DONTE'S INFERNO

I’ll never forget Donte Williams, a 7th grade student of mine at St. Matthew’s Middle School in Detroit. Unusually small for his age, he’d sit in his chair, legs dangling, whisking the floor, thumb discreetly inserted in his mouth, sucking and daydreaming his life away. He’d stare out the window for countless hours, his mind elsewhere. I’d constantly remind him, “Donte, unless you plan on attending summer school, I suggest you start working on your class assignment.”

Always one to acknowledge my requests, he’d quickly fill in the blanks with whatever words popped into his head—never mind the word bank—and he’d draw quivery lines connecting words and terms based on fate and not fact. “I’m done,” he’d say, interjecting zero enthusiasm, a more controlled deadness in the tone of his voice. Then he’d drift back to a different time and place, his body physically here, but his mind far far away, until I’d reel him in again with the same observation, “Donte, you didn’t even try.”

One day, right before the Christmas break, a sad tired look on his face, Donte asked if he could speak to me in the hallway. “Sure,” I answered. It didn’t take him long to say what had been troubling him. “My dad beats me.” I immediately asked whether there were any physical marks and he lifted his shirt, showing me elongated crimson welts. “He uses an extension cord,” he added.

I told Donte that I had a moral and legal responsibility to report child abuse and that more than likely a social worker would visit his home. Later that week, I had learned from the principal that they were trying to locate his mother. Meanwhile, Donte continued attending class and staring out the window. I could almost imagine his thoughts: Will I get a beating after school today?

As for the father, who happened to be—of all occupations—a Detroit police officer, I tried explaining my situation after we accidentally met in the corridor, “Whenever a student tells me something of this nature, I’m legally obligated to report it.”

He, in turn, replied, “As far as I’m concerned, Social Services can keep the little son-of-a-bitch.” I saw Donte Williams once more after the holidays, then he disappeared from my life. If he had stayed in my class until the end of the school year, I would have, without a doubt, given him a social promotion to the next grade level. I saw no need in compounding his agony.