To the Finish Line

I have been overwhelmed by the many responses to my blog post, “This Is What I Learned Today,” a description of this sweet kid, my student, who viewed life as little more than a mountain of disappointment.

Thank you for the comments and the emails, for the kind words and the insights, and, most of all, for the empathy.

In the film, Antwone Fisher, a story of resilience, and, ultimately, of hope, Antwone asks his dear friend, Who Will Cry for the Little Boy?

Great question.

Who will “cry” for this boy, my student?  The answer is that his principal will.  His school counselor will.  You will.  I will.  And, because of that, though there might not be a Happily Ever After end to this tale, right now, at least, the kid is getting what he needs.  A visit to the doctor.  New glasses.  Unbroken promises.  Attention.  Hope.

And just yesterday afternoon, he presented a copy of Antwone Fisher’s poem to me, with the words, “I Love You, Ms. Baker” scribbled at the bottom.  I will keep this tucked inside a folder, in the front of a file cabinet filled with fifteen years of paper that, mostly, I don’t care much about.  And maybe one day, my own children will discover the poem, and then they will better understand this person they call Mom.

But none of this is about me.  And while I am glad that my actions seem to have inspired others, I certainly am not heroic.

As Helen Keller, a true hero, reminds us, “I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do.”

Waltz into PetsMart on any Saturday or Sunday afternoon and there stands Amanda, scrappy dog in arms, persuading some passerby to love the abandoned animals from the Saint Francois shelter, to take them home.  She is fourteen.  She is one.

And then there is Jillian, a high school track star, who has collected 2,000 pairs of shoes to donate to those forced to go barefoot. She is sixteen.  She is one.

And then there is Sarah, who, every night, battles the tangles in her hair, crying, sometimes, as she brushes, because, gosh darn it, she is determined to let it grow longer.  Why? She wants to present her beautiful locks to another little girl who has no hair, to another little girl who is not quite as lucky.  She is six.  She is one.

Every day, I am inspired by those in my small world who refuse to be gobbled up by the enormity of the world’s problems, by those who not only cry for the little boy, but who will not allow inequity and injustice to go unnoticed.  Every day, I see those who find ways to mend the brokenness.

I hope that you, too, are this lucky.

I would love to hear your stories.