But Teacher, I Am trying (My Best)

I see them.
all the time
the youth
the young
or some may call them
the so-called disenfranchised youth
and the misunderstood, or the unusual.

I see them and think
how this usually brings us around
to the reason why
there are differences
at the different tables
in the school’s cafeteria.

I see them, the kids
or the distant ones
or perhaps some may assume
they are the unreachable ones.
And I see them
as those who live
with the burden of youth,
which to us
or to the grown mind
what could be so bad
or so burdensome
when all you are or
all you’re supposed to do
is be a kid?

I see how kids can
lose to the weight of their ideas
or the thoughts
which breed contempt
and confusion.

Where to go
how to dress,
what to say
where to sit
and remember,
where you go,
stay, or where you’re invited to
means everything
when you’re a kid.

Everything is divided between
us and them,
they and theirs—and this is said
as if to show the division
between us and them
they and theirs.

I understand that the burdens you find
when you are young
may seem unimportant now
or maybe we wonder why
they were as burdensome
back then, when in fact, nothing
was ever as bad as we assumed.

But no one can convince you
of this when you’re stuck in your room
or when your first girlfriend
breaks your heart
or makes you look like a fool

I understand that
age changes our perspective
and so,
all of our youthful burdens are easier
once they’re gone
or maybe burdens never go away;
they just change to something else

I think about the rift
and the difference between age
or how parents or the powers that be
say things like
“You’ll understand when you get older.”

And I wonder
and I wondered back then too.
What does it mean to me
or to a kid
when someone older looks down
and say,
“You’ll understand when you get older,”
because the fact was, I wasn’t older,
and how is that helpful?

I wondered . . .
Was it that long ago
that you were young once too?
We were all young once
and living life
for the first time.

I see them and wonder
does anyone else
see what I see,
or am I only seeing this subjectively
and assuming that others
think like me?

I never asked to be the one
who either sat up front
or in the back of the class.
And I never asked to be small, or puny
or look like I do.
I never wanted to be ugly
or too skinny
or too weak.

I certainly never asked to be stupid
or to the one
who failed to understand
or be that kid
who failed miserably
and the one who failed
all the time.

I wasn’t told until I was older
No, you’re not stupid . . .
 . . .you just needed to find a different way
to retain information

And when you do
or when it clicks,
trust me, you’re smarter than you think
and stronger too
because it was you who taught you
what you know
and it was you
who saved your own life
all those years ago.

That, my friend
is strength.

I remember the failures
or the failed feelings
of being lost
or misunderstood

But teacher, I am trying
(my best)

It would be wrong to think
that youth is impervious to
pain when it comes
to the words
“constructive criticism.”

I never asked for this . . .
 . . . you know?

No one asks
to be the one who stutters
or to be considered slow
or “delayed,” or remedially
handicapped
and no  . . .
No one wants to be the one
who cannot understand
or have to be excused
and go to a special class

I can tell you what I was told.
“You need to apply yourself!”
I tried.
“You’re not listening.”
But I was.
“You’re not paying attention!”
and so, I assumed . . .
maybe I am stupid
like I was told by the bullies
on the playground
or maybe the reason
they laugh at me
is because it’s true
I’m not like
the other kids
and at best
I should be applauded
because I finally learned
how to tie my shoelaces . . .

And dig it –
I understand this sounds
extreme
or possibly excessive
but to me
this fit.

Pay attention?
For what?

I’m not smart enough
to understand
to begin with
and if what I was told
was true
and if the counselors who guided me
were right
at best, I could pump gas
or dig ditches
for a living

I should go where my talents lead me
which, according to my authorities
would be jail
at best, if not an early grave.
and no, this is not an exaggeration
and neither was the humiliation
exaggerated when being taunted
or called stupid
or told that I should give in now
because at best,
being a drain on our society
was all I could ever be

Or so I thought
or so I was told
or at least to me,
so it seemed.
And so it goes
when you’re just a kid
and can’t keep up.

I defy the flock
and the herd and I defied
the so-called shepherds
or the so-called priests
and I defied
the authorities and the systems
the institutions
and I defied the labels
and diagnosis
which I was given.

How do you tell a twelve-year-old
you’re emotionally disturbed?

And just to be clear—

No one ever asks
to disappoint their parents
or to be a disappointment
and certainly
no one wants to be disappointed
with themselves
or learn that at best,
all I can be is subpar
or substandard
and in the case
of my diagnosed dilemmas
at best, all I could do
is be comfortable
with being a disappointment.

I often wondered
why my teachers began with their trade
or was this their career
and was their problem that
they had dreams that failed them?
And if so, maybe this is why they were miserable.
And so, maybe they passed their failures
like a torch the same as bullies
pass their hatred from within
and maybe this is the same
as how the sick pass
their social viruses
so no one is sick by themselves.

I swore this was all too brutal to consider
But I always wished
that I was brave enough to inquire.

But teacher,
let me ask you
where is your heart?
Where is your understanding?

Perhaps you have mistaken my laziness
with the fact that words run on when I read
and sentences bleed into the next
so I can’t remember
or understand
And math?
Math are numbers that appear
like a different language
and while I sit in front of you,
did you ever notice the look on my face?

Did you not see the struggle
or were you too blind
to see the disappointment
in my eyes
when I’d try
but no matter how I tried,
my retention fell short
and my understanding
was off —and so, none of this
was because I was not trying
or that I was lazy
or that I was not paying attention.

The complexity of your simple terms
led me astray
and so, I lost myself
and I lost my interest because why bother?
Why try
if I’ll never get it
or understand?

Years ago,

I saw one of my old teachers
walking down the stairs
at a nearby diner—and at first,
I thought about the revenge
I swore upon.
I had promised myself
that if ever, or whenever
I would execute an ungodly attack
to likes
that even Satan
would be disturbed.

This man . . .
he was one of the worst to me
and I saw him
same as he was,
still as miserable as he used to be

He was the same as when  
I was small and afraid
and frightened of him.

But I had grown
and so did my rage
and even if I hadn’t grown
the size of my small pistol
hidden in my coat
was bigger than him

Either way,
I wasn’t frightened anymore
and yet,
I saw him differently.
I saw him with contempt
yes, but more like a waste.

I fast forward to now
and where I am
or how I am . . .
I wonder how he would be
to know that I do college lectures
or that I have been flown across the country
to help other kids
who were like me

I never matched his predictions.
I never died like he predicted
or like he told the other students
about me,
“Kimmel is gonna be dead
before he turns
18, and when he does
I’m going to laugh
and dance on his grave.”

I am far older than 18
and alive
and far mor successful
than he anticipated, but more

I am far more successful
than him as a human.

I wonder
what I would say
if I could sit with him now.
And I wonder what he would say
when he learned the truth about me
or how hard life was

I wonder what he would say
if he knew that he was one
of the people I thought about
when I tried to kill myself
because at best
this is all I thought I could be.

I have to believe that what I saw
was him at his worst
and somehow
beneath the shit,
there was a beaten man
like I was a beaten kid.

I’m sorry for who I was and what I did to you sir.
I’m sorry for the hate and the contempt
I held in my heart.
I’m sorry that I assumed the worst about you
same as you assumed the worst about me.

And I’m sorry for the day at the diner
that wasn’t me
that was only a version
or me being the beast
that people like you
claimed me to be

Sleep well, sir.
I hope the angels took kindly to you