13. A Tribe Called Us

I got a job as a substitute teacher in the local school system. It was that or stay home, pretend that farming was a solid economic decision, and make self-pity my full-time job. But pouting is exhausting, and you don't get paid for it. 

One day, there was a door shutting, hushed scurrying disturbance in the high school. The principal, a very tall man who loved Halloween, asked me if I could help out in the library for the foreseeable future.

Word was that the now-former librarian smacked a girl in gym class. Yes, the librarian also taught gym. I don't know why. A hair's breadth from full retirement, she dug her very substantial heels in and refused to resign. 

So the administration played the only card it could when faced with a well-negotiated collective bargaining agreement. The woman was to report to school every day but could have NO contact with any children. Reassigned to a supply closet next to the library, where she sat doing fuck all. 

It was a creepy way to begin an assignment, as the only thing between me and the accused was an old dutch door, bolted shut on both halves. I imagine she heard the merriment that ensued soon after I took over. 

It must have hurt or maybe not. I mean, she hit a child. 

Kids felt obliged to tell me something awful about her. An adolescent palate cleanse I think they found healing. It was clear that the prospect of "Going to the Library" was akin to a trip to the orthodontist or family court. 

"She smacked my hand when I reached for a book with a blue dot." 

"What is a book with a blue dot?" 

"Oh, it's a book that can only be read by high schoolers." 

"Why?" 

"Dirty words or sex."

I pointed to the door and put my finger up to my lips. "She's right on the other side." Most children shuddered, then flashed big relieved smiles. Justice had been served. The reign of literary terror and smelly phys ed. pinnies was coming to an end. 

It seemed the woman only bought titles she wanted to read. Since no one ever visited unless they absolutely had to, she had loads of free time for Clive Cussler and Janet Evanovich. Not exactly YA titans. 

The place was filthy. The signage was appalling, and the overall lack of warmth, design sensibility and comfort, might have deflated some people. I felt downright giddy. This I could fix. 

I had a couple of rules for the children who began to swarm into the library. 

Speak in a regular tone of voice. Loud whispering is irritating. 

Read any damn book you want as long as you return it.

Learn to play chess or Scrabble.

If you want to do nothing, do it quietly and alone. 

Play the piano, we rolled into the library. If you knew something other than "Heart and Soul."

One kid played beautiful, original compositions. I mentioned it was like working in Nordstrom. No one got the reference. But someday, I thought, one of them might find themselves in Nordstrom, hear the piano music and stop. "Oh, that's what she was talking about." 

The Seniors hardly ever had any classes. Most only came to school for gym and to play one more year of varsity sports. The football team sent search parties early on to assess the vibe. It was not a literary quest. It was recon to determine whether they could establish a final beachhead of exclusivity before graduation. 

I arranged some chairs in a conversation pit in front of the checkout desk, where I was posted. The unspoken rule was the chairs belonged to Seniors. Full stop. Underclassmen could drag chairs up to the periphery of the circle but never dared to sit in a chair that would only rightfully be theirs come senior year.

Occasionally, there was something juicy to argue about, which was a nice respite. It's hard to listen to period after period of relentless and mostly untrue gossip about who was pregnant, selling drugs, hooking up., breaking up, then hooking up again.

Among my favorites?

"Why the hell can't we wear hats? How is it disrespectful?" 

"If boys are distracted by how I'm dressed, shouldn't they be the ones who get in trouble?"

"Have you ever even read the 2nd Amendment? That's so not what it says, idiot."  

"No, they can't search our lockers, can they?"

"He wants to play a girl sport. I mean, it's totally weird, but why can't he if girls can wrestle?"  

I loved these conversations. So did one boy, who never sat down with us. He sat at one of the small tables in the fiction section doing the weekly jigsaw puzzle that I convinced the football team would ensure an undefeated season.

Puzzles, I told them, balance both sides of your brain - the strategic and creative, making you unstoppable on the gridiron. I lied. Had no research to back it up at all. But they believed in "the power of the puzzle" and went easily to post-season play that year. 

After a heartbreaking 7-point loss at the semi-finals, the team shuffled in the following Monday morning. The team captain, said, ‘Don’t say anything. We know why we lost.”

“Why?” I asked tilting my head to the side.

“Those guys did two puzzles last week,” he said, with a completely straight face.

I imagined this boy who would not sit with us had a pretty full life hiding right underneath the surface. He was grumpy and acerbic and irritated by us most of the time. But no one ever had a problem with him. No one. 

January is the worst up here. People always say February, but I think January because there is so much damn winter in front of you. I mean, it's not even half over. The January thaw is heartbreaking. The weather warms up overnight, snow melts, mud grows, and the rivers all look like Augustus Gloop's Waterloo. 

A perpetually unmotivated senior and I were working on his research paper on legalizing marijuana, a mainstay of high school academics since I wrote one in 1979. 

