It was 7:00 o'clock on a Tuesday evening several years ago,
and I had just joined the Elizabethport Tutorial Program at Central
Presbyterian Church. I had been accepted as a tutor, along with about 60
other local high school students.
Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity and noise --- the
big yellow school bus from Elizabethport had arrived carrying about 40
expectant grade school students from the inner city of Elizabeth, New Jersey.
I sat alone at a table in the church auditorium, waiting for
the girl I had never met. Spread out on the table in front of me were
some materials I thought might interest my new student. Shortly, one of the
program's adult supervisors came to my table with a young girl student. Her name
was Latoya. She was twelve years old and reluctantly approached the
table, eyeing me with distrust and suspicion.
"Welcome!" I said in a friendly manner, trying to
hide my nervousness. "My name is Pattie." Then I introduced
myself, describing my high school, my family and some of my extra-curricular
activities. Latoya sat indifferently and disinterested, staring at the
tiled floor. I questioned her, but that did not evoke responses.
I asked her if she liked to read, but Latoya looked at me
like I was some kind of nerd. I had brought a simply-written paragraph to
test her reading level, so I asked her to read it to me. In a monotone,
barely an audible whisper, she rattled off the various random words on the
page that she recognized, slurring them together as if she was reading them in
consecutive sentences. My palms began to sweat, and my heart began to
pound. Do I dare correct her? Maybe I should never have signed up for
this!
Then Latoya asked if she could color some pictures.
Relieved, I found a connect-the-dots picture and a few markers and let her get
to work. After what seemed like hours, the bus driver called for the
children to line up. Grabbing her coat and bag, Latoya got out of her
chair and took a few steps to the door. With a look back over her
shoulder, she spoke to me . . .
"You gonna be here next week?"
"NO!" My inner voice wanted to say.
What a disaster! How can I ever come back! No way! Forcing a
smile, I looked at her, "Of course! I'll see you next week!"
She turned and disappeared in the hoard of children pushing
and shoving their way out the door. I let out a small cry of anguish,
utterly exhausted.
That was my first session with Latoya, and the next few were
not much better. My difficulty in developing a positive rapport with my
insolent student continued. Latoya rejected my friendly overtures and
scoffed when I corrected her grammatical, mathematical, or reading
mistakes. Although, she never missed a Tuesday night session, Latoya
frequently refused to do any work at all. For weeks, she would come to
the table where I sat, and we would color. Silently. Or she would
go wandering round the room, visiting her friends, or taking unnecessary trips
to the bathroom. I found myself frequently searching for her, completely
discouraged, and feeling that I was merely Latoya's entertainment. Having
started the program with the noblest intentions of "making a
difference," I was disheartened as I became certain that Latoya didn't
even know my first name.
However, I refused to be beaten, I had an idea.
I brought three very loved books off my own bookshelf. They were Shel
Silverstein's, The Giving Tree, A Light in the Attic,
and Where the Sidewalk Ends.
Tuesday night arrived and I was armed and ready.
Latoya walked over, and immediately asked to use the bathroom. I
consented, but insisted on accompanying her. By the way she looked at me,
I could tell she knew something was up.
When we returned to the table, I sat her down and explained
that these were books my dad had read to me when I was younger, that they were
great, and that I was going to read them to her. She agreed, as long as
she could pick which one. She picked The Giving Tree, presumably
because it was the shortest, so we would be done sooner.
I opened the book, and began to read. Latoya initially
mocked the story line, called the tree "stupid" for giving the little
boy everything, and laughed at me for actually liking the book. But gradually,
she began to search the simply drawn, progressive pictures, and enjoy watching
the little boy grow older and older until he was a wrinkled little man. I
watched her face as I read; I saw her defensive, sharp eyes open and laugh.
I explained that Where the Sidewalk Ends and A
Light in the Attic, were collections of poems. We discussed what
poems were, and I asked her to read some. She and I both laughed at the
pictures. Then she turned to my favorite, "The Twistable Turntable
Man," and I insisted on reading it to her, just as my dad had read it to
me. Taking a deep breath, I delighted her in reading the quick rhyming
poem at record speed. "Again!" she said, "Pattie, read it
again."
Shocked at hearing her say my name, I did as I was told
me. And she laughed. And then Latoya tried to read it, and stumbled
over the words so badly they began to sound like gibberish, and she laughed at
herself. She called over her friends and commanded me to read it to them.
We all laughed and she asked me to read it over and over and over. At the
end of the night, Latoya characteristically grabbed her coat and bag, and
headed for the door. Suddenly, however, she ran back, gave me a hug, and
then disappeared.
I realized that although Latoya was rowdy and difficult, she
was not the demon I had thought her to be, but merely a hardened little girl
who had led a tough life. She had learned not to trust anyone. I
discovered that she did appreciate me, not for the math work we did, or for my
grammatical corrections, but for being there every Tuesday night. I
suddenly realized that just by reaching out every week, I was "making a
difference," and it was an incredible feeling.
I have decided that this type of service, sharing what I
have learned or experienced with less fortunate individuals, while sometimes
difficult and trying, is essentially important to living a healthy, fulfilled
life. This endeavor will become a major part of my life, no matter what
profession I decide to pursue.
And the best is yet to
come. . . .
The next week, Latoya returned and leaned over to me and
said, "You know that book? The tree one? They have it in the library
at my school.
My heart soared. On the subject of libraries, Latoya
had told me that they were for "nerds" and "wimps," and
were "stupid." Yet she had gone to the library and had taken
the book home to read to her little brother. I sat there, at our table,
swimming in pride and accomplishment, and beaming at Latoya.
She however, remaining in character, gave me a look as if I
were out of my mind, and asked to go to the bathroom.
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Our thanks to Sarah Coyle, a former E'port Tutor, who
shared her emotions for this story.
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These words are brought to you by the CPC Adult Spiritual
Development Team, hoping to encourage your spiritual growth this winter.
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