Here

“His mom walked out a year ago,” the principal told me. “Went to Atlanta. She’s back now, but things aren’t good.” We were walking to the first grade classroom. “He’s the brightest first grader we have, but he’s a big discipline problem. Everything ends in a fight. He won’t focus on anything.” I learned that lately he’s taken to shutting himself in the bathroom and urinating on the floor.

I’ve never hung out with a six year old other than my nephews, but every Thursday from 12:30 -2:00 I go to the same school with a group of volunteers to help inspire fourth graders to write. The principal asked me if I would be willing to meet him.

“His teacher is convinced that he just needs someone to care,” he told me. “I told her I thought you, or someone from SideWalk Chalk, would be a good fit.”

He knocked on the door and the teacher came out.
“This is John,” he told her.

She stared.
I wish I’d worn a long sleeve shirt to cover my tattoo I thought.

“He’s the one I told you might could work with Ja’hiem.”

“Yes! Yes!” she said, and grabbed both my hands. I know if he has a mentor, or just somebody to spend time with him, it would help."

Ja’hiem was in the bathroom, urinating on the floor.
When he came out, the teacher told him to wash his hands and come to the door. “You’re not in trouble,” she promised.
While he washed his hands she told me the home visit she took was depressing. His house was filthy. “You can’t imagine.”

Ja’hiem walked across the room, weaving around the circular tables, confused.

“Ja’hiem, I want you to meet John,” she told him. I gave him a high five.

“The two of you are going to work together,” she said. He nodded.

I didn’t know what to do. What do you do with a first grader? I’m not ready for this.

“Maybe the two of you could go to the library,” she told me.

The library. I like libraries. I asked Ja’hiem if he could show me how to get there.
“This is the short way,” he told me. It was the first time I heard him speak.

When we got to the library I asked him if he could show me his favorite book. He walked me to a small display directly in front of the librarian’s desk filled. There were two rows of comic books beneath two rows of thicker books for young adults.
“This one,” he said. It was a comic book. Spiderman. “And this one, too”. The Fantastic Four.

“Who’s that one?” I asked, pointing to a guy on fire.
“Flame on,” he said.
“That’s his name?”
“He says that.”

I asked him if we could sit at a table and he could explain them to me.
He walked me through every page, not worrying about the words, but pointing out every different character. He told me if they were good or bad, and if they were strong or they could disappear.

“Maybe we should try to draw some super heroes,” I said.

No words. Just a smile. A little nod. I found some scrap paper and two pencils.

“Who would you be if you were a super hero? Can you draw him?” I asked.
“Are you going to draw one, too?”
“Yeah. But you have to give him a name. And it’s gotta be a good name.”

We stood the Spiderman comic between us so neither one could peek. I suck at drawing. I made a big face, with a disproportionately sized neck and torso. His legs were flowing off the end of the page. I put a cowboy hat on top of his head. He had two arms with different sized biceps, and he was twirling a lasso. Cowboy Coolboy.

I peeked over the comic book and looked at his. For a moment, I felt better. Mine is better, more realistic, more details! I remembered he’s just six. There was a small guy in the middle of his page with incredibly large muscles. Muscles bigger than his head. Muscles with muscles. In the top right hand corner he wrote: Super Strong and drew a box around the name.

I sat in the 6-year-old sized wooden chair at the 6-year-old sized table, and watched his face change when he explained how Super-Strong had a secret extendable arm under one of his boxing gloves, watched him laugh when I told him there was no way Cowboy Coolboy could win in a battle against Super Strong, so it would probably be best if they just joined forces. I asked him if he could draw the bad guy. Ja-hiem would look at me, draw, look at me, draw, and two minutes later, the world had Super-Ugly.

Spending a year with fourth graders has given me thick skin.

“How much days are you going to be here?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you coming next week, too?”

I saw the question behind the question, the “Tell me this isn’t just this hour.” the “Please don’t be one of them.” and ohmygod it was impossible to tell him anything other than “I’m here. I’ll be here next week. I’ll be here the week after.”
He kept drawing.
“Maybe we should draw our own whole comic book,” he told me.
“Yeah! Great idea.” We could do that. “We’ll have to ask your teacher.”

We left the library.

“I want to show you the other way I go sometimes,” he said. “This way’s the long way.”

We went to the end of the hall, down the stairs, and back to his classroom. He walked so close I could feel his hand brush the leg of my jeans.

I dropped him off with his teacher and watched her genuine excitement when she saw the pictures he had drawn, and listened to him tell her about how Super-Strong and Cowboy Coolboy were going to save everyone from Super-Ugly, and watched him, at least for one more moment, for one Thursday afternoon, be completely reborn. She told him tomorrow he could decorate a folder to keep the comic book in. He looked back at me and smiled.

When I left, I walked up the two flights of stairs to the fourth grade room. I watched six other volunteers, each with a crowd of smiling faces around them, help fourth graders use their powers of persuasion as they wrote letters to the principal. They’re trying to get him to pick a fourth grader of the year. There was no place, no moment, no situation I would have rather been in.

The difference is tangible. I swear you can feel it. You can feel it when a kid who isn’t used to being loved is loved, you can feel your chest exploding with color and ideas and imagination and joy, and those kids are here. They’re here. They’re here. You don’t have to go to the other side of the world to find someone to give to, or help, or love. I understand how romantic, and necessary that is, but they’re here, too. You hop on your bike.