Autumn  pumpkin  ale  and  crispy  corn  fritters  in  bacon  aioli  sauce  occupied  

my  mind  as  the  waiter  walked  up  to  take  our  order.      

  “Good  evening.  Welcome  to  B.J.’s.  Can  I  start  you  off  with  a  drink?”  I  stared  

into  his  handsome  face,  clean  cut,  smoothly  elegant,  so  Latino  and  …  vaguely  familiar  

to  me.  Stop  it,  Mandy.  You  don’t  know  all  the  Mexicans  in  McKinney  and  Allen.  Our  

beer  —  in  the  blink  of  an  eye.  In  a  snap  —  the  appetizer.  Stellar  service.    

  “What  can  I  get  you  for  dinner?”’    

  “I’ll  have  the  salmon  chipotle.”    

  “You  mean  the  cherry  chipotle  salmon?”  he  said,  correcting  me  with  a  gentle  

smile.  

  While  eating,  I  coughed.    A  bit  of  couscous  in  the  windpipe.  Like  magic,  the  

waiter  at  my  shoulder,  offering  a  glass  of  water.  No,  not  possibly  the  same  boy.  

Couldn’t  happen.  

***  

  A  boy,  thirteen  years  old,  but  the  personification  of  the  devil  if  I  ever…one  of  

the  worst  students  I  ever  had  in  my  class.  He  mumbled,  “Chinga”  under  his  breath,  

glared  with  the  blackest,  baneful  eyes  imaginable.  From  bell  to  bell,  quipped,  

snickered,  slouched,  and  led  two  his  two  worshipping  understudies  to  the  same.  I  

tried  everything  I  could  think  of.  In  a  group  of  three,  I  offered  them  guided  reading  

from  The  Dangerous  Book  for  Boys.  Hopefully,  the  rest  of  the  class  could  read,  and  

maybe  they  could,  too.    

  “Israel,  it’s  your  turn  to  pick  a  story.”  

  “Slingshots.”  

  Five  minutes  later,  after  I  finally  got  them  quiet,  he  read  one  sentence  and  

laughed.    

  “What’s  one  detail  the  author  tells  us  will  make  a  better  slingshot?”  

  He  wouldn’t  answer,  but  pointed  at  a  picture  and  said  something  in  Spanish  

to  the  others.  They  chuckled  and  replied  in  his  language.  

  “English,  only,  please,  boys.”  

  “What’s  this  word,  miss?”  

  “Secure.”  

  We  never  finished  a  single  story  during  guided  reading.  The  boys  answered  

some  questions  for  points  to  receive  candy.  I  worried  the  rest  of  the  students  

couldn’t  concentrate  because  it  was  always  full  of  loud  laughing  and  playing  around.    

  Israel  got  into  a  world  of  trouble  in  another  teacher’s  class  and  landed  in  ISS  

for  50  days.  How  would  he  pass  the  TAKS  test?  We  worked  on  individual  skills  and  

explanations  for  assignments  each  day  during  my  conference  period.  He  was  like  ice,  

wouldn’t  look  me  in  the  eye,  said  nothing.  When  he  failed  the  test,  I  felt  like  a  failure.  

I  never  found  the  right  thing  to  turn  his  attitude  around.  The  next  year  his  English  

teacher  said  she  had  a  great  relationship  with  him  and  he  passed  TAKS  Reading.  Oh,  

well.  So  much  for  my  best  efforts.  

***  

  Our  waiter  approached  the  couple  behind  us.    

  “Hello.  Welcome  to  B.J.’s.  My  name  is  Israel,  and  I’ll  be  your  waiter  tonight.”  

  Could  it  be  the  same  boy?  

  When  he  came  to  bring  us  our  bill,  I  said,  “Where  are  you  from?”  

  “McKinney.”  

  “Did  you  go  to  Dowell?”  

  “Are  you  Mrs.  Griffith?”  

  “Were  you  in  my  class?”  

  “I  was  a  terrible  troublemaker  back  then.  Football  turned  my  life  around  in  

high  school.  I’m  going  to  college.”  

  “What  are  you  studying?”  

  “Business  Administration.”  

  “I’m  so  proud  of  you.  You’re  so  polite  and  good  at  your  job.”  

  “It’s  hard  working  so  many  hours  and  going  to  school.”  

  “People  who  have  it  easy  and  don’t  have  to  work  won’t  be  as  prepared  when  

they  get  out  into  the  world.  This  will  pay  off.”  

  He  reached  down  and  hugged  me  though  I’d  now  shaken  his  hand  twice.    

  Teachers  don’t  know  what  effect  they  may  have  on  a  child  until  years  later.  

An  educator  provides  guidance  that  may  appear  not  to  be  accepted,  but  it  is  filed  

away  and  treasured.    A  teacher  who  cares  is  a  building  block  for  that  child’s  future.  

When  I  mentioned  the  teacher  who  had  him  the  next  year,  Israel  didn’t  even  

remember  her,  but  he  remembered  me.  Why?  When  you  work  one  on  one  with  a  

student  repeatedly,  no  matter  what  that  student  says,  he  or  she  knows  you  really  

want  to  help  and  make  a  difference.