t make enough money.” She kept crying.

The CPS woman called someone else, then we all took Peter over to Aunt Gladys’ house.

The next day in school, Peter wore a clean new shirt. His hair was nicely combed.

He didn’t need more commas.