I'm a Terrible Person (Most of the Time)

by James Smith

My teacher lore, which I fear to post here for the possibility that I find my way, once again, onto the No Fly List through name alone carries me through an interaction with one of my youngest students -- a privileged girl who had just returned to her Korean homeland from three years abroad in Thailand where, essentially, she lived like a princess. This was a tough pill to swallow -- for years I lived in South Korea, teaching outside of the main city because I felt that even those who cannot afford to go up into Seoul deserve a competent English language instructor; I spent weekends volunteering with North Korean refugees to provide them the basic tools they needed to function. Serving this young student hearkened back to my first year in South Korea teaching at a high-end kindergarten when a five-year-old snapped at me during lunch and said, "More soup" and successfully ended my tenure at that school when I decided submitting my resignation would be more reasonable and less work than razing the entire nation to the ground.
      That's my bad. If prejudice goes down, it can certainly go up, too. I struggled to remind myself of this and fought day by day to keep it at the forefront of my mind. Moreover, she was a brilliant girl with a good soul who only wanted to help others. This made everything worse and more painful for me. I listened because it was all I could do.
      On our last day, two surprising things happened: she asked me about my religion -- a question I sidestepped as best I could (her family are fairly radical in their beliefs and, according to my student, had physically assaulted those who did not serve the same gods as they). In a moment of reflection at realizing authority figures in her life did not adhere to the same systems in which she had been indoctrinated, she confessed to me that she did not think she believed what her parents believed -- the knowing risk she took, the trust and faith she placed in me that I had not returned... that guilt still burns.
     As I recovered from that shock, she told me about her weekend activities... which included putting dry ice into a plastic bottle out of boredom/curiosity. Given Koreans' lack of free time for trouble making activities, even her parents probably had not realized what may well have happened. Telling her was dangerous; kids love explosions, after all. So do adults. Not telling her was at least as dangerous -- turning it into a mystery would have forced her curiosity to be sated. And then probably exploded. Faced with the dilemma, I knew what I had to do. What I had to teach (or not, read the story! Ask me for it!)
     And having unleashed an awakened/disillusioned middle schooler on the world with the curiosity and awareness of a young McGyver -- and taking a measure of pride in it -- I reflect on what a terrible person I might be.

Elizabeth Renaud

Easter Eggs

When Sharon came into our lives, we were living in the modern colonial house with the huge front lawn, about a half a soccer field big. In that expanse of lawn, I saw Sharon for the first time. She was small, five years old, and I couldn’t miss her sitting on the lawn watching. Her big, round, brown eyes missed nothing. Watching me walk towards her, she gave no reaction, just those brown eyes taking everything in. Smiling, I greeted her, and asked if she wanted to come inside. Just watching. A few more feeble attempts on my part to get a conversation going, I left her on the lawn - watching.

My parents had adopted Sharon. They wanted to give a home and loving family to a “hard-to-adopt” child. Sharon had been in eight foster homes from the time she was born. Five- year olds shouldn’t have trust issues. Our family had sort of become two families. My brother and I were 15 and 17 respectively. My younger sisters were Lynn at nine and Jennifer at eight, with Sharon rounding us all out at five. I know the adjustment period was challenging and long. Sharon had built a wall better than any mason could, and it seemed as though she would never trust us.

Easter was a big deal in our house. The yearly spring shopping spree was mandatory, especially for the little ones. My mother loved frilly spring dresses, Mary Jane shoes with ruffle ankle socks, a spring coat (which may or may not get worn; it was Buffalo, NY after all), and an Easter bonnet. There were Easter baskets hid around the house for each of the kids on Sunday morning, and egg dying on Saturday afternoon. This particular year was no different, although being older, I did not have to go shopping, but my mother expected me to help the younger ones with the egg dyeing.

I admit, I was not very generous, I think my mother even used all three of my names to impress upon me egg dying would be my responsibility with my younger sisters. Seeing Lynn and Jennifer excited about dyeing eggs helped dispel my grumpy mood. They dropped each of the dye pellets in separate cups, I poured in the boiling water and vinegar and we were ready to dye. Sharon was quietly watching, watching all the preparations with a bit of a detached interest. She didn’t seem as though she really wanted to dye eggs, but she wasn’t leaving the table.

