Danny. Danny. Danny.

To borrow a line from my favorite show, The Sopranos, “Between [his] brain and [his] mouth, there is no interlocutor. “ He’s a good spirited kid. He’s not mean. We’ve grown fond of each other. But he just does what he does and says what he says. And the school system offers absolutely no help.

Today, I snag him as he walks behind a girl, her eyes wild in torment, as he keeps repeating, “Let me see your coochie. Let me see your coochie. …” I send him back into my room.

Last semester, when the med students were here, they ask, “Does anyone know what a homosexual is?”

Danny shoots up his hand. “That’d be butt-fuckin’ faggots.”

“Well, ah, ah, that’s not an, ah, an appropriate term. Anyhow, does anyone know what a lesbian is?”

Danny shoots back, “That’d be Alexander’s mama. Alexander’s that fat little negro sittin’ right in front of you. You can go ahead on and smack his black ass back to Africa, if you like. He don’t mind.” Alexander has some feelings about all this. At which point I have to quiet a small riot.

And stuff like this happens with Danny almost every day.

His mother is an alcoholic. His father is nowhere to be found. There is a succession of live-in boyfriends. And the mother still refuses, after all this time and repeated requests, to give Danny his meds.

When the mother disciplines Danny, she hits him with a closed fist. I know this because I stopped her once before she hit him.


Filed under: Prose, Publius