Falling Through The Cracks and Hiding in The Dark Crevices 

(latest entry)

The quiet suffering of children living with trauma often results in an attempt to hide and at least disguise or minimize their distress by distraction - like a magician who uses deception in order to direct the observer and their attention away from the very things they wish to hide - attempting to control what others can see in an earnest effort to protect themselves from the shame resulting from revealing their own pain.

“The last thing I wanted anyone to believe was that my mother was "bad". This ultimately led me to attempt to disguise our hardships whenever I went out into the world.”

Just Enough Light, p. 21

“A regular practice for many of my friends was to leave school at lunchtime under the guise of eating at home. Each of us went into our respective homes and theoretically ate our lunches. We never did this together, and I suspected it was for the same reason. We had little to eat or share, and it was face-saving to eat alone.”

Just Enough Light, p. 64

“I started hanging out at a feedstore nearby, and I marveled at the chickens and other animals sold there. I got the idea that I would raise chickens. My thinking did not extend beyond their juvenile stage. What I would do with them once they reached maturity never crossed my mind. I asked the man at the counter if he could give me some baby chicks. He graciously agreed, and I was given six chicks, a box with straw, and carefully written instructions on how to care for them. I was thrilled, but I was also cautious not to reveal to my friends in the neighborhood that I was caring for six baby chicks, as this didn’t exactly correlate with the persona of toughness and moxie that I was working to create.

I set up the box and a lamp for heat as the clerk at the feedstore had instructed me. I provided them with room temperature water and dipped their beaks into the dish so they could know what it was. I was also given some chicken feed and introduced it to them per the instructions. I tended to them early in the morning and stayed with them until I left for school. I raced home at lunchtime to check in on them. I ensured that there was plenty of food and water and diligently cleaned their box. I checked often to see that the lamp I was using was keeping them warm enough. It broke my heart every time I had to leave to return to school after lunchtime, but I looked forward to seeing them later that afternoon so I could care for them. Of course, none of my friends knew anything about their existence. In fact, I don’t recall whether my mother even knew that I had six baby chicks living in my bedroom, but it didn’t matter to me. The emotional, gentle, and vulnerable side that I carefully hid from other kids and my teachers flowed out like a dam bursting when I was around the chicks. They lit up with life each time they could sense my presence, and this lifted my spirits unlike anything had in my entire life. I named each of them like they were my children, whom I was going to protect and ensure that they were well cared for and loved. For about a week, I felt like a proud and successful father.

One morning before leaving for school, I saw that two of the chicks looked weak, and their feathers appeared to be matted down, almost as though they had been doused with water. I left for school, concerned but not alarmed. By lunchtime, I raced to get home to check on them.

I found one of them barely moving, struggling for life, trying to make a sound, but nothing came out. I held the chick in my hand, stroking its feathers, when I noticed that the other five had died. I was devastated and still trying to will the one baby chick back to life by the force of my grief, pleading and begging, stroking its feathers while crying. The last chick died in my hand, and I collapsed on the floor, completely heartbroken. I took the dead chicks out to the side yard and buried them. I couldn’t stop crying and shaking, believing I had failed and killed them.

I made it back to school just in time to line up in our class rows to enter the school for the afternoon session, and I was devastated. I was fighting to hold it together. The tears that wanted to fall from my face were trapped inside me like poison. I just couldn’t let them go. The world around me started to spin, and I collapsed to the ground. Teachers ran over and quickly brought me into the principal’s office. The room was spinning, and I could barely remain seated in an upright position. Mr. Pressley, the school principal, was holding my head, checking my pupils, and asking me what I had taken, believing I was under the influence of a drug or alcohol. I couldn’t hold the tears inside any longer and broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. He asked me earnestly, “Jim, what’s going on?”

I didn’t want to tell him, but the grief I felt made my efforts at restraint impossible. I told him the whole story, the embarrassing truth that I was sobbing over six dead chicks. Our previous contacts in his office had always resulted from my misbehavior—fighting, bullying, stealing other kids’ bikes to ride home for lunch, etc. But now this pretend tough guy had been replaced by a stuttering, shaking, sobbing child who had just lost the six most precious things in his life.