Then it happened. A little bit of that wall began to crack. As Lynn and Jennifer pulled their first eggs out of the dye, Sharon was shot through with excitement, disbelieve, and wonder. Her body, literally, shook with excitement. She couldn’t control herself. Her hands were shaking, and she began to laugh. I was stunned. For a moment I didn’t realize what was happening in front of me. “Have you ever dyed Easter eggs before?” I asked incredulous. Sharon, still not able to speak, shook her head no. My heart melted. I couldn’t even imagine a childhood that did not include such delights as dyeing Easter eggs. At first, Sharon was content to just watch Lynn and Jennifer, but I made sure that didn’t last long. “It’s okay, you can do one yourself.” I put an egg in her hand, and when she had pointed to the color she wanted, I guided her hand and she gently dropped the egg in. She couldn’t take her eyes off that egg. Her whole face lit up when her first egg emerged from the dye. Now the floodgates were open. Giggling like a five year old should, she picked up another egg, and there was no stopping her.

Sharon Renaud 1964-1988

I had thought I wanted to be a teacher, but that Saturday, showed me the power and magic of helping someone else learn something new; the gratifying experience of having the privilege to open up the world to someone else. That day opened the door to a fleeting possibility I could actually have that kind of effect on children. I experienced the pure joy of education and learning.

It would be many years before I stepped into my first classroom. Teaching is fraught with far too many failures and disappointments, yet littered throughout are those magical moments I experienced with Sharon. Every school year is quietly dedicated to Sharon, and I am forever in her debt. (I love you baby girl).

A Letter to my Younger Teacher Self

By Ashley Nicol

Dear Ashley Jean,

Congratulations for surviving the first four years at UNH.  I know it was not easy - your best friend and roommate discovering she was pregnant the first weekend you arrived, being away from home for long stretches of time, not feeling like you fit in with the "party" atmosphere and how that made you an outsider not to mention all of the actual school work you had to do - Please, be proud of yourself for this accomplishment; it is worthy of praise.

Now, though, as you embark upon your year-long internship and your first experience with teaching, I would like to offer you some advice.

First - when looking for a Mentor Teacher you will attempt the path of least resistance, either because you are lazy or because you're afraid of talking to adults (or both).  Rest assured, though, that even though you waited until the last minute and chose the only available Mentor teaching, things will still turn out OK.

Next - Forget everything you learned in your English Teaching classes during undergrad.  Yes, it was "valuable" work, but no, your perfect-world lesson plans are no match for real, live 6th graders.
Remember - Don't let them smell your fear!  You will be anxious the ENTIRE time you're teaching that these students will realize you have no idea what you're doing and run you out of the building.  Accept this fear and bury it deeply.  If they smell weakness, they will pounce.  So - speak with authority and hope they don't question you.

Lean on the Interns - you will not survive this experience without leaning on the other interns.  Together you will learn about what it means to be a teacher, how to develop a relationship with students, and that it's OK to falter.  Soak up all you can from them.  Appreciate the relationships you'll build.  They are wonderful people and your time with them will change you.

Mike and John are Invaluable - Your adviser, Mike, and Mentor Teacher, John, will be essential to this first year.  They will guide you through all of the ups and downs that happen in teaching.  Mike will be the calm, sturdy presence who challenges you and supports you at the same time.  John will lead by example - watch him closely as he leads the class, interacts with students, and collaborates with his colleagues.  You will learn more from those observations that you can ever know.

Even when you don't think so, you will make it through this alive.  There will be issues in your personal life that make teaching seem unimportant.  It will be exhausting - emotionally and mentally - to deal with everything that comes your way.  I want to warn you that December and January will be particularly challenging, but know this:  Aunt Andy will survive her heart attack and she is still alive and well today.  Dad and the dog will make it out of the fire alive, and while he may lose all of his possessions, he does not lose his spirit.  Vertigo is horrible, but it will pass and you'll only be left dizzy because of your blondness.  And Matt - oh, Matt - he will survive his snowboarding accident and he will walk again.  In fact, the two of you will realize just how important you are to each other and the world will find it's center.

You are happily married today, and he is the best thing in your life.

Trust the process, Ashley Jean.  Life will throw you curve balls and obstacles, but you will find a way to persevere.  With the help of your friends, fellow teachers, Matt, your family - the community that surrounds you - you will make it through and be better for it.  You will even stumble into the amazingness that is the National Writing Project which will only add to your journey of self discovery.

