In the past week, I have seen two students who have been in either Room 210 or Room 407 in the past couple of years in, or on, the news. Both of these students have cases pending against them and neither of the cases have come to decision.

And they are still my students.

Could I delude myself into believing that even after sharing a series of TED videos, “reading in the dark” invitations, readings of TUESDAYS WITH MORRIE, and other elements of our learning community could keep all of my students from making bad decisions after they leave the room at the end of a class meeting?

Yes.

And I do.

Every day.

Someone has to believe in kids. And since these are my kids for 90 class meetings, I will believe in them.

Even when I have to stop and pause in a moment of disbelief.

But for every couple of kids who end up seeking the wrong kind of attention and ultimately making terrible decisions that cause them to wind up in trouble, there is that one student who the media misses. There is no stinger music alerting the viewer to an update.

Their story plays out without teasers or taglines.

And anyone who knows story or The Hero’s Journey knows that the best reporter of this story is not the freshly-preened representative for the network but the person who has been on the journey.

Last Friday afternoon, while stopping to get gas and something to drink at the end of a long week, I ran into such a reporter.

Liz.

When Liz was a student in Room 210, she was over-the-top. A little overweight which always goes well with a little over-compensation. Boisterous, but not to the point of total disruption. She was a distraction to herself, but she was a delight to me. So much joy for the day, she was the kind of student that greeted you in the hallway in a manner that made other authority figures say with their eyes, “Are you going to allow that?”

Yes. I will. And I did. Because Liz was talking to me. And a student talking to an adult is an in-road to deeper conversations. To stand in judgement is to liken myself to a series of signs and a chaos of cones that suggest every interaction and conversation must merge toward maturity.

The Liz I met on Friday must have remembered that an interaction and conversation with me is an open-access road. If there is gate, at all, it is a hug that greets you when we have not seen each other for a while.

And I had not seen Liz for a while.

The Liz before me had lost a remarkable amount of weight.

Miles.

The Liz before me had tattoos that the Liz I had known before did not.

Road Signs.

The Liz before me was ready to talk.

Traffic Report.

“Wow. Mr. Hankins. You look great. Look at me. I hadn’t expected to see anyone here. Wow. I hadn’t expected to see YOU here. Wow. Look at me.”

Seemingly, somewhere along the road, Liz must have been listening to a lot of radio as the stream-of-conciousness greeting I was hearing sounded a lot like the legal disclaimers that have to be compressed into the last five seconds of a thirty-second spot.

And, if you know Mr. Hankins, I am not a thirty-second spot. If you’ve got mel you’ve got me. And one way to get me–take one of our desks in Room 210 or Room 407 for ninety class meetings. I’m in. . .

All in. . .

And while my time was running short on that Friday afternoon, I was going to give Liz what I had so I could hear where she had been and what she had been up to.

“Well, Mr. Hankins. . .I am so glad that you are seeing me today and not a year ago, you know? I have a job now. I work as a CNA at _____________. They don’t take taxes out so I have to be real responsible about doing that for myself. But, it’s good you know. I love the residents and they love me.”

Fellow travelers.

“But I am glad you are seeing me today though. Hey. Mr. Hankins. I’m pregnant. Me. Can you believe it? I’m going to be a mother.”

Car seats.

Get one, Liz. Roads can be bumpy. Watch other drivers.

“Anyway, Mr. Hankins, I’m glad you are seeing me today. Not a year ago, you know? A year ago, I was addicted to heroin. I lost my brother. He overdosed. He died, Mr. Hankins.”

Statistics.

The road has as many statistics as they do stripes. Stripes and statistics. We should pay even attention to both. One marks the way. The other are marks gone astray. All white. Pass with caution. Use your rearview mirrors.

“I was living in my car, Mr. Hankins. In my car. Oh, Mr. Hankins, I couldn’t have you see me that way. You might have seen me right here. Like this. Here. I lived in my car.”

Mobile homes. I know about homes that park and homes that move. You are always aware of the wheels beneath you.

“But I am taking classes now. One class at a time. School’s not really my thing. But I am going. And if I keep going, eventually I’d like to be a nurse, you know? Take care of people. Maybe do better for them than I did for my brother, you know? Anyway, that’s what I’m doing now. Taking care of people. Taking better care of myself.”

Routine maintenance. Check levels often. Kick the tires.

Our short interaction ended as it began. With a hug. I was thinking to myself that it really mattered to Liz how I saw her now.

I was still remembering a “then Liz.”

But the “now Liz” had survived a series of wrong-turns and dead ends to come back to describe the road she had been down and the path that was set before her.

Our students DO care how we see them. Just last evening, I made a Twitter connection with a young first-grade teacher whom I have known since she was a very small child who attended daycare in the house behind mine. Her father, Bill Frye, was my math teacher at Boyne City High School.

I am math-inhibited. I can do math. I choose not to. I failed Mr. Fry’s class with the kind of efficiency that would be the very antithesis of math. But Mr. Fry made every student feel like they were a part of his class, especially if they helped the curve.

But, if the class celebrated anything or had a special day, Mr. Fry made sure that each and every student felt welcome and a part, even if their performance was lackluster.

When I started student teaching back in 2004, I sent Mr. Fry a thank-you note for all he had done for me as a student. In part, because I wanted to tell him that I had taken an entry level math course and took the credit hour requirements in the next semester.

I got a B+ in that math course (the only B on my transcript in undergraduate or graduate work if this is important to my readers). I wanted to run that B+ to Mr. Fry.

For no other reason than to show him that I COULD do the work.

And to honor him for his example that would provide a template for my own approach to teaching. I’ll bet Bill Fry doesn’t even know that his impact has reached across almost thirty years to a classroom in a different state.

Maybe this is what Liz was seeking on Friday. And Mr. Fry’s example is perhaps what makes me open to these types of interactions. Liz had brought to me her grade for the past year. Anecdotally. In an oral presentation.

And while I would never–okay, never meaningfully or maliciously–say this to a student, current or former, I would have told Liz, “I give a shit about your story. Tell me.”

This is our rest stop. We’ve arrived together. It’s been a stretch, yes?

And while Liz was wrapping up her story, I thought of the road and what it has to teach us. How we continue to make sense of the scrambled messages by making words from the letters of license plates. How a wind-torn billboard can inspire silly songs. How the passing of each motorist is another story we didn’t get to read. . .yet. . .or maybe ever.

And you only come to these kinds of realizations when you take risks.

And test drives.