ShareThisHis name was Ray. We were in fifth grade, but he was older, held back a few years.
A big, quiet boy with clear blue eyes, he sat alone at the back of the room, bothering no one, asking nothing, staring out the window or at the clock.
When he wasn't staring, he liked to draw horses -- wild horses running like the wind.
The day the teacher told me to help him with his spelling, I wanted to crawl under my desk.
Ray wasn't the kind of boy girls wanted to hang out with. He wasn't bad. He was just "different." I was "different," too, but at least I tried to hide it. Ray couldn't hide it if he tried.
It didn't take long to figure out why he couldn't spell. It was simple. He couldn't read.
I tried to teach him. It didn't work. He would stare at the words, then look into my eyes until, finally, he'd look away.
That Christmas in the gift exchange, Ray drew my name. Everyone watched as I opened a paper sack and pulled out three plastic bracelets and a drawing of a girl with long brown hair like mine.
When one of the boys said the Texaco station was giving those bracelets away, everybody laughed, except Ray and me.
I wish I could tell you I put those bracelets on and wore them for all to see. I didn't. I put them in the bag, mumbled thanks to Ray, then took them home, hid them in a drawer and forgot all about them.
After that year, I never saw Ray again. I was a senior ready for college when I heard the news: Ray had gone to prison for shooting his daddy to stop him from beating his mama.
I went to my room and dug out the bracelets. That's when I noticed it. Ray had scratched our initials inside of them.
I'd forgotten that story, hadn't thought of it in years, until last week while I was in Fort Smith, Ark., to speak at a fund-raiser for the local library.
While having dinner with friends, trading stories as friends do, something reminded me of Ray. I wasn't sure why.
Three days later -- after I'd spoken at four events, shaken hundreds of hands, gotten pelted with rose petals (by the mayor, no less) and been treated like family, only better -- I made one last stop before leaving town.
Rena Elementary in Van Buren (across the river from Fort Smith) is a "community of writers." Everybody writes, everybody reads, students and staff alike, no exceptions.
On Friday, the kindergartners were doing a "poetry slam," and I was invited to take part.
My part was easy; I read a story about how my youngest (now a teacher) once tried to take his blankie to kindergarten.
They seemed to like it. Then the kindergartners took the stage. Each was "different," unique as we all are; each one was the best. For example:
Her name was Kristine. She was 5 years old (maybe 6), with laughing eyes and dancing hair and enough energy to light up the whole state of Arkansas.
As she read her poem, she held her audience squarely in the palm of her hand.
"Pine Cone: Brown. Fake. Dead. It could spin!"
Everybody cheered.
Again, I thought of Ray.
I learned to read before I started school. In third grade, when I stood on a stage like Kristine and read "Blueberries for Sal," I looked out at my classmates and realized they were hanging on my words.
I would never be the same. Reading for me was a kind of salvation. I'll always wonder what it might've been for Ray.
Kristine and her classmates are lucky to be in a "community of writers," in a place that values literacy and libraries.
Imagine. What if every child were so blessed?
(Sharon Randall can be contacted at P.O. Box 777394, Henderson NV 89077, or at www.sharonrandall.com.)
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