Great things are waiting in your future.  Just trust the process.

Your older and slightly less anxious self,

Ashley "Sarcasmo" Nicol

Ugly ducklings

By Nelly Mejia Marti

  The clock was ticking, at least the one my mind had built and housed inside my head. Drops of sweat running down my face from all the running around and the unbearable heat Santo Domingo has to offer even early in the morning. Parents were coming in, I could see the smiles on their faces. As they kissed their kids to wish them good luck I could only think to myself “Why on earth are you doing this again?”

  “Guys, this month’s project is going to take a lot of hard work, but I am pretty sure you will enjoy it and do a great job,” I found myself saying to my 9th graders. This was, without a doubt, my favorite group, although like parents, one is not supposed to have favorites. I couldn’t really help it, I had them when they were in 7th grade and now, two years later, I had them again and was flabbergasted by the change and growth they had experienced. Back in 7th grade they were certainly not my favorites, although there was a strong connection between us. They were really smart and so funny, but God knows they just wouldn’t behave. Jaime wandered around the classroom nonstop, providing a new excuse every time I would ask what on earth he was doing; Ilsa would ruin my Anastasia Beverly Hills eyebrows by putting her hands on my face as if she were modeling clay. Sergio wouldn’t stop talking to the boys and every time I scolded him, he would wink at me and play suave using his cute accent. It never work for him though. I don’t even want to start talking about Giovanna not being able to enjoy silence and especially not about Raymond and his constant need to talk about sex and try -but fail miserably- to make me feel uncomfortable. Now, two years later, some of them continued to be the sweet hardworking children they had always been, others had blossomed from ugly ducklings to beautiful swans, both physically and mentally. Others continued being the same, but had coated themselves with layers of maturity, others had withered because of the rejection that was inflicted on them, broken by the excruciating pain that sometimes comes along in the process of discovering that not all friendships are meant to last.

  “We are presenting a play and we have five weeks to do it” I said, expecting a quick negative from them that wouldn’t even let me finish my sentence. To my surprise, my words were received with a standing ovation, shrieks of happiness invaded the room. “Miss, I love you” said Angie as she gave me a hug and swiftly took a place in front of the board, marker in hand. “Ok guys, first things first, which one are we doing?” asked Angie in that bossy yet sweet tone of hers. Names of different movies, plays and books were flying in the air like fireworks on the 4th of July. After short discussions and two voting sessions, it had been decided that they were performing Hamlet. Now it was time to divide the class in groups and assign responsibilities according to their preferences and what they considered they were good at. When it was time to choose the actors I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Jaime, who would constantly fail to submit homework, his notebook or any other type of assignment, wanted to be the lead. Jaime had won my heart with his vibrant personality and smart interventions, despite not being what one would consider the best of students and not being able to leave the F word alone. “Are you sure about this?” I asked, with a wide smile, but a worried heart. “Miss Nelly, I am sure. You have nothing to worry about, I would never let you down,” he answered as he winked at me. Although he was a great kid and I saw in him great potential, I wasn’t so sure he would make time to learn his lines, especially during the last month of classes, which is sometimes the hardest.

  “Ok! So the script is ready! Thank you Anna, Angie, Giovanna, Jaime and Enchantress” I said in front of the class the next Monday. “You are more than welcome” replied Enchantress, which was the nickname I had given Ilsa due to her striking resemblance to Cara Delevingne. I was quite surprised by the fact that they had taken the weekend to work on the script when I had promised time for them to do it in my class. Since the script was ready, it was time for auditions. I was dying to see what Jaime had to offer. To my surprise, he had already memorized a couple of lines and when it was his turn, he completely nailed it. The whole class went crazy over his performance! He was, indeed, perfect for the role.

"We are three weeks away people! How are we doing?!" I shouted from the center of the room." As soon as I finished talking the group leaders approached me and showed me their progress reports. Everything seemed to be going great. For the little time I had provided them with, they had made great advancement. It was the first time I had given my students full control of everything and stepped back to watch. Some of them had taken their responsibilities very seriously and some just waited for me to be near to pretend they were doing something. I did my best to let their peers make them reflect on the negative effect it could have on the play instead of doing it myself. It worked perfectly. They seemed to be very committed to doing this right.

