It's a Small, Sometimes Ugly World

I began teaching college classes when I was 27. I had stumbled on the job, and had a very short time to prepare for the upcoming semester. I was teaching a Reading and Study Skills course at a large urban university in Ohio. It was an evening course with a very diverse group of students. There were chronically bored 18 year olds, very serious and intimidated adults, white students, black students, Hispanic students, athletes, veterans, and one newly paroled murderer. If I had been more aware, I would have been seriously over my head.
We worked through the semester, slowly getting used to each other. I worked hard to get to know them, and they appreciated it. Slowly, we made progress. I was most pleased at their increased confidence and efficacy. Three of the 15 did eventually graduate, and I stayed in contact with several others for years. It was my first college class, and they were my favorite.
One of the defining moments in the course came one evening when two policemen appeared at the door. I walked over and asked them how I could help them. Three seconds later, I made what could have been the biggest mistake of my life. When I got to the door and asked, one of them stepped towards me and said "we will help ourselves, we need to see one of your students." He had mentioned her name, and was moving into the room towards her direction. In hindsight, I did the unthinkable - I put my hand up and he walked into it. There was a gasp behind me. My students understood the gravity of my action. I saw something very violent in that policeman's eyes, but I held my ground. This was my classroom, my students. Thank God his partner was a sympathetic man. He stepped around his offended colleague and took me aside. I whispered low that I would prefer to bring the student out (a 55 year old black woman enrolled in her first college class). He smiled and said ok. They stepped back out (there were no other exits) and I walked over to the student and asked her to follow me out. I could tell she had no idea what was going on, but she was not surprised. I took her out into the hall and the policeman I had halted began to address her. He was polite, obviously over my faux pas. The second officer took me aside again and thanked me for my help but then cautioned me on my initial reaction. He didn't have to say much, I knew I had received a giant break.
I learned eventually that my student had purchased a "hot" typewriter unwittingly. She was exonerated, but I think the ordeal was too much for her. She did not return to school, and I lost track of her. I truly believed I would never hear from hear again. I was almost right.
Three years later, I had taken a weekend job at the local children's hospital. I was working as a Recreational Therapist on the psych ward. I worked two ten hour shifts each weekend. It was an amazing job. I learned so much from the experience and the professionals I worked with. I worked with a team in a milieu concept. My input was valued as was that of the nurses, doctors, nutritionists, social workers, etc. We would all meet each week and discuss the children. The lead psychiatrists were excellent practitioners, and they worked hard to help those kids, to get as much information and insight as possible. I saw some pretty incredible cases: a 13 year old girl who had hid her pregnancy and delivered her baby in the bathroom, then placedit outside on a window sill until it died, and eventually taking it to school and putting it her locker; the daughter of a Florida serial killer who had grown up in campgrounds and homeless shelters; and many other sad desperate cases.
During my training week, I was taught how to do intake interviews with these children. I observed a few interviews, then was assigned to lead the next interview that came up. That interview came three days later, and I barely made it through it. It wasn't the tragic nature of the crime involved, the sad and empty affect of the young girl I was talking to, or even my own sense of compassion for the situation. It was something that happened in the last thirty seconds of the interview that broke me down.
I still remember walking into the room and seeing a very young black girl staring down at her shoes. I had read her intake material, and knew why she was with us. She was 14 and obviously displaying an "atypical reaction" for a murderer. I asked her questions and she answered those relating to basic details coldly with no emotion. I asked her about her school, her friends, her hobbies, etc. I slowly moved towards the issues related to the crime and she shut down. She admitted to the crime, but could offer no reasons or explanations. She was not defiant, nor was she evasive. She just wasn't really there. I was wrapping things up when I asked my last question. I asked her if she regretted killing her mother. She looked up for the first time with tears in her eyes and said "what does that word mean?" I told her it meant to feel badly. She put her head back down and said nothing more. She had killed her mother with a shotgun in an argument over the girl's 19 year old boyfriend. As I was about to close the file, I saw the mother's name for the first time. The young girl did not share the last name of her deceased mother. If she had, I would not have led the interview. The woman she had killed was my former student, the woman I had defended the day the police showed up at our door.