elizabethlevett

         Some years back I was teaching at an inner-city school where the trees were out-numbered by the cars and the children often heard gunfire at night. One of my students was a sweet, yet very troubled boy named Ezekiel. He was a tall, thin child, whose mother’s life was a continuing story of violence and misfortune. She dressed her young son in clothes that were too big, thinking he’d grow into them and keep them longer, but they always wore out quickly. His untied shoes often flew off his feet at recess. He used to come to school looking bewildered. He would shrug his shoulders often, played like a giant toddler, but was exceptionally bright, sensitive, and loved music.

         One day at recess I saw Ezekiel at the end of the schoolyard standing on a bench and ripping furiously at our single, venerable and beloved willow tree. This particular tree was the only natural thing that flourished in our schoolyard – other than the children. Its branches stretched over a little area with benches and provided peace and shade we welcomed in the heat welling up from all the concrete around us. I had no idea what had set him off, but Ezekiel was suddenly carrying on a private battle with the overhanging limbs in a rage. I wanted to run over and yell at him to stop, but something told me to walk slowly. I didn’t want to raise my voice and create more chaos around an already angry six-year-old. I just wanted to calm him down, wanted to give him something important that I couldn’t name. I remembered being a child and lying on the grass in the big yard, my head resting against the trunk of an old pepper tree, letting my gaze wander through the leaves. I could feel the safety and sweet peace of an untroubled summer afternoon and I wanted that feeling for this child.

         As I came up closer, Ezekiel stopped cold and looked at me. I didn’t want him to feel confronted so I looked away from his staring eyes and up at the tree. I stood close to him and took his hand. “Oh Ezekiel, look at the tree. Look at the branches. How does the tree look to you?” “Sad.” (Whew.) “How come the tree is sad?” “Because I was shaking it.” “Ezekiel, come on over here and let’s sit on the bench. Look up at the branches of the tree.” (He sat down close to me. He must have thought he was in trouble. The bell rang to go inside. I had to get my kids lined up.) “You can stay here if you want for a minute or two. You could even lie down on the bench. Maybe you and the tree could make up. You could tell the tree you’re sorry. You come on over get in line when you’re ready.” As I walked away I looked back. Ezekiel was lying on his back on the bench, his arms stretched over his head. His lips were moving slowly. Pretty soon he got up and wandered over to where the other kids had lined up to go in. 

         The last time I saw Ezekiel he was in Middle School. He was still extremely tall for his age but now he was very handsome, calm, and poised. He was also friendly and comfortable. We talked easily and I felt an enormous sense of gratitude. Something had saved him in the intervening years. Something good had sustained him and quieted his restless soul. Somebody had reached him and worked with him. Somehow he’d found a channel for his emotions and his gifts. Something had spoken to him finally, something important I couldn’t name.