David.

When I first met David, he didn’t utter a word. On the day I had to leave him, he told my everything I never imagined I would hear… how he thought he did on the math test, what he’d been doing with his dad on the weekends, and why he was excited to go to middle school. Over the almost two-year span of time that I had known David, he had changed and had finally learned to talk to me and open up to me, and as I walked him back to class for the last time, I was basking in the trust that I had earned from him. And it was in that moment that I felt my heart break in two.

David was a Hispanic student at the elementary school near my house, and I met him when during my junior year of high school when I volunteered with a mentoring program at the elementary school. I walked in on the first day of the program with the expectation of meeting an excited, energetic fourth grader who would be so happy to meet me. Instead, when I introduced myself to David, he stared at the wall behind me and barely nodded when his teacher explained that I was there to help him with his assignments.

We walked to the library with one of his textbooks, a pencil, and some paper. I went to the file cabinet for the mentoring program, got out his folder, and marked what time I arrived. As much as I tried, David wouldn’t say anything for the whole half hour that I was there. He only nodded. After the morning announcements came on, I wrote down what time I was leaving and put the folder away before I walked him back to class. I told him I’d see him next week, and he only kept walking until he was seated at his desk, not once making eye contact. I left to go to my own school that morning, and on the way I called my mom feeling incredibly discouraged. I was convinced that he didn’t like me and he didn’t want me to be there. I was upset and regretting my decision to join the program.

Despite my disheartenment on the first day I spent with David, I went back. Over the next three months or so, he finally worked his way up to saying “yes” or “no,” so I learned how to make decent conversation using only questions that could be answered with those words. If I asked anything else, I would only get silence as an answer, no matter how long I patiently awaited a longer reply. Occasionally his one word responses would be accompanied by something that resembled a slight smile, and other times they would come with only a continued gaze at the table we were sitting at.

One day we finished working early, so I decided we should play a game. We walked together to the section of the library where the games for the mentoring program were stored, and David picked up checkers. We set up the game and he chose to use the black pieces as his, leaving me with the red ones. He already knew the rules, so we dove right in. Within five minutes David had already jumped and won three or four of my pieces. This kid was good, and I wasn’t even letting him win! After about twenty minutes, he had gotten all of my pieces but two, and I surrendered. He had obviously won. That day was a turning point.

The next week when I went to see David, we finished early again and I suggested we go find a game. After staring blankly at the games for a moment, he took my suggestion and chose Mancala, a board game with marbles. I taught him how to play, and while I would take my turns, I asked him questions. I learned that day that he like to play soccer with his dad and brothers. That was a victory for me, and I remember leaving to go to school that day feeling like I was on top of the world.

In the weeks that came, we continued our still-limited conversation. Summer was approaching, so I didn’t know how much progress could still be made in the short time we had left. At the end of the year, I was very slowly beginning to learn bits and pieces about David as he ventured barely beyond “yes” and “no.”

The next school year, I was a senior, and David was in fifth grade. I started going back to the mentoring program in October, and Monday was the day I would go in and work with David. His teacher sent us to the library with a book called “Number the Stars,” and we sat for nearly an hour and read. I asked him to read aloud, but he didn’t want to, so I settled for letting him read one page and telling me when he finished. Then we would talk about it. The book was about the holocaust, and as I tried to help him understand some of the religious terms in the book, I could tell his thoughts were really getting some strength to them as he tried to figure out the meanings. Even when he guessed wrong he still seemed almost excited that he’d been able to get close to the right answers.

After the class finished that book, the teacher would give us science and other subjects to work on. If I gave him the opportunity to stop and think about it or look it up in one of his books, David would almost always come up with the correct answer. His confidence was rising, and to put it simply, it made me happy. A few weeks later, the class started to read a book called “Hatchet.” I gave David the option of reading silently like we had done on the last book or reading out loud. Surprisingly, he chose to read the book aloud to me. He read well, and never had to ask for help with pronouncing a word, despite the fact that he didn’t grow up in an English-speaking home.

All I could do was sit back and enjoy his success alongside him. I had long since stopped recording my time on David’s file, because it had become more of a hope for friendship than an obligation for me to be there. Our days became a routine of working on an assignment, then playing a game. We would always play checkers or mancala, and every single time, he beat me, no matter which one we were playing. In the crazy days of my senior year, my time with David became a source of sanity and tranquility for me, because I felt that neither silence nor our now-comfortable conversations were awkward any more.

I never saw David’s grades, but what I saw in his work was only improvements. I got extremely busy with my job and schoolwork, and my visits to the elementary school became sporadic. I didn’t go for weeks at a time, and I felt guilty about not going. When I finally got to return to my routine, David welcomed me back with a friendly game of checkers (he won, as always) and we talked about what had been going on in his life since we’d last spoken. At that point, the year was about to come to a close. One night reality hit me right between the eyes, and I realized that soon I would have to stop my routine of spending time with my friend. I would be graduating soon and moving to Athens to begin my new life in college, and he would me moving up to middle school. The night that I realized that truth was a difficult one, and I spent hours sitting with my mom and crying until I didn’t have any tears left. I wanted to give David a note and a small present at the end of the year, but I couldn’t buy him the candy that I wanted to because I couldn’t bring myself to face the reality that it would become my goodbye gift to him. One week after all of my exams were finished, I finally bought a bag of Smarties, packaged them up, and made a card for him. The message I wrote inside was the simple truth that I was proud of him, and I thanked him for the opportunity to be his friend for two years.

The last day that I walked into Pleasant Grove Elementary School, I knew it would be difficult even to hand him the card and the bag of candy. I went and got him from his classroom and we walked around and talked after I gave him the gift. I asked him how he thought he did on the previous week’s standardized testing, and he openly shared that he didn’t think he did well on the math section. Without my asking, he shared details, and I felt a tear roll down my cheek. I wiped it away before he could see, and I asked him if he’d been playing soccer with his dad and brothers lately. He said no, and explained that he’d been helping his dad with projects around the house lately. He talked to me like I was his friend, not some intimidating older person. He talked to me instead of staring at the wall behind me, and it was then I realized that he had opened up to me weeks ago, and we were finally friends. I had earned his trust, and it felt amazing. This quiet little boy had given me a chance despite the fact that I never thought he would care about me, and now we were chatting it up like the old buddies that we had become. We eventually walked back to his classroom and I explained to him that I wouldn’t be able to come back next year, and besides, he would be in middle school anyway. I asked him if I could have a farewell hug and he smiled and obliged me.

I said goodbye to him for the last time and walked out the front doors of the elementary school. I felt as if my heart had just been dropped on the floor and had cracked into two completely separate pieces like a broken vase. I didn’t even get to my car before I let out a loud sob, and I stopped trying to hold it in. I cried all the way to school. I cried until all the makeup I’d had on was gone from my face, and I cried so hard that I had to stop in the grocery store parking lot and wait until I could see clearly again to drive the rest of the way to school. I must have looked upset when I got to school, because a friend asked me what was wrong, and I cried all over again. I couldn’t believe that I’d just left my friend for the last time, and my tears were evidence of the love I’d grown to feel for him. I gave up on controlling my sorrow and confessed the whole story to my friend, and somehow I felt better. I had shared David’s story with someone else, and it felt all the more victorious to hear myself tell it. That feeling of victory was enough to get me through the day, and when I got home I prayed with all my heart that I’d made as much of an impact upon David as he had made on me. I will never forget David, and my one hope is that somehow the love in my heart made a difference in his heart, his life, and his future.