Talking to T

I wish I could tell you T's story.

But I can't.

We were reading City of Refuge by Tom Piazza in our class earlier this fall. T reacted very violently to the story. "Why we reading this?" We explained about the purpose of One Book One New Orleans. That wasn't good enough. He wanted to know why Piazza wrote the book. The teacher and I talked about the grieving process.

"T, maybe not for you, but for other people, this is part of the grieving process. It's something they have to do in order to heal."

He shook his head.

"Honestly, T," I said, "I don't think he is telling this story for you. I think he is telling it for people like me who aren't from New Orleans. He's trying to tell your story, so that people who aren't from here will understand why New Orleans is important, why it matters." I meant you in a collective term for all of New Orleans, but T didn't understand it that way. He took it personally, which told me without words, what he went through during the storm.

"I don't appreciate it that. I do not appreciate it."

The conversation ended there. I cannot forget his words or the emotion that shook his voice.

Throughout the session, I continually found myself at odds with working with T. He was great with numbers and was a huge help in helping others with their math problems. His vocality increasingly frustrated me. If T didn't like something, he felt no qualms about expressing it. He spoke relatively freely, asking whatever was on his mind.

When I asked the students to write a short essay about what they would suggest a tourist to do in New Orleans, he quietly leaned over to ask me some questions. Knowing I was a newcomer to New Orleans, he asked, "So, lemme just ask you. Whatchu think about all the murders going on in this city?" I'd like to imagine that I kept my face straight holding a steady expression, but in my memory, my mouth gaped open like a fish and I could only blink while drawling out, "Weeell..." Thankfully the teacher distracted us, and the conversation was lost.

T came in one day after Thanksgiving, asking for make-up work because he would miss class due to a funeral. He didn't say much, but I knew it was a death that could have been prevented. After that, T's attendance was spotty.

Last night we handed out the post-session test. T called me over during the test to argue about one of the math questions. "Just look at that. None of those answers are right. I'm not asking you for the answer, but how'm-i supposed to answer that if none of these answers are right? Just look?" Mind you, this test, the Test of Adult Basic Education, is a nationally recognized test. There's really no arguing with it. After he handed in his test, T said, "I just gotta problem with a coupla things on that test." This came, of course, as no surprise. I followed T outside the classroom to talk about the test. Some of his complaints had to do with criticism of the class, the teacher, and myself, and I wanted to address it.

After his short tangent was done, I asked T how he was doing outside of the classroom. And not everything came out, but an awful lot did. He told me about things that were going on in his life, things about his past, and who he used to be. His story astounded me. As he continued to talk, I kept hearing the voices of criticism that tried to prevent me from moving here. But T's voice stilled all of that worthless prattle, with a powerful message that said, "I am here for change. Don't give up on me. I'm not worth giving up on."

I wish I could tell you everything he said here, but I know, based on his reaction to City of Refuge, he would not care for me to share. In fact, he'd probably be angry if he knew I'd written this, even though I haven't used his name. Change can happen. T is proof of it.