Of bus duty, and Chief Joseph
Paul Karrer
Teachers usually dislike bus duty. We have too many other things to do.
And so it was with me. Then I noticed him. It would have been impossible not to. Long ears and a misshapen, non-symmetrical face only accented his abnormally short size. A dark, scarred face held deep-set eyes. I had heard the boy was 10, attended the Special Education classes, and that his name was Joseph. It would have been unkind to say he was unattractive, but unfortunately, it would also have been true.
However, Joseph wore a smile which pressed out beyond the inequities of his body, and that smile radiated joy. Plus, the little kid was polite.
Bus duty usually lasted a week, and on the first day of my reluctant vigil, Joseph bounded off the steps of the bus like a happy elf. He stared into my eyes and bellowed, “Hello, Teacher.”
That began a ritual which continued each morning, and when Joseph spotted me during the course of the day he’d yell, “Hello, Teacher.”
A day later, four teachers agreed to combine classes for physical education. Joseph’s Special Ed. Class and my class happened to be two of them.
Any adult who believes all children are innocent cherubs and have hearts of gold has never spent much time with kids.
“Hey, retard, fire face” or “banana head.” Were shouted at Joseph and his classmates now and again. The speakers of these wicked words were immediately sent off to the principal, and discussions about appropriate behavior began in earnest.
The next time the chastened classes met, they played kickball. Two captains picked teams and in the end, Joseph stood alone, the last to be chosen.
This isn’t going to happen again. Next time, I pick teams I thought.
Joseph’s team ended up in the field. To even things up, I pitched to both teams. Joseph made no comment when he missed an easy kick arched upward and was easily caught. His very own teammates booed him.
Eventually, his team managed to tag two kids on first and catch a pop-up. Joseph’s team raced to home plate as the other team replaced them in the outfield. I now pitched to Joseph’s team and before I knew it, I faced Joseph. The small boy stood on the large home base like a lone malformed squash in a huge field. His teammates pressed their faces to the mesh wire backstop and dreaded his kick. The opposing team salivated at the easy out to come. In between those two hostile forces, poor Joseph waited for the pitch. I had a thought. I may have to assist a bit. I rolled the ball and Joseph stumbled, falling. Both teams laughed. I pitched again.
The team groaned when he swiped at the red ball and missed.
This is it, Joseph, come on. I rolled the gentlest of pitches. Joseph barely made contact with the ball and it arched upward…a little.
“Run,” yelled one of his teammates.
“GO, GO don’t just stand there,” screamed another.
“You can do it,” urged a girl.
When his little legs started moving, the voices of his team picked up.
“FASTER!”
“Don’t look at the ball, run!”
And then his teammates chanted, “RUN, RUN, RUN!”
The easy catch hit the ground somehow right through my arms. And me the clumsy teacher just happened to kick the ball ummm…by accident too. Joseph’s team went wild. “RUN! RUN!” They screamed as their fingers curled around the mesh wire. Joseph bent forward awkwardly and ran. He made it to first.
Joseph didn’t make the winning point that game, nor did he even make it home. But he did make it to second base. His team did lose, but not because of Joseph. The game ended and the teams headed back to their classes. He was ebullient. The kids had rooted for him.
On the way back to his classroom, he caught up with me and placed his cold, calloused hand inside my hand. I hung onto the little hand and kept walking.
“Teacher, I NEVER got on base before…ever!” He beamed and sped off to his line.
One of the sharper girls in my class tugged at me as I rubbed a watery eye.
“Got something in your eye?” she asked.
“Umm, yeah, probably dirt.”
“You dropped the ball and kicked it on purpose didn’t you?”
“No,” I uttered. The second lie of the day. My eye having dirt in it being the first.
Soon after, my class began studying Native Americans. One of my favorites was Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce. He led his people in a 1,500-mile retreat from the U.S. Army and almost pulled it off. He was a much-loved chieftain and a great tactician. Supposedly he possessed a disarming smile just like a little somebody I knew. So it wasn’t too long before I started calling Joseph “Chief Joseph.” Joseph liked it a lot.
I looked forward to bus duty after that, especially when Joseph’s yellow bus lumbered to the curb.
“Hi, Teacher,” Joseph smiled as he barreled out.
“Morning, Chief Joseph.”
“We gonna’ play kickball?”
“Do you think we should?”
“Yup.”
“Then I think we just might.”