but for the grace of god . . .

I volunteered to help in Kooka's class. I'd homeschooled her for two years - no way I could send her off into the wild blue yonder without my occasional interference. So every Tuesday I show up, and do whatever I am asked.

Today it was handwriting.

And the spitter was on my list.

Remember him? First week - spitting in Kooka's hair - never sits still, always sent to the principal's office, talking out of turn.

Lucky me.

So there we sit - the two of us. We are writing numbers - and as I expect, his handwriting is about as nice as his reported behavior. So he plops down at the table and starts to write. My job is to make sure he starts at the top of the line and make his letters the right way.

He starts at the bottom.

"OK, dude," I tell him, "What we have to do on this page is start at the top - right where that little green dot is."

"Why?"

"That's what the rules in this book tell us to do."

"Who made those rules? Why are there so many rules? Can't I just make this stupid six however I want?"

"Well, sometimes people who write school books try to give us rules to make our brains think about something in a certain way.

"Yeah, but whoever wrote this book does not get how my brain works - because this makes nooooooooo sense."

Whoa.
Whoa.

Where had I heard THAT before?

Not three years ago - at my own kitchen table. I cannot count the times that Punk had said them - still does sometimes. And suddenly, the spitter was somebody else - the spitter was a kid who could be helped with a little creative thinking, and maybe even a little hallway homeschooling. He was not a bad kid - just hated pointless rules - and really - who can blame him?

So I say to him, "That is a really good point Spitter. And I agree - sometimes rules do not make sense and we have to make up some new ones. So tell me how your brain works Spitter - what is in there?"

"Cars - a lot of cars are in there."

"OK. So we are gonna make this eight. We are going over the hill first."

"Why?"

"Because that is the way the road goes - otherwise we will smash into other cars."

"Alright."

"But at the top of the hill - there is a cliff we didn't see - and he falls all the way to the bottom - AAAGGGGGGGHHHH! Come on - you can scream . . . "

So he does - the two of us out there falling down cliffs, and then chugging slowly back up to the top. Three tries later - he is making eights the "right" way.

He tries a seven. "Oooooh - ooooh - this one starts at the green dot too, " he says. "And then the wind blows him sideways, and he falls down another cliff - but this one is so steep he can't even get back up - so he stays down there."

"Perfect, " I tell him - and we do the fist bump - but gently - because as he says, you never want to hurt somebody when you are trying to tell them "good job."

Soon he has a page full of numbers and a smile on his face.

I send him back into class and sit there for a minute. I think about what would have happened to Punk, if I had dropped him off at the door in kindergarten. I do not think he would be a hitter, or a screamer, or even a spitter. But I have no doubt he would have asked too many questions, talked out of turn, and wondered who made up all of these stupid rules.

So on behalf of all the struggling Punks out there, the ones who need a kitchen table more than they need a supervised study hall, I will keep going to Kooka's class - even if I never get to work with her at all.

Rock on Spitter.

Rock on.