I looked at the blond teenager slumped at his desk in the back row of my classroom and felt sick inside.<\/p>\n
Only six weeks ago, before I started my first year of teaching<\/a> English to college freshmen, I had prayed, \u201cGod, please send me students who need what I can give.\u201d And now I asked despairingly, \u201cWhy, Lord? Why did You send me Robby?\u201d<\/p>\n There was absolutely nothing I could give this student. I suspected strongly that he was an alcoholic<\/a>, and that was a disease I\u2019d had no luck coping with. When I stopped at his desk to return a paper he\u2019d handed in, it was clear that he\u2019d been drinking before class. Once again he smelled like a brewery; his eyes were bloodshot; his hair, disheveled. My words tumbled out before I could stop them.<\/p>\n \u201cRobby, are you in the habit of drinking beer for breakfast?\u201d<\/p>\n I regretted the sarcasm but couldn\u2019t control my frustration. I felt as angry and helpless as I had been on a Christmas Eve<\/a> during my childhood when my father staggered into the tree on his way to the kitchen for another beer. Ornaments shattered on the hardwood floor, and the colored lights sputtered and went out.<\/p>\n After my mother helped him up, he still got that beer. \u201cMama, don\u2019t you ever want to g-give up?\u201d I asked in an unsteady voice. She sighed. \u201cHe needs me to stand by him and pray for him. With God\u2019s help, somehow, someway … well, I know he\u2019ll find his way.\u201d<\/p>\n Now, in my classroom, Robby looked at his desk and shoved both hands into the pockets of his jeans. \u201cI\u2019m rushing a fraternity,\u201d he muttered. \u201cYou must smell beer from the party last night.\u201d<\/p>\n I shook my head. \u201cRobby, you\u2019ve already missed three classes.\u201d I held out the theme he\u2019d written. \u201cAnd a D on your first paper isn\u2019t a good way to start the semester.\u201d He looked up pleadingly. \u201cBut I won\u2019t be absent anymore. I promise. And I\u2019ll work harder on my next paper.\u201d<\/p>\n Classes were changing, and before I could respond, he had risen and disappeared into the crowd. I walked briskly down the hall to my office. I hated myself for being angry and blamed Robby for making me feel that way. He\u2019s just like my father<\/em>, I thought. He was unreachable. Irresponsible. How many times had I tried to get through to my father\u2014to no avail? And then more heartbreak: My younger brother started drinking. Again and again I\u2019d begged him to stop, bailed him out of jail, listened to his lame excuses. All for nothing. My heels drummed on the terrazzo floor of the hall. Robby would have to solve his own problems, I decided. I had nothing left to give.<\/p>\n For the next several weeks, Robby did come to class regularly. Slumping at a desk in the back left-hand comer of my classroom, he daydreamed or gazed out the window into bright leaves and sunshine. Sometimes he\u2019d get up during a class discussion to go outside and drink from the water fountain.<\/p>\n The two papers he handed in looked as if they\u2019d been dashed off. I marked a large D on each. Yet when I lectured or led discussions, I\u2019d find myself looking back to Robby\u2019s comer of the classroom. His eyes carefully avoided my gaze; sometimes he\u2019d flinch, as if recoiling from a punch.<\/p>\n When I handed back Robby\u2019s fourth assignment, I watched him open it to the back page. His eyes fell on the inevitable D, and I saw tears well in his eyes. They always cry<\/em>, I thought bitterly, remembering how my father\u2019s large hands would shake as he\u2019d cover, his face and say he was sorry and promise to change. Now, for some reason, I felt guilty, as if I were the cause of Robby\u2019s misery. I quickly caught myself. I would not be manipulated into feeling responsible.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s got to take responsibility,\u201d I vowed.<\/p>\n Determined to confront him, I caught him at the door after class. \u201cRobby, can we talk a minute?\u201d I asked. He looked at the floor and didn\u2019t answer. \u201cI\u2014I don\u2019t like giving D\u2019s,\u201d I began, \u201cbut you haven\u2019t given me much choice.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t write like you want,\u201d he muttered. \u201cWhatever it is you want, I can\u2019t do it.\u201d I stiffened. That\u2019s always it<\/em>, I thought. Blame anything but the alcohol. Just give up. Expect to be bailed out.<\/p>\n \u201cRobby, you could write perfectly well,\u201d I found myself saying, \u201cif you\u2019d stop drinking and start caring about your work.\u201d He looked up at me.<\/p>\n \u201cI hate the paper topics,\u201d he countered. \u201cThey\u2019re stupid.\u201d<\/p>\n Paper topics were under the control of the English Department and I assigned what the syllabus demanded. Now Robby wanted me to make an exception for him. I hated exceptions. I stared at Robby; for a fleeting moment I recalled my mother\u2019s eyes, warm and steady, reflecting her conviction. I could hear her saying firmly, \u201cWe won\u2019t give up on your father. We\u2019ll go on believing that God can give him the will to change<\/a>.\u201d<\/p>\n Something broke within me\u2014or maybe I was just tired of being angry, unsure of what to do next. I knew what Mama would do.<\/p>\n Robby poked nervously at a hole in his faded jeans, shuffled his feet and waited for me to respond. Then, obviously anxious to retreat, he tried to edge past me. \u201cIt\u2019s not your problem,\u201d he said. \u201cYou can just flunk me and forget it.\u201d<\/p>\n But I stood there blocking his path. He was wrong. It was my problem. I remembered the prayer I\u2019d said before school began. I hadn\u2019t asked God for the best students but for those who needed what I could give. I took a deep breath. \u201cOkay, Robby, on the next paper you can write about anything you want. Forget the assignment sheet. Just make sure your paper\u2019s at least two full pages, and … and that it\u2019s about something that matters to you.