The night before school began, my feelings of anticipation were at their highest. I was soon to meet a totally new group of kids ─ well, new to me although, except for one new boy, they all knew each other.
I remembered being in elementary school myself and feeling that same anticipation ─ knowing I’d be back with my friends, some of whom I hadn’t seen since school let out in the spring, and wondering what my new teacher would be like.
When they were in fifth grade, I had seen most of my future students in the hallways, and I knew a few of their older brothers and sisters, but I didn’t really know any of them.
In the morning, they poured into my classroom, chatting happily and stowing their belongings and lunches in their lockers or desks, which I had assigned and labeled to make taking attendance easier.
When the class was more or less settled, I welcomed them. I assured them that we’d be doing some fun things through the year as well as some hard work. They grinned when I mentioned fun things and groaned quietly when I mentioned hard work.
Then I took attendance. I told them that after the first two weeks, when I knew all their names, they would have an opportunity to choose where they sat.
My only new student was Kirk, and I had put him right in the middle of the class where he didn’t feel conspicuous but could feel included. I introduced him to the kids and then began an exercise I always did on the first day of school. I had each student stand, face the class, and tell their classmates something about themselves that the others didn’t know.
That was harder than it seemed because the kids knew each other well. From this exercise, I learned at least one thing about each student as I took notes. In addition, I began to learn who was the class clown: Jamie; who was very serious: Anna; who was the class scientist: Brenda and so on. Kirk, I learned, loved swimming and went to the beach every summer. That explained his golden tan and his bleached blonde hair.
After that, we got down to work and for the most part the day progressed normally.
Early in the fall, some students I’d had the previous year usually dropped into my classroom after school. I think it was a bit of the weaning process for them as they adjusted to the new school while knowing that I was still there and welcoming.
One afternoon after school, Akram appeared in my classroom doorway. His clothes were torn in places, he had the beginnings of a black eye, and he’d clearly been crying.
Oh, shit! I exclaimed to myself. Immediately I pulled a chair up beside me, handed him a box of tissues, and asked him to sit while I got him a glass of water.
Between sniffles and snuffles, he got out his story. “It was the end of school and I went into the restroom for a minute before going out to the bus. There were two boys there, both of them bigger and older than me. One of them said, ‘Well, if it isn’t the new school faggot.’ I tried to leave but the other boy blocked the door.
“‘Come over here,’ the first boy said. I walked slowly to him. ‘Now get on your knees,’ he told me. I was scared, really scared, Mr. Travis.”
I nodded, fearing what would come next.
“When I refused to kneel, he punched me in the stomach. It really hurt and finally I knelt in front of him. Then he unzipped his pants and took out his penis.”
Damn! I thought. This was worse than I’d feared. I encouraged him to go on. By then he was sobbing.
“The boy told me to give him a blow job. I didn’t even know what that was. He said I was going to suck on his penis until he shot in my mouth. I tried to refuse so he kicked me. Finally, I did what he said to do. I was humiliated, and it got even worse when I had to do his friend, too.
“When I’d finished, they knocked me the rest of the way to the floor and kicked me some more. One of them said, ‘This is only the beginning of what you’ll get if you squeal on us. You be here at the same time tomorrow if you know what’s good for you.’
“Then they left, laughing.”
By then I had Akram in my arms trying to comfort him as he sobbed out his story.
As his crying subsided, he said, “I struggled to get off the floor. I spat what was left of his stuff into the toilet and then I tried to wash my mouth out at the sink. I didn’t know whether that stuff was bad for me or not. I hobbled out to the bus just in time. God, I have no idea what I would have done if the bus had left.”
I thanked him for telling me what happened. Praying that the boys were not diseased in any terrible way, I assured Akram that what they had shot in his mouth was not harmful. I called our school nurse’s number but only got her answering service. Turning to Akram I said, “I gather you didn’t tell the nurse or any other adults at the middle school.”
He shook his head.
“Did you tell any kids?”
He shook his head again. “Some of the kids on the bus asked why I was hobbling. I told them I’d been hurt in gym and that it was nothing.”
“What’s your phone number?” I asked. He told it to me as I dialed.
When his father answered, I told him what had happened to Akram and that he was in my classroom, hurting a lot.
Jamal said that he’d be right over, and he arrived within fifteen minutes.
As Jamal came into the room, Akram stood painfully and fell into his father’s arms. When the boy calmed down some and we were all seated, he told his father what had happened.
I asked him, “Do you know who the boys were?”
“I don’t know their names,” he sniffled, “but I’ve seen them around school.”
“What can you tell us about them?” Jamal asked.
“Nothing. I’m afraid of them and I’m sure they’d hurt me more if I told on them. Dad, I can’t go back to that school. I’m scared.”
