The Owl
A remarkable circle with some remarkable kids.
Dear readers,
This piece came from one of those experiences I knew I’d have to tell as a story someday. I knew it because I scribbled down the details as soon as I could when I got home, almost frantically, trying to get it all down before it slipped away. I’ve changed names and identifying details, to protect the privacy of the people represented here and to be able to give you a glimpse into this story without breaking the critical conditions of confidentiality that circle-work demands. In that spirit of reverence, I invite you to join us.
Scroll down a few paragraphs to hear me read the piece.
Sincerely,
Andrew
It occurs to me on the highway that I really don’t want to go back. I am dreading this, my third session with the alt ed class at this rural middle school. They’re too far gone, these kids. Their nervous systems are shot. They’re just not capable of listening to each other. They didn’t get enough attention and attunement when they were little, so of course they can’t give it to each other now. It’s not their fault. It’s not their parents’ fault either. This is intergenerational trauma, live. This is modern industrial society, boots on the ground. This is lifetimes of forgetting we belong to each other.
During my first session with these kids, we got a glimpse of the truth—of who they really are, of what they’re really going through. It started to open up the way it always starts in a circle, if it ever opens at all: magically, like walking through the back of the wardrobe into the Narnia of our humanity. My job is to guide them there. Call me Mr. Tumnus.
That first session, just as we were closing the circle, one kid took a risk, opened up a little, told us how he hasn’t talked to his dad in three years. It just sprang up out of him somehow, like an unexpected spring tulip. A few others followed his lead. The back of the wardrobe started to open up. It amazes me every time.
But that’s not always how it goes. Sometimes the way is closed. No one’s trying to go there. Nobody gives a shit. And now you’re just stuck in this musty wardrobe, and it’s awkward, and the kids are teasing each other, hurting each other in the casual ways we’ve taught them to, ignoring you altogether, and what’s the point anyway, why do you even bother?
The second session we hit the back of the wardrobe, hard. No Narnia. Just a solid cedar wall. I tried to break us through. But that’s not how it works. You can’t force the heart to open any more than you can force the sky to rain. You can only hope and pray and court the possibility. And then you have to let go, trust, and if you hit the cedar wall, well, you have to trust that, too. Accept it. Bear it. Open your heart to the pain of it, the pain of knowing how it could be and of feeling how it actually is.
How did we get to Narnia, that first session? How the hell did it happen? I don’t know. I wish I knew. Wish I could just press a button and make it happen every time. Could’ve used a button that second session. I pulled out a bunch of tricks like a desperate clown, trying to wrangle their attention. A writing exercise. An interactive question-asking activity. I told a vulnerable story of my own, did some didactic stuff. They tuned me out. Talked over each other. Cut each other down lazily, masterfully. We were in the dark together, in the wardrobe, the stuffy, stifling furs, the mothballs.
That was two weeks ago. I’m ten minutes away from the school on this country highway, about to drop in for round three. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if I just turned around and went back home. How do teachers do this every day?