Continued from page 6 (The Writting on the Wall)
pumped up the volume and suggested just moving to the beat, the girls all stood there, motionless. Only when I demonstrated some simple steps, instructing them to copy me, did they finally let go and start having fun. Oh, how I wanted soothing rhythms to heal their pain, uplifting movements to lighten their souls! By the time the semester ended, we had choreographed some dances. My favorite was their chorus line, in which everyone kicked in unison, arms wrapped around the shoulders of the girls on either side, oblivious of which gang they belonged to.
Meanwhile, Kathy was trying to connect with her students through artwork. Like me, she was getting some success. Many of the students had small jobs around the school in order to develop responsibility and acquire marketable skills. John’s assignment was to wipe off the cafeteria tables after lunch. One day, Kathy stopped to chat with him. He suddenly held up the liquid cleanser as if he were going to spray it at her. Kathy smiled and said, “You wouldn’t do that to me — you’re too sweet!”
No one knows whether John took that comment as a challenge or was posturing for someone nearby, but he instantly pressed the trigger, spraying burning chemicals into the face of the teacher who had befriended him. Flooding Kathy’s eyes with water was not enough. She had to be rushed to a hospital for medical care. John was tackled, handcuffed and taken to jail by the guard.
Fortunately, Kathy’s vision wasn’t permanently damaged. She returned to school the following week, still shaken from her ordeal. It was a difficult lesson to learn. We never heard what happened to John, but his actions had a profound impact on others. Even his friends agreed that what he did wasn’t cool. I was amazed at how quickly Kathy bounced back, warmly interacting with her kids again as if none of them ever had the potential for violence. She wasn’t just an art teacher; she was an art therapist in the truest sense of the word.
I don’t know how she generated the idea, but one day I arrived late and discovered rival gang members working side by side, collaborating as they began to paint a mural on the wall, the entire length of the hallway. One of the kids had written in the lower left corner, “By the graduating seniors.” My eyes met Kathy’s, and our tears flowed instantly. I walked over to hug her. We didn’t have to say a word; the wall said everything.
