The Boy Behind the Trash Can

2nd grade – reading intervention push in teacher 

Reading intervention push in meant that I went into other teachers’ classrooms and pulled small groups to read with the students that needed some more help. For this particular school and position, most of the students in the program were brand new to the country within the last two years. They were still learning English. 

The first day, he came to the round table with a big grin and bright eyes. He asked a bunch of questions and waited for my answers. He was engaged with me and the others even though he barely knew the sounds of all the letters. I left the group that day knowing I would need to go back even further, back to basics, but inspired by the curiosity and spirit of the little boy. 

The next day, I pulled the group and the little boy that was so bright the day before did not come to the table. I asked the teacher in the room if he was absent today. The teacher gestured to a trash can leaning against the wall. Poking from behind the trash can were the slender legs of the little boy. His arms curved around his knees, forming him into a small ball of a person. 

“He does that sometimes. He pulls the trashcan in front of him.” The teacher informed me. 

Ok.

I knew I had to give it one try, but the other kids were already at the table ready for reading. I crouched slowly next to the trash can. 

“Would you like to read with us today?”

Two dark eyes looked back at me, but no answer came. 

“If you change your mind, you are welcome to join us when you are ready.”

Two dark eyes barely blinked in acknowledgment and I returned to the other students at the table. 

It went back and forth like that for a while. Some good days strung together, some bad. The teacher informed me that he and his family had fled Afghanistan about six months ago. 

On one good day, I recall, he came to the reading table and he was in the mood to talk. He told a story about the rooster  that they kept in the bathroom and at first I thought I heard him wrong, but he was adamant about the rooster in the bathroom. He told me that it tried to get out this morning when he went into the bathroom and he leaned back and laughed with his entire small body. I couldn’t help but laugh with him. It was such a laugh. 

Another day, his face was drawn, pale. His eyes tired from more than lack of sleep. I pulled him separately that day as we had started to do. He needed some more attention and I was happy to stay a bit longer with him. We did not read together that day however. He looked at me carefully and asked, “do you know what happened where I come from?” 

I told him that I did know some of it but he could tell me about it if he wanted to. He nodded and words flowed out of him, as if he was narrating the scenes he was watching flash through his mind. … Fire, flashing, loud sounds all around… my dad died… my friend had a lot of blood coming from him…. in his head…. 

I listened with an ache deep in my heart. I wanted to hug this boy and comfort him, but touch wasn’t something that he felt comfortable with. Instead I met his eyes with mine and listened closely. The only thing I could actually do. 

He finished speaking and carefully stood up, pushed the chair in at the reading table, and walked to the side of the classroom. He pulled the trash can close to the wall, and squoze in between, knees bent with his arms around.