So Fiercely

"I'm going to have to report this," I said, holding the 13 carefully written pages in my hands. "If there is anything in this..."

"I know."

The pages were held together by staples placed at the side of the stack to make them look more like books. At the top was their name—or names, as this was also a new introduction as they were coming out as trans.

I had asked him if he wanted me to read this as a teacher, a friend, or a writer. He said the first two. My heart dropped. Before I scanned the first page, I knew then that this would be one of those moments you hear about when you're in the process of becoming a teacher—before you get your own classroom.

He nodded, eyes fixed on mine and filled with determination.

"Are you sure that's what you want?" I felt my stomach start to twist, fear prickling my arms and spreading. 

He nodded again. This time, he turned to walk away.

The pages were covered in tight scrawl, a careful hand: determined like the nod. They were filled with pain, describing a recent fight between him and his adopted mother and how it started. A hand on his arm, him pulling... 

And then flashing back to first grade and sexual assault and how he hasn't ever let anyone touch him - how this woman should have known better - she was supposed to know better. She didn't act better. She was pulling him. Belittling him. Cornering him.

"Get out," she shouted, his attempt to walk away, get down the hall, get away, but she followed him, pushing him, so he pushed back. She kept coming, pushing both physically and emotionally until he clawed her to stop and hit her with furniture. 

And then the self-harm, described further in pages later, detailing a progression of self-hatred and then love, but the kind without acceptance from those supposed to be closest. 

I took these carefully written papers, this collection of a life, to the counselor closest to me, just down the hall--minutes after their receipt, I was handing them off, but they were not well received. 

Shouting. Roaring. Complaining. 

"Oh, no. Oh no. Oh no!" he said, sitting at his desk in his office.

I offered the papers, pushing them towards him, making him take them anyway.

"I can't deal with this! I have work to do. How am I supposed to do my job?"

"This is your job." I reminded him firmly. Standing there in disbelief. "This is one of my favorite-"

"Where do I start reading? Where should I start reading this?" He flipped through the pages, unimpressed. Careless. "Does she-"

"He."

"Does he talk about killing himself?"

"Kind of. He got in a fight with his adoptive mother, and there was blood."

"Ugh, shit. This is going to take my WHOLE DAY! I am going to have to do a DFCS report, and I've got work to do!"

"There is literally nothing less helpful you could be saying right now." I spit out. 

Shaking, I slammed the door and walked across the quiet waiting room; I could hear him shouting after me. I kept walking. Walking faster.

Got to get out. 

Got to get out of here. 

Got to get away from here. 

From this pain. 

From this place where yesterday they brought a gun. 

Two weeks ago, they killed 4 people at a school nearby. 

No one even cared yesterday beyond the careless email that was sent. 

Just get away. 

Get outside. 

Thoughts like static, flipping channels, hearing all the pain. News reports. Parkland. Columbine. Sandy Hook. Apalachee. 

I can't carry all this pain.

His shouts coming from behind me. Him stopping me in the hallway. The begging pleading - is this because you are worried about your job or the child? Are you worried about him (the student) yet? Are you worried that you've failed him? 

Are you falling apart like me? 

He has tears in his eyes as he tells me that he is sorry, that he was just...

I cut him off. "I don't want to hear your apology right now. I'm so fucked up; I can't handle your feelings." 

I can't.

The student comes back at the end of the day. We exchange a long look, he smiles.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He nods quickly.

"I was worried I had done something wrong--"

"No." He says quickly, his face concerned. "No, not at all. Thank you."

"Kidnapping is illegal in all 50 states, but I wish I could adopt you."

He smiles again, bright.

"I would tell you every day how proud I am of you. I can still do that, regardless."

I'm so proud of you.