Mr. Pressly came over to me and hugged me tightly. He told me that it was okay. Instead of feeling embarrassed, he wanted me to know how much he admired me, that I hadn’t killed anything and that I had done the best with what I had to work with. He also said that he was proud of me. I felt the presence of a father’s love while he continued to give me comfort and counsel. He asked me if I knew what the word indifference meant. I had no idea what he was talking about. He continued, “Indifference is when a person acts like they don’t care about other people or their feelings. You act like you don’t care about a lot of things, but now I know that you do, and that makes you special.” His words were a salve to my wounded soul.”

Just Enough Light, p. 65

Just before publishing the book, I gathered available photographs which represent the different ages/periods of my life. While it was relatively easy to find pictures from when I was in grade school, I found it nearly impossible to locate any from junior high school and from most of my time at Cardinal Newman, with the exception being the annual yearbook distributed at the end of each grade level. I tried to find yearbooks from Windsor Junior High School but couldn’t find any. At the time I attended the school, it was part of the Healdsburg School District. The school was shuttered by the district a few years after I left, and the site later housed the civic center and police department for the City of Windsor. I tried to locate any old yearbooks from the time I attended the school and failed. I was able to contact a former acquaintance who also attended Windsor Junior High School during the years I was there, and he was able to find photographs from the yearbook from the two years I attended the school. Other than a photograph of me pictured with the wrestling team, there was no mention of my name or that I even attended the school. When he contacted me to let me know, I told him that I understood exactly why. I was chronically in trouble and spent much of my time at school separated from the rest of students, being punished for my behavior. It appeared as if I never was enrolled or even attended the school for those two years. Defenses that I had created to hide and mask my fears and insecurities had seemingly erased me from existence. The unexamined fear that lived within grew inside of me like a toxic mold. When I enrolled at Cardinal Newman High School, the internal fear that engulfed my entire being became like a faceless monster that governed how I presented myself to the rest of the world.

“I was now feeling a different type of threat and insecurity from the Newman community. In the neighborhood where I lived, I was in constant fear for my safety. In this new environment, I was now fearful that if the teachers and the other students knew just how much worse my situation was than what they were privy to, this would reinforce in my mind how damaged I felt inside. I concluded that the wall between how I felt inside versus what I presented to the rest of the world had to be thicker, taller, and more impenetrable.”

Just Enough Light, p. 118

When I was teaching I often heard a few colleagues use some of the most offensive language in describing the students in their charge … dregs, bottom feeders, losers, among many other slanderous labels. Often some of the very same individuals showed compassion and real concern and outreach for struggling students who needed support and assistance. Their efforts were conditional, and if they were met, an almost overflow of sincere love and support was given. However, if a student presented an air of sullen indifference, the very same teachers found it easy to ignore them. It’s a lot to ask of someone to care about those who aren’t generally pleasant to be around. It’s even more to ask a person to actually reach out and serve the seemingly hopeless and discarded, especially when they are unpleasant and difficult to be around. But every one of them has built their own “wall” that disguises their specific fears and insecurities. 

“My time spent with the students who occupied my classroom for thirty-three years was an honor and a privilege. These young people often exhibited a potential for grace and kindness, even while struggling with all the challenges of their own adolescent experience. Being in their presence while sharing a small piece of their lives during our brief time together was a blessing. My students allowed me the opportunity to expect from them what Mrs. Leach provided for me when I was in the fourth grade - a belief that my circumstances did not irreparably damage me and that I had the same potential to excel academically as anyone else. I aspired to be like Mr. Pressly, to see beyond the protective facade of a young person, and to hug them and comfort them when they needed to let go of the pain they couldn’t hold on to any longer. I was blessed to be able to make myself available and present to those students who believed their lives were insignificant and worthless, like the beautiful bus driver who lifted my body and soul onto a bus, which marked the beginning of a changed life. I tried to be like Father Finn, an unapologetic teacher of second and third chances for my students. Sadly, many came to me broken, lonely, and feeling abandoned, believing that I might help them feel a little less afraid and maybe just a little more secure.”

Just Enough Light, p. 265

I believe that the potential for human grace and kindness is not transcendent. The capacity for it is already built inside of us. Intentional acts of grace for those who are struggling and in great need makes it possible to have a light of hope in the darkness and despair that can overwhelm all of us at some time in our lives.