The Webster Paradox

My watch beeps at exactly 7:00 AM.  I pull off my sheet and stumble to my window.  Not a cloud in sight.

Today will be the day that I burn,  I think to myself.

It is the school picnic.  This means that we herd all the kids into the bus and we all go to the marina, where there are nice little porches that the kids can jump off of into the safety of the harbor.  It is an all-day event, and the sun is grinning at my feeble American skin.

I see our excited students through the windows of the bus, bouncing around like water molecules in boiling water.  For some reason they are surprised and ecstatic that their teacher is in a swimsuit.  We arrive at the marina, and play kickball while we wait for the tide to rise enough to swim.  The kids are getting restless.

"Can we swim?"
"Can we swim now?"
"When can we swim?"
"I want cheetos."
"Mitchigo is crying!"
"Can we swim?"
"Hudson kicked the ball into the water."
"The teams are unfair."
"Where is Washington?"
"I like tuna."



All of a sudden I hear a splash behind me.  One of the fifth graders had jumped off the porch into the water.

There was a tiny moment of silence as all the students simultaneously turned their heads to look towards the splash.  Then towards me.  Then back towards the splash.

The next few seconds was a blur.  There was a low rumble, and I felt the ground vibrating beneath my feet.  Then a thick, solid stream containing all the students went cascading off the porch and into the water.

Eh, the tide was probably high enough anyways.

The day was an exhausting blast, containing hundreds of "dolphin rides" and clingy 1st graders.  We had a brief break for lunch, where students inhaled rice and hot dog wieners and jumped back into the water.  At the end of the day, salt encrusted and water-logged, we made it back to the school and crashed on our beds for a good night of sleep.




Webster T. George ranks in the top 3 hardest students I have in my class.  I have caught him cheating and bullying, he doesn't follow directions, he doesn't follow the rules, he is aggressive on the playground, and has gone to the principal more than any other student in my class.

Yet if I was going to adopt any of the boys from my class, it would probably be him.

Webster comes from a hard home.  We invited him and his little brother Holter to church one sabbath and drove to pick him up.  We tumbled down the muddy driveway to his house in the jungle, and see his dad out in the yard drinking a beer with a friend.  Beer cans are scattered everywhere.  Webster and Holter come out of the house in their polos and hop in the back bed of our little truck and drive to church.  I am starting to piece together the reasons for the way Webster acts in school.
He has been staying at the pastor's house beside us for the last few days.  We don't know why, but I could make an educated guess by the mark I saw on his face the other day.  I encounter him frequently outside of the classroom now when he is hanging around the compound, which has allowed me to see a different side of Webster.

I grabbed the basketball tonight to go shoot a few hoops before bed.  I flip on the big flood lights that illuminate our little court that sits right in front of the dark jungle backdrop.  After a couple shots, I hear a noise.  Webster is hiding behind the pole.

"Ha, I scared you!" he said enthusiastically.
I smile and toss him the ball.  He makes a perfect three-point shot.
We laugh and talk and shoot hoops together.  It is refreshing to not have to be a strict teacher at the moment.

"Teecha, what is a grapefruit?"

"Hmmm, well, it is like a big orange, only its not orange.  Well, kinda.  And inside it is red.  And more sour."

I soon realize that I have obviously never needed to describe a grapefruit before.


"Teecha, the memory verse is easy.  I memorized all of it!"
He shoots another perfect three-pointer.

"Good job!  But can you say all three parts now?"
We are memorizing the entire Psalms 23.

"Yep, easy!" He smiles.

He passes the ball to me.  I completely miss the rim.

"Almost!" He encourages.

I watch him dribble around as he pretends to be in a basketball game, and the timer is ticking down.  He shoots right at the 1-second mark and is the hero of the game.

We shut off the lights, and we head for our homes.  I come to a tough realization that there is a young boy inside the tough outer husk, one with dreams and even just someone who needs a friend.  But then that husk is put back on to defend himself from home life and school, and I put on my teacher clothes and all of a sudden I become just another person that disciplines him.

Maybe I can say that we are a work in progress.
Maybe I can help him set that husk aside and see him as the kid inside.
Maybe I can change out of my teacher clothes more often and become just a friend.

Maybe Webster is teaching me something that no university or textbook could ever show me.




Peace from the tropics,

River