Roberto

Roberto died two weeks ago the victim of a senseless act of violence.  He was not my most remarkable student, but I was, after all, his teacher for three years (two of them consecutive).  He became a part of my life and part of my consciousness.  With guilt, I remember him as an easily distracted boy prone to irritating me with his lack of attention.  Why do we always look back and think, “If only…”, when it’s too late, and maybe was never in the range of possibilities?  Yet I can’t help but wonder if I could have made a better impact on his life.  I had time on my side.  Three years!  Why couldn’t I see that his destiny needed tweaking? 

On the playground Beto often unleashed his hot temper in an effort to settle childish disputes; about what?  I no longer remember.  I sent him for discipline more than once during those three years that I taught him, but I never convinced him to choose an alternative manner for resolving problems.  We discussed why hurting people never solved issues and discouraged finger pointing as a way of justifying anger, yet somehow that never pierced his essence.  In his chaotic life violence seemed the easiest resolution. 
  

What value is a life?  Who will remember the silly little boy who voraciously ripped open a package of “Lunchables” to retrieve the “Pokémon” trading cards and then throw away the food (for which his low-income mother overpaid)?  Who held the little boy who cried for a mother too busy mourning the death of another son to hear the sobs of her youngest?  And who will comfort the mother who now has another son to mourn? 

As for me, all I can do is ponder.  There once was a boy named Roberto who isn’t anymore.