We were two weeks away and we hadn't practiced in the auditorium where we were presenting. I noticed at that moment, that I had forgotten to book it in advance and that probably we were not going to be able to practice there. I was right. I only managed to book two double periods but that wasn't enough. That's when I saw staying in the afternoons to practice as my only option. I could already hear their complaints, the negatives and their favorite disrespectful question: "Miss, uté ta locaaaa?!" To my surprise, it was not the case. They immediately created a WhatsApp group to make sure everyone received information pertaining to the play and that everyone could make suggestions and comments throughout the process. Once again I found myself expecting the worst of them, but was slapped in the face with the gentlest yet shocking realization.

During those two weeks we practiced three times a week for periods of one hour and a half. It still wasn't enough. We never got to practice the play nonstop nor were able to time it. The theater teacher changed the light's gels in three different occasions, so the team in charge of the lights would frequently get lost, or wouldn't have the colors they had already set up. Our background fabric was taken down and was nowhere to be found. I saw myself deleting scenes from a script that had already been approved in order to make things easier and shorter. We were two days away from our presentation and everything seemed to be going downhill. I knew it was all my fault. I should have never assigned the project. I only gave them five weeks, forgot to book the theater and had them learning lines in their last weeks of classes.

"Teacher pleaseeee! Let's leave it for Friday instead of Wednesday!" They would all scream in unison as if they were part of a choir. "We can't. The theater won't be available and exams are next week" I answered back. "Listen guys, we either do it tomorrow or we don't do it. I know you guys will pull through and do a great job." I found myself saying without actually meaning it. I could only think of the disaster that would take place on that day.

"The Unplanned Class" By Jaison Jimenez (Teacher Lore)

            The unplanned class

                                                   By Jaison Jimenez

Here I am, on the last day of the 2nd level in the English Immersion Program. I can’t believe it’s over, considering they’ve only been my students for 2 months. It’s 8 o'clock on a Friday morning and I stare at them, browsing and browsing in my mind for ways we could make the last of this class a relaxing experience after a lot of hard work.  I honestly hadn’t planned the class for that day, so I grabbed my marker and drew a line in the middle of the board. Then, I divided the class into two teams and all of a sudden, we could find ourselves playing our so well-played vocabulary game “Ladders”. One student would write a word on their side of the board and another student, standing right next, would write another word beginning with the last letter of the word the other student wrote, then they would repeat the process until one of them repeats or misspells a word.

           We were having a lot of fun. I could admire the great view of my students playing and sweating to the rhythm of that spontaneous, competitive, but also healthy vibe we had created.

I was having just as much fun as my students by just looking at their faces. I could sum up what I perceived with the “final exam over + next level = Bliss” equation. What happens when everything you’re seeing and thinking about at this moment leads you to a second level of reflection? That’s exactly what happened to me. While my students were waiting for me to decide whether Carlos had spelled the word correctly, I was going deeper and deeper down the road of teaching and learning. I remember the words of my teachers at college who always talked about the importance of being aware of the so-called “Hidden Curriculum”. I told myself: Jaison, English is an escape for them!

The classroom was filled with voices that had been full of hopelessness at the beginning of the level, but now they were marked with satisfaction and fulfillment which could be noticed behind their Hoorays!!!!!

I stood right in front of my students and began saying my words. Words that could serve as postage stamps for a see- you-later letter. I remarked how surprised I was by their performance and growth throughout this level. I was startled by the fact that they could manage to pass and learn despite the hardship they were carrying on their shoulders.

I opened my heart at that moment and let them know how valuable they were to me. I started giving advice to each one of those 27 souls. 27 runners who struggled so much to get where they were at the moment. It was almost time to leave and teardrops started falling from our eyes. We could fill up a well with those tears, then I tried to get my voice back to give them a blissful thank you message.  I thanked them for helping me be better at teaching, for making me a better human being.

I never thought so much could take place after a class that I hadn't taken the time to plan. It was a moving experience for my students. No, no, no, no, no, wait a second, it was a moving experience for my students and for me because English is an escape for all of us.

Hugo Ventura

The New Community Corporation is a not for profit organization which housed adult education programs in Newark, New Jersey. During my period there, mainly as a GED instructor; I developed long lasting bonds with students and staff members.

