The first twenty minutes hadn’t been great. I stood in front of the 5^th-grade class, most of them looking bored, and tried my best to make pre-writing fun. Pre-writing isn’t fun. Graphic organizers are boring.  Webs with bubbles and phrases like “How did it feel?” and “What could I hear?” and “”What did I see?” are the worst part of writing. Most writers I know skip pre-writing altogether, but 5^th-graders aren’t most writers. They’re eleven-year-olds with a standardized test coming up in two weeks.

“Close your eyes,” I said. “Go to your favorite place in Charleston. Pretend you’re blindfolded, standing still. Now listen. Listen to everything going on around you.” I gave them one minute to listen. Half of the students opened their eyes and stared, confused. One boy in the back corner started swaying, with a smile, Ray Charles at a piano.

“Now open your eyes and fill in the bubbles. What did you hear?”  Volunteers were sitting with the students, helping them focus. We were trying to help them learn to paint with words, to go beyond hearing “people” and instead hear a child laughing while they’re running from a wave, or people telling the server they want the buffet in the Chinese restaurant.

We were disappointed. They heard “people”. With a lot of prodding they finally heard “people talking”. They tasted “hot food”. Only one girl offered an over-the-top feeling of “seashells that feel like knives poking my feet until I’m about to die.”

One boy, Nathan, tapped me on my arm while I was helping a girl describe an amusement park.

“I’m done,” he said.

“You’re done?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, holding up his paper as proof. Three quarters of the page was filled with double-spaced lines.

“I can’t wait to read it,” I told him. “I’ll come over in just a minute.”

When I finished helping the girl, I walked over to Nathan’s desk. He smiled and stood up beside his chair.

“See?” he asked, holding up his paper again.

“I see that. Let me read it.”

I stood beside him and read. It wasn’t very good, but I could see that he had really tried. He wrote about Ryan’s, a buffet in West Ashley, and described the “comfortable chair” and the “hard plates” and the “wet water.” I finished reading and reminded myself that for every discouraging day like this, there are three other days where you can see the students improving, catching up to national standards, discovering their voice and learning to love it. I looked around the room at a few of the other students, some talking, some fighting over a pencil. I thought about how hard it must be for one teacher to get anything accomplished. We have fewer volunteers working in this class than any other we go to. It’s one volunteer to five kids, and even this ratio is almost impossible.

I handed his paper back to him, and smiled. “I’m proud of you. Thanks for putting in the work.” I gave him a high-five.

“I wish you were my dad,” he told me.

I’d never talked to Nathan before. He’s always been in another volunteer’s group. It was only the second day I even remember seeing him.

“Really? Why?”

“Because you’re nice.”

“Your dad’s not nice?”

“He’s nice, but he’s never said that.”

I stood there for a few more seconds, a little uncomfortable, not sure what to say. Nathan sat down and started to write his name and the date on top of his paper.

When we left the class, I started thinking about my dad, about how we’re going to Florida in two weeks to watch some spring training baseball games, the way we did when I was a kid. I thought about all of the times he told me he was proud of me when I was growing up, even when I struck out, or ran too slow. I thought about last Father’s Day when I called home. He told me I was his hero.  I was 29 years old and felt like a failure. Most of the things I’d tried in my life hadn’t worked out. I’d made less money that year than I did my junior year of high school. To him, it didn’t matter. His son was his hero.

********

I drove to the next school we were going to that day, and sat in my car until it was time to go in. I couldn’t quit thinking about Nathan, and how sad it was that it took so little to fill such a huge need in his life. A high-five. Ten words. Why do some parents leave such a gaping void in their child’s heart, one so big that a high-five and ten words can seep in and explode into a stranger becoming family?

For the next two hours, I stopped caring about 4^th and 5^th grade national standards for writing, and stopped begging students not to start a story with “This is a story about”.  Instead, I looked around at all of the volunteers, and the students huddled around their tables. I saw Maliek, who I swear you would not be able to see him smile the way he does when you mention a fire truck and not want to make his life perfect. One of our volunteers, Nicole, took Maliek and several of his friends Christmas shopping a few months ago. He spent the money she gave him on his family, and only bought one little fire truck for himself. I saw Jabril, a 5^th grader that has built such a strong bond with another volunteer that he cried when he found out she had to miss that day. Not just a tear or two, but a puddle of tears pooled on a round wooden library table.  It was my favorite two hours of SideWalk Chalk all year. Looking around the room, I remembered why we are here. We help students create. Stories. Art. Life.

A teacher in one of the classes we partner with told me this morning that every student’s score in her class went up on their mid-year MAP test. The measurable results feel good, and help us win grants and all of that stuff, but the results there are no tests for are the ones we’re really after. Confidence. Hope. Fire truck smiles.

A few weeks ago, a volunteer had to come late to a session in a new school. It was only our second week there. When she opened the door the classroom erupted in cheers. It doesn’t take much. A high-five. Ten words. Coming back a second time.

It takes so little.