“Have you heard from him?” Someone asked us, pointing to the empty seat at the jigsaw puzzle table.

“No, why?”

“Well, he's not here, and no one has heard from him today.”

“Did you ask his girlfriend?”

“Yeah, he hasn't texted her back in like hours.” 

It was strange in the age of cellphones to have a kid go silent. I tried not to worry or show that I was worrying. Kids pick up on everything. 

There was an announcement for all teachers and staff to report to the auditorium after the dismissal bell. I can't remember whether they said that all after-school activities had been canceled as well. Maybe a snowstorm was heading our way. Maybe something else. 

We sat down. I looked at the English teacher sitting next to me, "It's gonna be bad, isn't it?" She grabbed my hand and stared straight ahead. 

The principal was up in front of the room. When we were all seated, and the doors to the auditorium were closed, he said, "We've had news from the authorities that a student is deceased. He said his name. It was self-inflicted. We are putting together a plan for grief counseling and ask that you refrain from sharing the news on social media." 

We shuffled out, dazed and numb. My kids were waiting for me in the library. 

My oldest looked at me and said, "It's bad, Mom isn't it?" 

"The worst honey, the worst." 

News of an untimely death in a small town spreads like manure, and knowing the most about someone's demise is a perverse form of currency. I turned off my phone. I did not want to hear the details. How, where, and why didn't matter.

What mattered was a boy I loved, a boy we all loved, a boy who quoted Eddie Izzard, a boy who saw through my lame Montesorri attempts to bring disparate groups of kids together, went off into the woods, and blew his brains out. 

The next day, school swarmed with the well-meaning "Grief Response Team," local clergy, and counselors from neighboring schools. I brought a pile of fluffy throws from the house if anyone felt the need to get under a blanket. We attempted an Irish wake of sorts. His teammates told funny stories about him, and girls who barely knew him cried hysterically in the non-fiction section. 

There was a big national Powerball drawing that night- like 500 million dollars. The captain of the football team was excited. He had figured out how to win. 

"So here's my idea, we find some people in California, and once they call the numbers here in NY, we have them buy those numbers in California. You know because of the time difference. Do we know anyone in California? You must, right?" He asked me wide-eyed. 

"Oh my god, half calf, I can even" I called him half calf because his mother mistakenly ran over him with a lawnmower when he was four and chewed up most of his calf. 

"Honey, help him out, would you please?" looking toward the small table in the fiction section. He was the only one who could explain the stupidity of the idea to his teammate without insulting him. They had known each other since kindergarten. 

They all looked at me, stunned. It was then that we realized he was really dead.

The Seniors asked me to give the graduation speech that year. The administration said I was not to mention the dead boy at all. There was to be no empty chair at commencement. His parents would not be invited up to get his diploma. They were afraid of copycat suicides. 

So I gave a speech that is all about him without mentioning his name once. It's called "A Tribe Called Us."

Rest in Peace, you wonderful boy.

Thank you so much for this honor. It means the world to me. I'm going to try to make this brief, not because I'm going to cry or anything, but because somewhere between, there's a chicken wing dip that needs to be stirred. A roasted pig needs basting or unearthing or whatever your family's preferred method of pork preparation is. And since someone's aunt from Long Island totally forgot to bring the really good downstate cannolis, a dessert has to now be thrown together. 

Congratulations graduates. Today is a very big deal. Congratulations also to the parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, foster parents, and neighbors who have helped you on this journey. These folks have driven countless miles for dance recitals, music lessons and sporting events, stayed up late to finish your science fair projects, to wash your disgusting uniforms, to edit your essays, and generally worry about you and your happiness. 24 hours a day. 

Congratulations also to the teachers, coaches, nurses, administrators, the board of ed members, and staff who never gave up on you. Even if you gave up on yourself, who cleaned up your stomach viruses, who demanded excellence, when you just didn't see the point, reminded you then reminded you again to return your permission slips, made you ride the bench because you weren't ready and generally provided daily reminders that life isn't fair. And that is absolutely okay because, as we all know, refs and umpires are only unfair when we lose, and teachers and principals are only unfair when we don't get what we want, like ping pong in the library. 

As many of you know, I work in the library here and because it's kind of my job and I'm kind of a nerd. I did a lot of research on graduation speeches because it's kind of my job, and I'm kind of a nerd.

Did you know that 95% of high school graduates cannot remember five years later who spoke at their commencement 95%? Well, that stat freaked me out a little bit. First, I thought, well, why bother? I could just say my name is Taylor Swift and read to you from The County Shopper and clearly, you're not going to remember anything. Or I could not accept that lame statistic. I could say I think I'd rather be part of the 5%, the memorable part.

So here goes Class of 2016. 