The student population was constituted roughly of 90% African American, 8% Hispanic (mostly undocumented immigrants) and about 2% white; ranging from seventeen to eighty years old. Some were required to attend by the New Jersey unemployment agency, others were sent from their halfway houses, and then there were those who were taking advantage of the cheap $35 enrollment fee, in order to fulfill a lifelong dream of achieving a High School diploma. Each individual brought a story with them, a story I had to become a part of.

I had to find ways of connecting with these adults, while at the same time, design a program that would develop the skills necessary to pass the GED test, within a group of adults with a wide range of literacy levels. I had to find ways to motivate them to believe they were capable of achieving more than what their current lives had set out for them.

Throughout the four years that I participated in this program, retention rates improved significantly. I experienced stories of varying successes and failures. A lot of them abandoned before the end of the ten week program. But for instance, Linda, whom at seventy, became the first in her family to achieve a High School Diploma. Or Haitian Immigrant, Bertange, whose dedication and hard work carried her from barely being able to read and write in English, to winning a communitywide writing contest, among adult in Newark. Like them, many others went beyond their own and my expectations.

As I served them, they in return have also inspired me with their ability to grow and transcend adversity. This proved to be one of the most significant growing experiences of my life.

Hugo Ventura

Students from The GED Prep Program. Newark, NJ

Reality: A Teacher Lore Poem

Reality

by Molly Campbell

The fall of 2016 in America

was a reality TV show.

My own mother voted for Trump.

I filled my wine glass

and did dishes

when politics came up at dinner.

I hate politics even more than dishes.

I don’t know how to say

what I want to say

about how hard my heart hurt

as it crawled up my throat

when my kids wrote letters to the

next president

and said all the things

they think they know

and sometimes

the things they felt.

When the Puerto Rican boy is called

a “dirty Mexican”

or the blonde-haired, blue eyed

rich boy

can’t find his words

to answer the quiet girl’s question

to defend his statement that

rape victims

should have to carry the baby

because it will be

“a pot of gold

at the end of the rainbow”--

I hope it looks like its mom

and doesn’t act like its dad--

my heart grows claws

and sticks them into my larynx

preventing speech

but I don’t have

a bottle of wine

or a sink full of dishes

to wash it down.

I have to swallow it

and say

“thank you--

you might consider including

a counter-claim--

where is your conclusion?--

good use of evidence--

thank you for including your personal story--

remember kids,

always,

in everything,

be kind.”

The Socratic Method

By Christopher D'Agostino

“Bueller, Bueller, Bueller….”

“Chris, wake up, wake up” shaking me awake was my friend and study partner Colleen.  “You fell asleep while you were reading your economics book”.  

I slowly picked my head up and removed the paper stuck to my face and tiredly responded with “Man, that stuff is so dry.  I just can’t keep my eyes open reading it.  The worst parts are the lectures. I mean I wish I could record the professor’s voice and play it back when I need to go to sleep at night”.  Colleen gave a little chuckle but I knew deep down she loved economics and was meant to be a business major. We gathered our items and headed out of the building where I was suppose to be reading my economics homework and headed back toward our dorms.  

“Maybe you should switch majors from business to undecided” Colleen remarked as I held the door open for her. “You can take a few random classes and then decide where to go from there.”

“I’ll meet with my advisor tomorrow and talk to him about it, maybe I'll try computer programing.  I heard there is good money in that line of work”  

    I met with my advisor and he advised I finish my first semester at the school and then switch to an undecided major where I can go down several paths and try a few different courses and then pick the major I wanted.  He signed me up for C++ programming and I thought it was gonna be great. I love computer games, AOL, and instant messenger (which was a prehistoric version of today’s texting)

what could go wrong.  I took my first computer programming class and left after an 1hr and 15 min class running back to economics.  I was “clueless” as to anything the professor was talking about.  I could have been in a class where they were teaching German and I would have understand the professor better. I left class an emotional wreck, worried about where my life was going to go and how I was already a semester behind.

    Nobody ever tells you how hard the first semester in college is.  Everything is new and nothing from high school carries over.  You need to find new friends that are trustworthy and honest.  You need to find places for food, what packy store will take my fake I.D., places to study and to figure out why you are living with two other large athletes in a room the size of a closet.  You need to find a whole new structure to a life that hasn’t changed that much since you were a kid.  Now, on top of all that I needed to find the career I was going to spend the rest of my life with. College life was tough!

    My advisor immediately switched me out of the computer class and into a history class called War and Revolution.  It was a breath of fresh air. Something I could relate to and war, what boy doesn’t like to learn about war.  After a few weeks of loving history, I went to my advisor again and said, “I want to major in history!”