Jamal and I both comforted and reassured him. His father took him in his arms, just holding him, not really hugging because the boy’s ribs were sore.
At last he said, “Akram, I need to take you to a doctor. We have to get you checked out and be sure nothing’s broken.”
“Do I have to go back to the school? Please don’t make me,” Akram begged.
“We’ll take some time to work out what to do. Meanwhile, no, you don’t have to go to school tomorrow.”
Before they left, I told them that, as a teacher, I was mandated to report the abuse.
“Do what you have to do,” replied Jamal.
They left my room together, Jamal trying to support his son as they walked. He looked back at me and said, “I’ll be in touch tonight.”
There was no CPS organization in our town, so I decided to call the sheriff’s office and see what they’d say.
When I called, a gruff voice with a very southern accent said, “Yah?”
I told him what had happened, and he replied, “There was just a year between the boys?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to be polite although his attitude annoyed me.
“I’d say by yer voice that yer a Yankee, Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, down here we just consider what happened as boys bein’ boys. Thanks fer callin’ though.” He hung up.
I was astounded that he could treat what had happened so cavalierly, but for the moment there was nothing more I could do.
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Before supper that night, I felt like I needed a drink, so I took out the Scotch bottle; I ended up having three.
I have no memory of what I ate, but I do know that I drank coffee at the end of the meal and felt at least somewhat sober when Jamal called.
“Hi, Ben,” he said, “I just wanted you to know that Akram may have a cracked rib or two but otherwise he’s fine. The doctor strapped up his side and sent us home.
“Now I have the problem of what to do. I promised him he wouldn’t have to go to school in the morning, but he can’t keep that up forever. Any suggestions?”
I’d been trying to think of ideas ever since Jamal and his son had gone out my classroom door.
“I guess as a first step you should inform the principal of what happened. Maybe it’s actually good that you don’t know the boys’ names right now. Try going to the school first thing in the morning and asking for an appointment.
“I did call the sheriff’s office, but they just blew it off. If you want, I’ll call the principal in the morning.”
“No, I’ll take care of that. Thanks for your help.”
We talked a while more. I must admit that I always enjoyed talking with him. Somehow, I was very comfortable with him, rather like an old sweater. I still hadn’t told him that I was gay, and I wasn’t sure I ever would. But since he was my only gay friend, this was a perfect way to stay in touch.
I didn’t sleep much that night. I was still trying to think of something to do to help Akram, and I came up with nothing.
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Somehow, I made it through the next day. When I got home, there was a message from Jamal on my answering machine asking me to call him.
I dialed the number, the phone rang a few times, and then Akram answered.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Well, my side doesn’t hurt quite as much, but I’m still horrified by what I was forced to do.”
I wanted to tell him that, when he was older, he might find what he had done pleasurable, but I didn’t say that. Instead I asked to speak with his father.
Jamal came on the phone and we exchanged the usual pleasantries before I asked if he had been able to talk with the principal.
“Sort of. At first, when I told the secretary what the problem was, she tried to foist me off on the assistant principal, but I insisted and eventually got into the principal’s office.
“I told him, as accurately as I could, what had happened to Akram. He said he didn’t know Akram, which could be a good thing I suppose, but when he asked me to tell him the names of the boys and I said I didn’t know them, he insisted that, if he was to do anything, he would need to know their names.
“I told him how scared Akram was and he simply repeated that he couldn’t do anything until he knew the names.
“I pointed out that if Akram revealed the names, which I wasn’t even sure he knew, he could be in more danger, either from those two boys or their friends. He simply went on insisting that he had to know the names, so I told him I’d try to get them from Akram.
“It was all very civilized. Although I grew increasingly angry, I knew it wouldn’t do any good to reveal that, so I remained polite and perhaps even a little subservient.
“When I got out the school door, I stood on the steps and exploded, loudly. And that’s pretty much what happened.
“I took the day off from work and spent it with Akram. I tried to convince him to identify the boys, but he was clearly too scared to do it. So now I’m stumped. Any ideas?”
“Did you tell him he could stay home from school again tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, that gives us a little time. I’m beginning to have the glimmer of an idea. If anything comes of it, I’ll let you know.”
I still had the phone numbers for my prior year’s class. Fishing the list out from where it was buried in my desk, I found the number I wanted and dialed it.
A man answered. I identified myself and we chatted for a few minutes before I asked to speak with his daughter.
She came quickly to the phone and asked if something was wrong.
“Yes,” I said, and then I told her about Akram being badly bullied, beaten up enough to need to see a doctor, although I didn’t go any more details. She was furious. I told her I had a plan, and we made an appointment for the next day after school in my classroom.
When I hung up, I took out some papers to grade but couldn’t really focus on them, so I put them back in my briefcase and watched a couple of idiotic sitcoms until at last I went to bed.