DAE-DAE AND HIS REPLACEMENT

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
—Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus”

This is what’s left of Dae-Dae: A crumpled up self-portrait I dug out of the trash. He’s been missing in action. He’s in a red cell. They gassed his stomach because he swallowed eight AAA batteries. He’s internalizing his demons; letting them move inward from his arms and shoulders which sport years of cutting. Still, mental healthcare staff is unimpressed with his latest antics.

“We got one guy in 5-block,” a male nurse tells us in the employee lunchroom, “who swallowed an entire electrical box. He had to have it surgically removed.”

Impressive is an understatement; we are in awe.

In my first hour classroom I have this new student, Dae-Dae’s replacement. He sits on the opposite side of my desk and uses its surface to do his assignments. With each stroke of his pencil, with each calculation, he begs encouragement. Guided practice has become the norm. He’s too serious about perfection to make decisions on his own and rarely smiles.

One day I crack a joke and for the first time he laughs—not one of those small self-controlled chuckles, no, his laugh is guttural, rises up from the belly and splashes across the room like a tidal wave.

That’s when I noticed his forked-tongue. “What in the hell ever possessed you to do that?” I asked.

He tells me about his past employment in a tattoo shop, how a regular customer encouraged him to have it done.

“That had to hurt like hell,” I said.

“It swelled up pretty good,” he acknowledged, “but you’d be surprised how fast the body heals.”

His conversation turns personal. He tells me about his ailments, his hobbies, how he misses being with family. I let him have this moment. I continue listening. I consider it an investment in his education.

When class has ended I wonder about Dae-Dae. I know he’ll return as soon as he passes those batteries, as soon as another space becomes available in my classroom.