\u201d<\/p>\n His eyes widened in disbelief. \u201cAnything?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cAnything,\u201d I answered.<\/p>\n Afterward I worried that I\u2019d violated the letter of the law set down by the English Department for freshman composition. But I consoled myself by arguing that I hadn\u2019t violated its spirit. I went on worrying about Robby and my response to him while I cooked dinner, did my laundry and fed the cat. A week later, after he handed in his next paper, I pulled it from the pile as soon as I sat down in my office, anxious to discover what he had to say. Neatly stapled together were six full pages of small, careful print. The first sentences were: \u201cKevin woke up with his face in the high grass beside the interstate. He could hear cars whizzing by and his head hurt. He\u2019d blacked out again.\u201d<\/p>\n I looked up from the paper and felt my eyes begin to sting. Taking a long gulp of coffee, I kept reading. In a moving, concrete and straightforward style, Robby continued for six pages describing the life of a teenage alcoholic. \u201cKevin,\u201d he wrote, \u201chated looking into the mirror at himself. It made him want another beer.\u201d The Kevin that Robby described lost friends because of his drinking, woke up in places he couldn\u2019t remember arriving at, and made D\u2019s in chemistry, calculus and English. He felt \u201cdesperate, alone and sure of dying.\u201d<\/p>\n At his paper\u2019s conclusion, Robby added a postscript: \u201cMiss Bradford, this is not me. I wanted to try writing fiction, but I don\u2019t want you to think this is me.\u201d I pushed his paper aside, put my head on my desk and cried. All of the times my father had bellowed, \u201cI don\u2019t have a drinking problem,\u201d replayed themselves on the screen of my thoughts.<\/p>\n I reached for a tissue. What should I do? If I referred Robby to the alcohol treatment<\/a> program at Student Services, he wouldn\u2019t go. If I contacted his counselor at the General College, what would I say? That to every alcoholic his dependency is only fiction? That I had a way of knowing when people drank too much? That I\u2019d grown up with an alcoholic father? That my younger brother had looked just like Robby his first year in college\u2014the year he wrecked two cars and nearly killed himself? I knew I wasn\u2019t a counselor, a social worker or a psychiatrist, and I was sure Robby\u2019s presence in my class had been some kind of cosmic mistake. I\u2019m just an English teacher<\/em>, I thought. But the words stuck in my mind as if they contained the answer. You are an English teacher. Just teach English the very best way you can.<\/p>\n I poured another cup of coffee<\/a>. Then, with an almost peaceful determination, I began grading the paper. Scrupulously I marked every misspelling or grammatical error, put in absent commas and suggested shorter paragraphs. Finally, in my end note I wrote, \u201cRobby, this is your best paper yet. Concrete, compelling and interesting. You involve the reader in Kevin\u2019s painful, desperate situation. But fiction requires a conclusion. What happens to Kevin? Does he find help or end up a victim of the bottle? For your next paper, I\u2019d like you to finish the story.\u201d I scrawled a large B below the note.<\/p>\n When I handed the papers back, Robby was in class, but he missed the two classes that followed. Panic crept over me at odd moments that week. Had I done something so wrong that he\u2019d decided not to come back at all? How could I have imagined I could help such a confused, haunted teenager? I knew if he didn\u2019t show up for class the next time, I\u2019d have to notify his adviser.<\/p>\n When I walked into my classroom on Monday morning, I immediately looked back at Robby\u2019s seat. It was empty. As I opened my book, I tried to squelch disappointment long enough to teach the other students. Then, glancing up to take roll, my heart jumped. Robby was there after all, but not in his usual seat in the comer. He\u2019d moved to the second row. His hair was combed, and he wore a bright-green polo shirt and crisp khaki pants. I\u2019d never seen him in anything but torn jeans and an old shirt. Catching my gaze, he smiled broadly.<\/p>\n Back in my office an hour later I turned to the conclusion of Robby\u2019s \u201cfictitious\u201d narrative. He\u2019d written a single paragraph: \u201cI couldn\u2019t write it. I was afraid how it would end up. I\u2019m not drinking anymore and I\u2019m going to Alcoholics Anonymous. I know I can finish this now\u2014if I can just get an extension.\u201d<\/p>\n I wrote at the bottom of the sheet, \u201cExtension granted.\u201d<\/p>\n I still saw Robby after he finished my class, taking away a B- as his course grade. Usually it was early in the morning. I\u2019d be walking across campus, clutching a cup of coffee, not yet awake, and I\u2019d hear him shouting exuberantly, \u201cHey, Miss Bradford, bow\u2019s it goin\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n Robby had needed the professionals he went looking for and found. But I\u2019d been wrong in arrogantly declaring that I had nothing to give. He\u2019d needed me to believe he could make the changes so important to his leading a healthy, productive life. My mother had been that believing person for my father and brother\u2014to this day faithful members of Alcoholics Anonymous<\/a>.<\/p>\n I thank God for using my classroom as one of the instruments in Robby\u2019s change. And I remember Robby at the beginning of each semester when I carefully pray, \u201cGod, send me students who need what I can give.\u201d<\/p>\n