Content warning: in this story, a former student of mine discusses some disturbing & traumatic events from his childhood.
Two worn copies of Night sat between us, splayed open like abandoned suitcases ripe for the taking. My student’s mouth hung open, eyes locked on the words before him. His name was Tre. He was sixteen and carried as many scars as the book we read.
“They actually did that to them?” he asked.
I nodded. “Without remorse. It was a systematic takeover of Sighet.”
Tre ran a hand through his fro. “Damn.”
We let the silence soak in and work a magic of its own. When it passed, he looked at me, tilting his head. I’ll never forget it.
“You want to see something?”
Before I replied, he pulled up his shirt. Tiny perfect circles – a dozen, or so – were branded on his upper abdomen and chest. He played a makeshift game of connect the dots.
“What are they?” I asked, my voice a breath above a whisper.
“Cigarette butts. My old foster dad…my first one. Used to put them out on me.”
My stomach dropped. I didn’t say anything – couldn’t.
Tre sat back down and smiled. The hurt hid somewhere underneath it. “He put a gun to my head once. Told me he’d blow my brains out. Held a knife to my little brother’s throat, too.” He pointed at the book. “My life isn’t that messed up, but it’s close.”
“My God, Tre.”
“It’s nothing, man.”
He didn’t reveal anything else and I wasn’t about to press him further. We went back and forth a while about the book, discussing edicts, ghettos, and cattle cars. Transports.
And then the bell rang.
“Catch you tomorrow, Deming.” He slung his bag over his shoulder.
But we never spoke again.
Later that night – or maybe the next – he got into a vicious fight, hospitalizing a couple of kids who lived at the same orphanage.
I wonder about Tre from time to time: where he’s at, how he’s doing, who he’s become. All I hope is that he’s found a sliver of daylight – something to guide him through the impenetrable dark.
I don’t know why I felt compelled to share this story at this exact moment. The exchange and the events presented occurred four or five years ago, pre-pandemic. My heart still breaks when I think of this student (his actual name is not Tre), and I often wonder if I could have done anything differently to impact his life. Maybe. Probably. It’s tough to say.
It’s no wonder some kids see the world through a much different lens. The hope is that they can find positive outlets, positive friends, and trustworthy adults who can guide them on better paths.
As always, thank you for reading!
Justin, I remember that student well, too. You were the kindest person he knew, and you always gave him the time of day when others gave up on him or put him in an unfair category. I am sure he remembers you. Let's hope that life gave him another chance. He was very lucky to have had that moment with you.
Bet ya a bunch he remembers you. I was my small school's Tre. I remember who cared.