We've spent the past week accomodating and chaperoning Christmas concert rehearsals; two nights ago was "the big night." Fifty 6th graders were lined up according to height, gender, and section, waiting for their turn to go on stage. A coworker and I were assigned the task of keeping them quiet enough to not disturb the audience, and it was an arduous half hour.
At last, the music teacher returned for the urchins and we hustled them out the door. There in the hallway, shifting awkwardly and big-eyed, was N.
"N, where were you?" his classmates asked. "Why aren't you dressed up?"
Not knowing where he belonged, I urged N into line after the last boy and figured he could merge as necessary.
Why aren't you dressed up...?
N traipsed along in a dingy athletic T-shirt. His slumped shoulders and shuffling feet contrasted immensely with the steps of his shiny-shoed classmates.
But he's here, I thought. You guys don't get it...
Last week, one of my coworkers mentioned more about N's background--the abuse that led him and his younger siblings to a foster family in our area. "He got it pretty bad," my coworker said sadly.
No mom, no dad to come to his concert, to sit awkwardly on bleachers with coats and mittens and restless younger children. No "Good job, Honey!" afterward...no "What are you wearing to your concert?" beforehand.
Just N, a 6th grader on his own, who showed up to do his part--to play his assigned instrument during one of the featured songs...to play the jingle bells.
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