A Most Unusual Passage
Copyright© 2026 by J&J
Chapter 31
I figured Elizabeth must have been angry, the way she just up and walked out of my office in a huff. At first, I was a bit angry, too, but figured we’d both get over it. Besides, the way she talked, she thought the damn girl was going to go out and kill herself. I finally decided to let her work off some of the steam, and then we could sit down and talk. But damn, I sure couldn’t stop every time some crazy teenager got upset over something. I’d never get anything done if I did.
I sat down and returned to work, the plan for closing the school for summer vacation. Not long afterwards, Fancy knocked and let herself in.
“You busy?” She asked.
I pulled myself away from the list of items in front of me and answered, “A bit, but you’re here now. What’s on your mind?”
She gave me a strange look, one I’d never seen before, and then took the chair in front of my desk.
“I just saw Elizabeth go charging out of here. It looked like she was loaded for bear. You have any idea what’s going on?”
I chuckled; then said, “Well, she came in here in a huff about Sylvia Chambers. Somehow she’s got it in her head that the girl is in real emotional trouble. I guess she didn’t like it when I told her it isn’t our problem.”
Fancy looked at me, shook her head and then said, “Tell me you really didn’t do that.”
“Not you, too? Besides, you and I both know that the problem with Sylvia Chambers has more to do with her father than anything else. I’m not about to get caught in the middle of a family dispute here. Listen, I’ve been in this school system for over fifty years. I haven’t lost a single student.
Fancy stood up, and after glaring at me for a few seconds, said, “Marcus, let’s hope this isn’t the first one!” She then did an about face and left, slamming the door on the way out.
I gave out with an audible sigh, leaned back in my chair and thought to myself, “You know, Marcus, you really don’t need this.”
If Sylvia was going to get any help, I was it. First thing, I wanted to get a look at that book. Whoever or whatever was causing her pain lived in those pages; I was sure of that. The worse her emotional state, the more avidly she wrote. Also I knew that potential suicides usually wrote cries for help. If she was planning to take such a step, there might be such a clear statement in there that even blind stupid men couldn’t blow it off.
I had observed her eating lunch alone under a tree every day and decided I would join her. The next day, I packed a lunch big enough for two. Having no idea what she liked, I tried to get enough variety to tickle her taste buds and hopefully start a conversation. I waited for her to get settled; as usual, she was writing in her gray book, her lunch forgotten.
I walked over very casually. “Hi, Sylvia, you look like you’ve found a nice spot for lunch. Mind if I join you?”
She looked surprised but actually more welcoming than I expected. “Of course, Ms. Manigault, please do ... am I in some kind of trouble?”
“I don’t know; are you? Oh wait, you mean...” I laughed. “No, Sylvia, would it surprise you to find out that I actually like to talk to students? “Don’t any of the other teachers just talk to you?”
Sylvia shook her head.
“Well, they should, they’re missing a lot. You like white cheddar or goat cheese?”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever had any, but I like regular cheese.”
“Here, try some ... Sylvia, if I’m not being nosy, what are you always writing? “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. Students have privacy rights, too, you know.”
Sylvia laughed, without humor. “I don’t mind, Ms. Manigault. It’s just poetry. It’s not secret; it’s more like no one cares. No one has ever even asked to read it, not even my folks.”
“Well, I care. I’d love to read your poetry. I like poetry a lot.”
Sylvia shrugged, as though indifferent, but her nervousness showed in her shaky hands. “Help yourself; but you won’t like it. It’s crap.”
Something in her voice made me pause. “Sylvia, I do not believe for one second that you would put this kind of effort into something that you think is crap. Poetry is a very personal expression; it’s hard for anyone else to reject your work. Who told you your poetry’s crap?”
“Miss Fishburn.” She was trying to say the name matter-of-factly, but there was no disguising the hurt.
“Miss Fishburn, the English teacher, called your poetry ‘crap’? I mean, actually used the word ‘crap’?”
It was my turn to keep the tone casual, even though I was surprised and extremely displeased at a teacher using such a vulgar term about an obviously sincere attempt at creativity. Of course, a lot of what teachers are handed is, perhaps, by technical standards, “crap.” But our job is not to be literary critics; it’s to help students develop both their abilities and their confidence. The only thing that could ever justify such a description, and I still didn’t approve of the word, would be a complete lack of effort, a term paper that was obviously written during a lunch period, for example.
