June 27, 2021

The Mask
Timothy James; one of my worst behaved students – and that’s saying a lot coming from a
last-chance-before-prison type of school. I work with what most people would call “the bad”
kids from all across Texas. Our campus, Herman Oaks, operates within a residential system that
houses children through CPS and Juvenile Delinquency programs from several months to their
eighteenth birthday. For some reason, English teachers don’t stick around long, so I’ve basically
been the sole English teacher since 2018. Each year, we notice the kids get a little rougher and
this past year was no exception. We had students jumping out of third story windows, students
running through glass doors and one student even broke a staff member’s ankle – all before
Christmas. Needless to say, it seemed like the school year was never going to end.

Alas, we finally reached my favorite unit of the year centered on identity. Students analyze
Dunbar’s “We Wear The Mask” and popular mask songs related to identity like The Fugees
“The Mask” and at the end of the entire unit, they get to creatively share about themselves by
decorating a mask. They had just finished their projects and I was eager to see everyone’s
creations because you really never know what you’re going to learn about your students through
projects like this. As I searched my classroom for volunteers, the boys began sliding down in
their chairs or putting their heads down in attempts to magically disappear when I heard a soft,
“I’ll go, Miss” from behind me. Excitedly I turned around, only to have my elated smile
abruptly transformed into shock as I realized it was my worst behaved student. We all know the
type- talks back at you from the back corner of the room, makes obscene comments and gestures
towards others and belittles everyone around him for absolutely no reason at all.

A little bewildered by his willingness to not only share his story first, but to do so in front of
a room full of other teenage boys, I quickly bounced on this rare opportunity for the holy grail of
working with “bad” students, “Yes! Timothy, great job! Let’s see your mask!” The previous two
weeks had been full of battles just trying to him to start his mask and complete it without
obscenities, which, ended in a very fitting, tattered mess. Half of the mask should have
represented their outward identity and how they felt others viewed them while the other half
represented their inward identity and who they really felt they were inside. The assignment had
turned out to be much more impactful than I thought it would be and my students, whom had
never been given an opportunity to share their thoughts on their identity, had shown tremendous
growth within the past few weeks.

As Timothy slowly walked to the front of the classroom, I noticed he hesitated prior to
arriving to the front of the room. He masked his nervousness with a smug, half-curled smile as
he glanced around his peers, who had all suddenly stopped what they were doing to watch his
next move. Noticing, he snatched up a neighboring student’s red folder and casually tossed it on
the ground. “Just get to the front of the class already,” I think to myself as I allow his behavior
to begin irritating me. I glance over at my assistant whose face mirrored mine, and smile
knowing we’re both thinking the same thing.

By this time, Timothy had finally completed the never-ending journey of walking to the front
of the classroom and began describing his mask. He inches his way across designs and sketches
and then arrives to a messy drawing of a house overlapping a lightly erased image of a gun.
“When I was five…” he begins, “I remember my aunt taking me out for the day. My mom
stayed behind, I guess to chill with her new boyfriend. We went to Six Flags and were there all
day. When it was dark, my aunt drove me back home and I … He stops and looks around the
room. My eyes mirror his and quickly look around the room, ready to extinguish any speck of
negative energy but no one is saying a word. I circle back to Timothy and notice his eyes
growing larger and he flashes me a quick glance of despair, in which I take as a cue that he
needed to stop.

“Great job, Timothy! Great presentation, we’re so proud of …” I say as I walk towards the
front of the classroom.

“I’m not done, Miss.”

I’m shocked! “Oh, my apologies! Please continue.”

There was such intensity in the air, I didn’t know what he was planning on saying next. Was
this another attempt at trickery? Before I could even finish my thought, he continued. “When
we got to my moms, she was outside yelling with her boyfriend. Then he pulled out his gun and
shot her. I saw her fall. I saw her there on the floor covered in blood, and…” He stops. Tears
fill his eyes, and as he looks down, I see them escaping towards the ground. Unsure of whether
to step in or allow the silence to continue, I hear, “I’m sorry, man,” followed by “I saw my mom
get killed too.” A couple boys chime in, sharing their tragic stories and at that moment, I felt so
gracious at the way they all joined together to support each other in pain, especially after months
of them picking on each other for the smallest things!

Timothy ends his presentation and quietly walks back to his seat. I freeze for a second to
gather my composure and quickly turn to my assistant who, by now, is an expert at emotional
damage control. She puts on a cheerful smile and hands him a ticket for our Friday snack store
and whispers, “Great job, son” as she taps his desk as she walks away.

Without a second passing, another student stands up to share his story. The class had taken a
slight shift as he immediately began talking about his childhood rather than his mask. His slight
lisp, which would have normally gotten him picked on, contributed to the sad tone I had never
picked up on before. “I remember my parents used to take such good care of me. They would
buy me toys and …. I just kept stealing and misbehaving and making them sad until they put me
in here. I just miss them so much and want to tell them I’m sorry. I …” and by now, the tears
had grown so large in his eyes that they had started rolling down his face and onto the checkered
tiles below. “Do you think they could ever love me again, miss?”

I was heartbroken.

Here I was, in a classroom full of teenage boys who’d been in jail, stolen cars, and attempted
murder asking me if they could never be loved. I quickly prayed for the right words to say, and
it was in this moment that I realized we had all removed our masks, even if it was just
momentarily. I could see their pain and anguish as they expressed hopes of reuniting with family
and becoming better people. I saw confused children who were desperate for healing. I saw
strength and resilience in a way I had never noticed before. These children had all been to hell
and back yet sat in my classroom day after day in an attempt at a better future. At that moment, I
promised myself that I would always give my students opportunity to share their stories when
first meeting them.

A few weeks later, a new student had begun their journey at Herman Oaks and was testing
the waters in my class. As I passed out the day’s assignment, he rolled his eyes and ripped it in
half, calling me a few names in the process. “Hey, you accidentally ripped today’s assignment!
Good thing I made you a few extras!” I say lightly as I place a second copy on his desk. Picking
it up to rip again, I hear a familiar voice, “Hey, man. She’s cool. Quit it.” Instantly, he puts the
paper down and rolls his eyes as he starts doodling on it with his pencil. I turn around and
whisper “thank you” to him as I continue walking around the room, silently thanking God for the
break. He nods and writes his name on his paper.