    “That’s great” he said, “But where do you want to go with it?”

    “What do you mean?” I asked.  I was just so confused. I finally found what I wanted to major in and this guy had even more questions.  I actually almost asked if this guy was Socrates with his questioning.

    “You can’t just have a career in history.  You need to do something more with it.”

    “Ok…” I thought about it for a second and decided to go all Socratic back at him. “What can I do with history?”

    “You have three main options here at St. A’s.  One is to become a lawyer, which means graduating here and going to law school” Screw that I said to myself.  I don’t wanna do more schooling after this graduate stuff.  “Second is to be an archaeologist.” Me, digging for dinosaur bones in a hot desert with chisels and brushes. Not my cup of tea. “Third is to become an educator” Summers off, movies on television, field trips, school hours, and I get along well with kids. Sounded good to me.

“Sounds good. I’ll go with education” I said as I close the door on my fate. I was happy at the moment (and still am today) and my advisor signed me up for the necessary courses and sent me on my way.

After I graduated college I became a teacher at the high school level and boy was I wrong about the false realities of teaching.  I ended up, like most teachers, grading papers till 8 at night, writing recommendations for students, preparing my classes during my 25 minute lunch break, and working two jobs during the summer and after school.  But I really began to love my job especially teaching my love of history to my students. I was very happy with my decision making except for the part that economics is considered a history course and I had to teach it.

Have you ever had that deja vu moment when you feel like you have been there before and shook your head smiling as that moment just passed you by.  I was teaching two classes of economics to sophomores. Yes, I was teaching the economics which was the main reason that I changed majors to teaching students in high school, is there any irony in that? The good news was it really helped me teach the subject to high school students.  The bad news was I had to teach the subject I didn’t like in college. I guess I could try and make it somewhat fun for my students.  Well, this one kid in my level 2 economics class kept falling asleep and I went up to him and said, “Cam, wake up. You really need to finish reading chapter 3 on the stock market. So you will be able to play the stock market game online with the class.”

“Man, Mr. D....do I really have to read this boring stuff, it keeps putting me to

 sleep.”

That’s the moment I laughed, shook my head, and responded with, “At least we know you won’t become a business major in college” and I walked away with a big smile on my face flashing back to my good old college days.

You Can Read It But You Ain't Gonna Like It

by Randy Brooker

“You Can Read It But You Ain’t Gonna Like It”

This was the warning that Blake gave me as he handed over his Chromebook. He had been writing for days, showing a level of perseverance I wasn’t used to from him, but had hidden his writing from me completely.

This was my first year at the Equity program, though, and I was determined to be successful.  I knew that I was dealing with a rougher group of kids than I was used to and my instinct told me that building community would be a priority if we were going to work well together.  I thought we could do this by writing personal narratives, and so I let Blake build his fortress in the corner, hide his screen from me, and resigned myself to reminding him two or three times a class to put his phone away.

So on that day, when he finally relinquished his writing to me, refusing to make eye contact and with the warning, “You can read it but you ain’t gonna like it,” I thanked him and braced myself.  I reminded myself to be a generous reader. I reminded myself that personal narrative is, well, personal, and for Blake to share something personal was a big step.

His writing was a stream of consciousness rant, which used profanity and warned me not to pity him or criticize the language or the mechanics and not to doubt anything in the story.  I had a hard time remaining detached as I read about domestic abuse & alcoholism in his family, about his own struggles with drugs at a young age, about the neat little rows of scars on his legs and how he was eventually taken away from his mother to be raised by his grandmother.   

I immediately loved the writing.  It was raw.  It had such powerful sense of voice.  I saw in the writing hope and a sense of stoicism I hadn’t expected from Blake, or any boy his age who had been through what he had been through.  I was immediately reminded of Rule of the Bone, by Russell Banks.

As it turns out, Blake did not want any feedback on his writing and he didn’t want to spend any time revising once he finished. I was ok with it this, though.  Maybe he wasn’t writing this story for me.  Maybe it was for him.  Maybe he had emotionally done all he could with it and needed to leave it behind.  The fact is, he made himself extremely vulnerable by writing a draft at all.  I bought him a copy of Rule of the Bone which he tucked into his backpack, and with a quick “thanks” left my room.