Amongst books and papers, buried under pencils, erasers, and my former students’ pet rock, stashed in a dust-covered folder between several stacks of graded papers, at the bottom drawer of my desk is the photo of myself and my twelve kindergarten students that would one day be the high school’s Class of ‘96.
It is on nights like these when I open this bottom drawer and rifle through all these papers and move aside the googly-eyed rock in search of the picture. When I finally do, I promptly place it on my desk and stare for quite some time at the kids I once taught to read and write; the students I taught to add and subtract. These were the students who would draw pictures of dragons, their parents, animals they saw at the zoo, and their favorite characters on TV. These were students who chose a pet rock over a hamster all because they all were too attached to the name “Rocko,” and it would just be silly to give that name to a hamster. In their complicated lives far outside the kindergarten classroom, my students find no memory of their teacher at age five, though I still remember each.
I always start with Katherine who stands right beside myself in the photo, dressed in a plaid skirt and blue collared shirt, smiling cordially for picture day. Katherine came into kindergarten with the alphabet well memorized and her name spelt without error. She worked on subtraction problems when I had only begun to teach the numbers, and often requested extra work to fill her time when she already knew the topic at hand. I was more than happy to give her this work, occasionally providing her with private lessons while the other students were at work. While her friends played “Marriage” or “House,” she began her times tables and, by the end of kindergarten, she knew them better than most third graders.
One afternoon, Katherine stayed in class for an extra ten minutes of recess to finish her writing assignment, having already taken two extra pieces of paper. When she stood again, I asked her why she would rather stay inside writing than play outside with her friends. She only looked up to me and said, “Mommy always says she wishes she didn’t play so much when she was younger because now she has no time. If I work now, I’ll have play time later.”
Immediately, I took her paper and gave her an A, not needing to read her work to know its quality. She grudgingly complied when I ordered her to go to recess, only willing because of the grade. I found out soon after that Katherine’s mother had never been married; nobody knew Katherine’s father, likely not even her mother. Katherine could still take all the extra work she wanted in my class, but we soon worked out an agreement that she would play with the other children for the full duration of recess. After her graduation, the school received my recommendation, emphasizing particular care for her educational abilities and the possibility of moving Katherine to a higher grade; I do not know if my request was filled and regret never checking.
I would say that today, from what I know of her, Katherine has changed the least of my students. She’s one of the few women that walk down Wall Street everyday, making as much as her male counterparts for double the work.
Ever since she graduated and went off to the Ivies, she’s only returned once to her hometown to move her things and her sick mother off to the East; she left no time on this trip to reacquaint herself with childhood. Now, her only care, besides caring for her mother, is to climb as high as she can on the corporate hierarchy, no matter how steep the slope. She’s unmarried and, to my knowledge, does not often spend time with the few friends she’s made. She spent her life chasing the buck, running before she even knew what she was chasing. It’s on occasion that I’ll send her a letter: it's from her polite responses that I’ve come by most of this information. Still, I am proud of her, far exceeding the accomplishments of any of her classmates even if she never found time to play.
My eye always finds James next, wearing his astronaut t-shirt and his cardboard helmet that he refused to remove, making some point about this being like the photo taking of Armstrong first stepping on the moon and how Armstrong could not remove his helmet or he would die. When I took it off, he dramatically fell to the floor, suffocating in the imaginary atmosphere devoid of oxygen until I gave him back the helmet.
That day, James was an astronaut and, the next, James was on a safari. The classroom was a world unexplored, whether it was the depths of the sea or the height of a mountain: James explored these new places everyday, never failing to find something new in something old. He came into class with costumes and props; he was the one who made Rocko as a companion for his journeys—the rock quickly winning the complete adoration of the class. At times, the others joined him on these adventures, even roping in Katherine once or twice, while other journeys were best taken alone.
One Monday afternoon, right at the end of class, I had every student in the class choose what they would want to be when they grew up. Most said “doctor” or “football player,” students quickly turning in their slip of paper and running out of the class to their parents, eager to head home. James only sat there, staring at his paper intently. After a while, he called me over and asked if he could choose more than one. I figured if James was able to write everything he wanted to be, he would need a dozen more slips of paper, so I told him just to choose what most appealed to him now. He sat there silently for another ten minutes before finally scribbling something down and walking slowly out of the classroom. The slip he gave me sits with the picture in the folder now, on it only written, “I don’t know.”
James never saw the Oval Office or became the first interplanetary diplomat. His feet did not win him the gold in track over his infamous Soviet rival. The peaks of Everest were too high to climb and the depths of the ocean too deep to swim. James now stands behind a conveyor belt, boxing product from nine to five, lost in his subconscious while his hands perform their rhythmic task. I hope he still imagines himself on these spectacular journeys during this time, but I doubt his mind can now make such a spectacular leap. I don’t know if he has a family: I’ve heard very little of his life apart from the job he does now. What I do know is that he forgot to take his first step onto the moon with his first step into that factory.
I forgot about the mud stain along the side of Carrie’s face, apparent in the photo. She had hidden it under her knotty, dirty-blonde hair, knowing that, if I saw it, I would send her to clean up; she often expressed her hatred for “baths, showers, and washing hands.” At the time, I had noticed it some time after the photo, accompanying her to the bathroom to wipe away the mud while she resisted fiercely. I had not considered that it would be forever memorialized in the frame. She, like Carrie, did not play the domestic games of the other girls; unlike Katherine, she loved to play outside. She would rough-house with the boys, often fighting (and winning) against her male peers, earning her detention or a call home to her parents. No doubt, Carrie was a handful, but I could not help admiring her at times, taunted by the other girls to no result. She had hard skin, untouched by their words.
