East and West on The Medicine Wheel

First published in December 26, 2013

It is said that of all the geometrical symbols, the one which occurs the most often is the circle. To many Native American tribes the circle is represented by the Medicine Wheel, its four basic compass directions symbols of opposites and complements. As east is to west, so is fire to air, enlightenment to introspection . . . life to death. The world of the classroom teacher mirrors the Medicine Wheel, and draws him to the center as sustainer, guide and discoverer. This story comes from that circle.

And so in an eighth grade speech class in Texas, my room was, I hoped, a hueco, that is, a natural watering hole in the desert, for the kids who came there. This was not a place to be talked to, but to be spoken with, to be heard. To share thoughts, to council on matters of significance, to be appreciated as imperfect, vital members of the group. Many students knew nothing of the world or even themselves, and our classroom was a place to learn of these things.

One boy in particular, Ronny, stood out. He was of Italian descent, small and immature for an eighth grader. The thing that endeared Ronny to me—to all of us—was that he asked seemingly irrelevant questions constantly. We might be discussing school dress codes and Ronny would raise his hand, and in that squeaky, innocuous voice of his ask, “So how come girls’ shirts have the buttons in back?” I’d wince and do a double take, first because Ronny had managed to bring the class discussion to a skidding halt, then because I’d always wondered the same thing myself, and I didn’t have an answer. Ronny’s gift for searching out imponderables and non sequiturs was the stuff of Unsolved Mysteries. Ronny would look around the room, mystified at why everyone had groaned at his question.

“What?” I’d hear myself say with just the slightest register of annoyance. “Ronny, we’re talking about the school dress code. What have the buttons on girls’ shirts got to do with anything?”

“So I was just thinking, you know how you were saying baggy pants are kinda loose and they must be really hard to wear without a belt and then that made me think of clothes that are a real pain to wear. Like my sister’s shirts. They have buttons in the back and my dad always has to button ’em for her because she can’t reach. Why is that? Why do they make clothes that have stuff you can’t get at?”

Or the day we got into a discussion about planetary orbits and Ronny raised his hand to ask, “How come the planets go in that direction? I mean, why don’t they go the other way?”

My Lord, Ronny, I don’t know. They just do.

Ronny’s questions drove everyone crazy, mostly because they swooped in from the wide open blue and had no answers. His classmates giggled and groaned, even referred to silly questions as “Ronnies.” But on those rare occasions when Ronny was absent, everyone sensed it right away. The atmosphere was— what’s the word? Sedate? Normal? —well, just not right. The life force that kept it twitching and breathing on its own seemed gone. I frequently defended Ronny’s questions, though secretly they drove me batty too. It was impossible not to love Ronny and to smile at the innocent, left-field questions he asked. His were the kinds of inquiries the true thinkers and inventors and artists of history had asked.

That was over sixteen years ago, and I have long since moved on. But not long ago, I ran into a friend and former colleague at a state convention, a guy who had worked at the same school with me. He asked if I remembered Ronny, which of course I did. Just the mention of his name brought on a wash of memories. Without even realizing I was doing it, I said, “Do you remember the time when Ronny . . .” My friend laughed at the shared memory and told me some stories of his own. But then his countenance changed and with the suddenness of a forming thunderhead, said, “Yeah, well, he shot and killed himself last year.”

Ronny had clung to me like a puppy. I miss him still.

And I there I was, alone, at one point on the Medicine Wheel.

In that same speech class, however, there was a very pretty, rather serious Hispanic girl named Valerie who, while uninhibited and always ready to laugh, took a more staid and intellectual approach to our conversations. She was intelligent beyond her years and laughed at everything Ronny said, though she admitted to me that he drove her nuts too. As the class often became a forum for very earnest and volatile discussions about issues that the kids themselves would bring up, we frequently ran out of time before we had come to any sort of consensus or peaceful resolution on the topic of the day. It was not unusual at all for some of the kids to come by my room after school and pick up the discussion where we’d left off. As likely as not, they wanted to know my opinion about the topic. 

One afternoon Valerie came by to see me after everyone else had left. She confided in me some personal and family history, and it was evident almost right away that, despite outward appearances to the contrary, she was going through an extremely difficult time in her life. She was especially despondent over her perceived estrangement from her parents and the recent death of her grandfather with whom she had shared a particularly close bond. It’s always hard when a young person comes to you with this kind of pain because, unlike the advice and platitudes and comfort you can offer when the problem concerns a romantic breakup or any of a hundred other vicissitudes common to teenagers, there is little you can say or do for a child who is trying to understand death.

In any case, I listened, we talked— I had gone through a long series of deaths in my own family and so felt deep empathy —and while she seemed encouraged when she left my room two hours later, I had a deep sense that my words had had little impact beyond the fact that she knew someone in the world cared about her.

I didn’t realize until a week later, when she again confided solely in me, that her distress went far deeper than teenage angst. She was legitimately suicidal. Again, I tried to be as positive and optimistic as I knew how to be, but words are empty when the world is smothering you. As the law and natural concern dictated, I reported our conversations to the school counselors and to her parents, fearing all the while that Valerie would hate me for my betrayal and might even be more inclined to do herself harm. In retrospect I think my anguish may have been almost as bad as hers.

This all happened at the end of the school year, and since Valerie was going on to high school, I never knew how the scenario ended. I suppose I hoped for a neutral outcome: that is, she would be unhappy with me and I would have lost a confidant, but at least she would be alive.

Many months later, halfway through the next school year, Valerie surprised me with an after-school visit. She told me all that had happened to her, and I shared a couple of stories of my own, but what really mattered and the reason for her coming to see me was to tell me how she had finally been able to open up to her parents. She had at last been able to accept her grandfather’s death. And while I felt extremely relieved for her, I never quite understood how I, as a teacher, had had enough of an impact to have altered the road she was on. But a short time later I received this note from her, and then I began to understand:

         Dear Mr. Johnson,

For the hundredth time, I want to thank you. You’ve given me more in nine months than all the teachers I’ve ever had gave me in nine years. I’ve gained a new self-confidence that I never had before. You think I’m a little shy now, you should have seen me a year ago!

For all I know, if it weren’t for you, I might not be here. Now I can see how much life has to offer, and I’m going to take it all!

        I had lost my smile. You helped me find it. Thank you.

      Love,

      Valerie

So the circle was complete. I stood at the opposite point of the Medicine Wheel. I’ve given these two events a lot of thought over the years, and though I’ve been tempted to step out of the Wheel altogether myself, I’ve come to realize that a parent, a teacher— a human being —can’t do that, anymore than he or she can stop breathing. You and I will forever remain at center of the Wheel, and that is as it should be.