I've had many jobs in the five-plus decades. I've been thrashing around on this planet. My resume is impressive. If you're the kind of person who is impressed by that stuff, I've been lucky enough to travel all around the world and been fortunate to meet some pretty exciting people. But the thing is, I never placed the right kind of importance on that stuff until I found my way here. Because I realized that all of my life this far, the really good and the really horrible parts were stuff I cosmically obligated to experience so I could share them with you. So we could see ourselves in one another and be better humans for it. 

I was going through a pretty rough patch when I started working here as a substitute teacher, the year you guys started eighth grade. There were many mornings where I just couldn't see the point of getting out of bed. And then the phone would ring. 

The voice would say, "Do you want a sub today?"

 And I would always say yes because I would come here and walk through the hall, and you guys would say, "Who are you today?" And I would say this person or that person, and you would invariably say, "Yes."

It was a small thing. I know, but you have no idea how wonderful it felt to feel like I mattered at a time in my life when I wasn't really sure I did. Now I know I may have scared a few of you in the beginning. I was the strange lady who dressed weird and hardly ever seemed to brush her hair. 

I spoke to you in Spanish when you weren't listening. I made you listen to Bob Dylan and Mozart, which by the way, even though I told you, listening to Mozart would help you do better on tests. It's actually not true at all. I just like listening to Mozart.

 And I have to admit that I was more than a little scared of you guys too. 

There was this obsession with football. I was told, never to say, did we win Saturday? I was instructed to say how much did we win by Saturday? There were trucks so high off the ground I imagined only clowns or gymnasts could get in and out of them. There was this never-ending love of memes and vines, which are not funny and never will be. There was the flappy bird addiction, and the cavalcade of awful haircuts, which I'm happy to see we've sorted out.

And then there was the Hollister fascination, and the endless parade of skinny jeans tucked into Uggs, which are called that for a very good reason.

Still, you guys made my day. Every day. I told you stories sometimes in bizarre accents, and you listened. We argued, and we found common ground. Well, except for you know who, who has never once agreed with me. Then I was asked to help out in the library and today I consider myself the luckiest woman around because one of you has made me laugh or cry, happy tears every day. And that is the hallmark of an outstanding job. I've laughed because you guys are great storytellers and cried because one of you finally wrote a near-perfect research paper or took out and read your first book or stood up for yourself or helped someone you didn't even know.

And I think I made your day something different and unexpected, something to look forward to. And that idea of different being not only acceptable but desirable started to sink in. And I watched you guys let your freak flag fly and open up and be yourselves.

But you have done more for me than I have ever done for you. So thank you.

You told me when I was hurt, it would buff.

You told me mozzarella sticks dipped in cocktail sauce were the best lunch ever.

You helped me pick the stupid amount of corn I planted one summer.

You painted my name on your Derby car.

You let me give you books that I knew would help you feel less alone.

You believed in the power of the puzzle.

You played chess really well.

You knitted. Not so well.

You allowed me to be super opinionated about your daily Mountain Dew consumption. 

You only laughed for 10 minutes when you could have laughed for 20, when I used a glue stick, instead of chapstick on my lips.

You stood up for me.

And slowly but surely, we all became better versions of ourselves.

Or maybe we just grew up. I'm not sure. I've never been an expert in that whole growing-up thing, but this is absolutely not goodbye because we have created something that will endure long after you pack up your cars and drive out of this town.

We have our own language, which very few people outside the library will ever understand. I like coconut. This is why we can't have nice things. And now we're going to get ants, for example, mean nothing to most of you, but they mean something to us.

We have celebrated one another's joys and victories, and together we have endured unimaginable loss. We became a tribe, and tribes can not be broken or split up. So when you stumble, and you will stumble, circle back around this way. When you succeed in ways you never could have imagined, circle back around this way too.

Open the school's doors, get a green pass from the front desk, come down to the library and tell me all about it. You can sit in the comfy chair, I'll get you a blanket and make you some ramen. Now I want you to take two things with you on your travels. First is my nickname. You were the first to use it, and you will be the last.

From now on I'm Ms. Randall or just the crazy old lady in the library. Either one is fine with me. And second is our library of code of conduct. The few simple rules we crafted together. Even if you didn't know we were working on them.

Hang them from your rearview mirror, tape them to your mirror at college, put them in your locker at work. They worked for us. They will work anywhere you go. They are who we are, a formidable and legendary tribe. 

Be honest

Be open

Be nice

Make lots of mistakes

Ask for help

And remember, you are special, different, and better

And so is everybody else.

The very next year, I succumbed to a similar public school squeeze play used on the mean old librarian. No, of course, I didn't hit a child, but I sure scared a few adults who were not inclined to follow the code of conduct outlined above.

So I signed an NDA and left. The children staged a sit-in blocking the entrance to the library when word spread I was gone.

Some said it did nothing. I don't agree.