It was one recess, though, that something they said to her—I don’t know what—got to her, causing her to throw the mud pie she just finished making at them. The girls immediately came to me, accusing Carrie of staining their clothes with her projectile. I did not punish her, suspecting the fault of the other girls, and only explained that she just had to ignore the girls as she usually did—no matter what words they used—because they would eventually grow bored and find no reason to tease her if she didn’t throw mud pies at them. Usually, at times like these, she would nod insincerely, considering ways to get back at the girls. This time, however, she was motionless, holding back tears; she gave only a single, weak nod. I wanted to say something to comfort her, but Richard fell after standing on top of the monkey bars, drawing me there to care for his injured leg. Carrie went inside after that and washed her hands.
As Carrie went through elementary school, teasing followed, pushing her from the mud to dolls. With middle school’s passing, she switched from sweats to skirts. By high school, she made fun of girls who played in the mud and, suffocating under a pound of makeup, stopped playing with the quarterback, now dating him.
Never did she move from this town, marrying her high school sweetheart and sending her children to the school. She’s a miserable malcontent, raising a riot whenever her son stubs his toe or hears an older kid cuss. Her girls never played in the mud or with the cootie-infested boys, caring instead for the imaginary kitchen and laundry, as they had seen from their mother. On picture day, I remember noticing the lack of stains on her children’s perfectly matched clothing and smiling faces. I have not talked with her in years, desiring no discussion with such a woman. She was a handful as a child, but she was happy and herself. I cannot recall the last time I saw a genuine smile on her face.
Richard, always proving himself to his classmates by accepting any dare for a pack of goldfish and a juice box, now lives a happy life as an accountant. I can rest easier without worrying about his well-being, knowing he’s found a happy life without risk. Yet, when I receive his annual Christmas card, I find myself missing the fearless look in his eyes that would take on the world.
All the other girls, spare Katherine and Carrie, would live or die by Jess’s word, desiring to be her. Whatever game she played, they all played, and whatever boy she liked was hers. She was the most popular girl well into high school, untouched by reality until she got too drunk at a party one night and videos of her went viral. No longer did she lead her class as each of her friends quickly turned against her, Carrie at the forefront. She moved far away after graduating, never seen again by anyone in the town to my knowledge.
Each face brings back memories of youth so different from truth of today: Lethargic John, always napping in class, turned to needles and cigarettes, now wondering how he’ll make ends meet while he heads out to the alleyway to meet his dealer; Greta always told the truth—often to her classmates’ annoyance—and now runs the campaign of a politician caught too many times deceiving the public; Gareth wanted to go pro for football since Kindergarten, got a scholarship in high school, and was a promising college athlete, but never made it further, now coaching youth sports with vigor and a passion for the game that makes all the other kids lose their passion for the game; Linda, quiet, shy, and forgettable by all including myself, half-hidden behind Jess in the photo, found love, happiness, and life after graduating, smiling when most of her former classmates scrunch their brow with stress.
I look over every student in the photo before I find Derrick, purposefully avoiding him until the end. The familiar grief and guilt finds me at the sight of his smile, wondering where it had gone just a little over ten years later. Derrick went on trips with James when nobody else was interested. He gave Carrie a hug when other girls made fun of her for being filthy and repulsive. He would listen long after any other student to Katherine talk about whatever new she learned. Everyone in the class loved Derrick, never bearing any grievance against him. He was always a friend when they needed him. That was the way it was for the next ten years. Katherine could take a break from studying to watch a movie with Derrick. John would sober up to talk with Derrick. Gareth and him were inseparable on the field. Linda came out from the shadows when Derrick passed by, acting like herself without the usual burden of embarrassment. Carrie and Jess never needed to wear make-up to grab a meal with Derrick.
After these ten years of time with the happy boy, it came as a surprise to all when Derrick killed himself. In a note, he revealed that his mother was beaten by his father and both beat him senseless when the bottle was emptied; nobody at school noticed the bruises. He revealed that he would often call in sick to class, crying by himself in a secluded hallway and, if found, he would make up a weak excuse; no one inquired further. He would smile when his heart ached and laugh when he itched for a way out.
He bore the problems of the world and we were happy to give him more, never offering to take some from him. We all forgot Derrick was only a boy, not Atlas; he could not bear all that weight, and so, the world collapsed upon his back.
I know it is irrational to think, him being so young at the time, but, in spite of the decades that have since passed, my guilt never fails to question if I could have made a difference. Nobody—not his friends, not his teachers, not myself—asked him if he was alright, and I often wish I did. Perhaps… he’d say something and I could’ve made a difference.
It’s always at this time that, with a shot of whiskey, I place the picture back in the folder with the pictures of all my classes. I planned to continue that night and look at the next class photo in my folder, but the Class of ‘96 weighed heavily on my mind. I wondered how their lives came to be this way, the memory of Derrick ever heavy on my soul. As always, I would look at my current students differently the next day, wondering where they would end up. When life finally overcame their innocence, I wondered what it would take from them and what they would take from it; it would become apparent with time. Now, I could only teach them math and english and try to shape their lives for the better.