“Yes, ma’am, I submitted some poems to the literary magazine that I thought were pretty good. She called me in and told me they were vulgar teen-trash crap and showed not only a complete lack of talent, but in her opinion, an unhealthy mind.”
In spite of myself, I just stared, and Sylvia started crying. “See, now you think there’s something wrong with me, too; everybody does.” She reached to take back the book she had just handed me.
I didn’t resist, but I just waited a moment to let her regain composure, before I touched her arm very gently. “Sylvia, I don’t think that of you at all. I’m just shocked that anyone would say such things to you. Remember, I haven’t read your poetry, and I can’t imagine that anything you could write would make me say such things. Will you trust me to read your poems?”
The lunch bell rang. Sylvia started to get up. “I have to go to class, Ms. Manigault.” She sounded reluctant.
“You can stay, if you want to. I’m the assistant principal, remember; I’ll write a note.” I didn’t tell her I’d already arranged for her possible absence with her teacher, as well as for Glenda to take my class to the library.
“That’d be great.” She hesitated a long moment and took a deep breath. “Yes, please; I’d like you to read them.”
I took the book and read.
One Small Tear
I am dawn, a new beginning, I am light, I illuminate the day in colors bright, I have wings, I am an eagle, watch me soar I have strength, a lion’s heart, so hear me roar.
The horizon knows no bounds, for I can fly, My ship a cotton cloud on azure sky Far away to ports unknown, a dream that’s all my own, I shall sail away and kiss your world goodbye.
But you try to tie me down, you hold the strings, You pluck the feathers from my fragile wings. Although you gave me life, you fail to see This world is yours; there’s nothing here for me.
Not here, where winter winds on barren land Turn all my golden promise into sand, And bury all my hopes and dreams, so I Am bound up in your earth, no more to fly.
My wings are clipped; I’m in your cage, I roar no more in futile rage. My world is one of doubt and fear, My life reduced to one small tear.
Her words moved me so deeply I could hardly catch my breath. Here was all the pain and promise of young womanhood. Rejoicing at discovering she had the ability to do anything. And bitter despair on realizing how confining and impregnable the cage in which her circumstances had placed her. Her parents, who had given her everything, and asked for nothing in return, still exacted a price that might cost her everything.
I claimed no expertise on poetry, only love for it, but I didn’t think you had to be an authority to appreciate the quality of great work, and for a high school student, I considered this exceptional. It was so deep and rich and multilayered I felt like a thesaurus pouring out the words: beauty, pain, hope, despair, growth, childlike, innocent, erotic, lyrical, gritty...
Only an incredibly narrow-minded, unimaginative, bigoted person could use words like ‘crap, trash and vulgar.’ How dare she be allowed to shape young minds! Unless Marcus stopped me, Miss Fishburn and I were going to have what we in the South referred to as a ‘come-to-Jesus’ meeting, about stamping out youthful creativity because it didn’t fit her archaic standards. And if she blew me off, as I expected she would, and Marcus defended her, as I expected he would, she would survive just long enough to see me become her principal. Tenure or not, her overly-tight puritanical little ass would be next out the door. I might tolerate a great deal from a teacher, but never the cold-blooded murder of those most precious and rare gifts: true creativity and talent.
Sylvia interrupted my thoughts as she asked anxiously, “Is my poetry bad? Is there something wrong with me? Please tell me the truth.”
“No, Sylvia, there is nothing wrong with you, except you have been gifted with a great talent that lets you see and write about things that not everyone will understand. Your poetry is something very special and needs to be shared with the world.”
“Oh ... you really mean that? It’s not just something you are saying ... to make me quit crying or something?”
I looked her in the eye, so there could be no doubt. “You don’t know me yet, but you’ll learn that I believe students deserve the same respect as anyone else. That means I’ll never lie to you, and I expect the same from you. OK?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She hesitated before continuing. “You’re different; you know that?”
I nodded. “My dad is my best friend in the world. He said that the greatest gift he could give was to let me become whoever I wanted to be. I thought it was a silly thing for him to say, until I realized that almost everyone else was subtly or not so subtly directed towards a particular school, or profession, or even spouse. So perhaps I am different, because I’m exactly who I want to be.”
Sylvia burst into tears and started to rise and leave, but I held her until she could at least speak again.