(I have been putting off finishing this blog post for months. You'll see why)
Today, I was cleaning a bookshelf and I found the journal from one of my third-grade students, who I call Fred in my book, in 2001. I still had it because he didn't come to the last day of school to get his stuff this year and I guess it got put in a pile and somehow I've kept it with me.
He didn't come to the last day of school, probably because his family was a mess: dad in prison, mom in an abusive relationship, all the kids (understandably) acting out violently.
Fred was expelled from our school in second grade for hitting a teacher. Then he was expelled from the other school, I don't know why, at the end of second grade. He came back on the condition from the administration that he be in my class because I had him as a student in first grade and he listened to me and worked well with me.
We had a really good relationship, although Fred was definitely not easy to have in class. He came back to visit me in later years as well. In fifth grade he ran to my classroom almost totally out of control, yelling, "Ms. Harris, you're the only one who can calm me down!" It was obviously incredibly disruptive but I was so proud of him that he knew what to do and honored that I was a safe person for him.
There's more: I saw him on the street once and he said he'd call me. He joined a gang. I saw him in a documentary and got a message to the librarian at juvenile hall who called me back and said it meant a lot to Fred to hear from me. I kept holding out hope.
The end of his story (and those words are hard for me to type) is that around 2015, Fred was killed in a gang fight. I heard he was trying to leave the gang, but I don't know that for sure.
I had read an article that day that just said "East Oakland man killed in gang violence" and, as I always do when I calculate the age of any homicide victim in Oakland, I worried that it was one of "my kids," but no name was given. Later that day, another former student I was still in touch with stopped by my workplace. She told me that the homicide victim was Fred. I remember her kindness, "Ms. Harris, I really didn't want you to find out from the news."
Fred has his own chapter in my first book, Literally Unbelievable, and I will absolutely never forget him and never, ever, stop grieving him. I still remember his birthday every year, even when I try not to.
I opened up this journal today and found this page. Fred worried a lot about his family, and you can see him talking about how he still loves his cousin. Later on, he mentions that his cousin was in jail for shooting someone, but repeated that "I still love my cousin." Fred wanted to be a teacher, "but it will be a lot of talking."
Throughout the journal, he tells me about his baseball games and how much he wants to win, how much he loves his family, and what movies he wants to see. At the end of the journal, he offered, "I was thinking about my behavior on the weekend because if I did not I would not be a conflict manager. I am going to do a good job." Pretty introspective for a third grader. Also, being a conflict manager meant missing recess, and this kid (who loved recess) wanted to do it so he could help people.
Fred was eight when he wrote this, and he had already been expelled twice and written off by almost everyone he knew. At eight years old. I don't think one single person, myself included, was surprised that he didn't make it to see twenty-five.
And it is a tragedy. We throw kids away. We sacrifice them by our inaction and inequity. Our American society is built on this.
This is why I wrote my books. This is why I want people to buy my books. They're not all sad stories, but some of them are and we need to hear them even so. Because these kids deserve better. This kid deserved better.
And I miss him.
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