Moving Mountains

by Chris Bowen

A bagful of books in a place without hope.

Photo by Bob Riha, Jr.

You're never quite sure what you'll be called on to teach. Sure, there's reading, math, and writing. But then, there's something hovering between the lines. Sometimes it's tangible. Sometimes it's just modeling adult behavior.

Good adults give you a smile, appropriate attention, and they show up on a regular basis. Sadly, kids don't always

know what that looks like. Other times it's nothing tangible at all. You're just there to guide them. You're a catalyst.

An idea, or a feeling, has been coming into focus, and you're there to bring it into sharper view.

At our hospital school, teaching is more about what hovers between the lines, and not as much about reading and writing. Rancho Los Amigos is one of the country's top rehab facilities. You don't go there for aches and pains. You go there when your life has been changed permanently by a spinal chord injury. It can be difficult reaching a kid at the beginning of this sort of tragedy, trying to convince them that books still matter.

On the outside, the place still has its shine. New, clean brick and freshly paved parking lots. When I first saw the place, I assumed I'd find upper middle-class patients, gritting their teeth, collecting themselves, and getting on with their lives with the help of the best possible treatment. That's not what I encountered.

Sure, there's excellent care. But there are also angry voices and menacing tattoos up and down every arm. I worry that eye contact might be taken as aggression or disrespect. I notice small teardrop-shaped tattoos and learn they symbolize someone you've killed. Years ago, most spinal chord injuries were the result of birth defects or car crashes. Now, it's gunshot wounds. Even though I'm the only able-bodied guy here, I'm the only one who shows fear.

I remind myself that fear is a luxury. It says, "I have things in my life worth losing." The simple act of feeling is a luxury, too. Sometimes, just briefly, I wish I were harder. Maybe a bullet wound to show. But only for a moment.

I come bearing a bagful of books. You can still open up a younger kid with a good book. There's still enough hope inside a little kid that a good book can attach itself to. But here on the second floor, we're all out of hope. I know my books are just props, like holding a drink at a party. Just something to hold in your hand.

I find the right room, and a gentler face than those in the hallway greets me. I don't see any tattooed teardrops so that's a good sign. Maybe I have a shot at this guy with the right book. But our conversation is stunted. I stare out the window searching for small talk. I digress right into weather.

"Looks like rain again tonight."

He gives me a polite, "hmm."

"You can't even see the mountains today." Something about the mountains catches his attention.

"Mountains? What mountains?" I point north through the windows.

"Those mountains. Right over there. You can't see them at all today." He cranes his neck from the bed.

"Mountains? There are mountains in the parking lot?" He smirks.

"No. Right through those trees," I say and he laughs.

"You crazy. There are no mountains here." He's not kidding. He's a Southern California native and he really has no clue that you can usually see mountains on a good day. No idea. His world is so small that he missed the mountain range sitting in his backyard.

"Look," I say, "Tomorrow morning, look right out past those trees, and you'll see mountains." Again he cranes his neck, this time squinting into the gray sky.

"Oh, now you a mountain mover. You just gonna whoop up a mountain out there."

"That's right," I laugh, "I'm a mountain mover. I'm going to move a mountain just for you. Put it right out there for you to see. Faith of a mustard seed," I add, but he misses that one.

The next morning feels like Christmas. Before I've poured my first cup of coffee, I stand in my driveway, searching for mountains. And there they are. You can't miss them. I actually feel as if I've had something to do with those mountains showing up.

Me and my bagful of books pass through the hospital school's lobby that afternoon. When I walk into the room, my student is sitting up in bed, pointing out the window.

"There's mountains out there!" he says with his voice jumping octaves. I nod and point too. We don't say anything for a while. It's as if we are keeping a secret. It reminds me of an old sales technique I used to use. See, when you're closing a deal and you're at that critical moment where they may buy or walk away, you don't talk. You simply push the contract in front of the customer. And you wait.

While my student stares out at the mountains, I quietly pull a book from my bag and place it in front of him. I don't say a word. He picks it up and checks out the cover.

"I think we were reading this in my English class."

The deal is closed and the book is open. It feels a lot like moving mountains.

Chris Bowen teaches third grade at Pace Elementary School in Downey, California, and in the afternoon, he teaches students who can't come to a school building.