By Coleen Armstrong

Eventually our class discussions all came back to one subject: the group itself. The kids never tired of talking about how well they thought they were all getting along.
 
“Wouldn't you say we're the best class you've ever had?” they prodded. “Don't you look forward to seeing us every day?”
 
Actually, I did. Sometimes the mix of students seemed like a hand dealt by the devil; other times I got just plain lucky, with a match made in heaven.
 
That was the case this time with my all-male senior auto-mechanics class fulfilling their last English requirement before graduation, a group of remarkable closeness, with an even more remarkable willingness to verbalize it.
 
Debates, though often heated, allowed each person to have his say. Sometimes I just sat back and listened, while the class covered girls and dating, relationships with parents, fears of the future.
 
Left alone, they let down their guards, confessed to hurts and disappointments, even tested loyalty's limits––and then shared their findings.
 
Marty's car broke down one Friday night, leaving him stranded on the freeway at 1:30 a.m. He’d phoned Mike for a ride home.
 
“Couldn't you have called before I fell asleep?” Mike groused later in front of the class. But he was grinning, clearly pleased that Marty had been able to count on him.
 
Jeff was becoming a bit of a blowhard, his long-winded opinions increasingly pointless. Steve and Marc took him aside, cautioning him that the more a person rambled, the less he was heard. Jeff nodded. “I'll try to watch it,” he said. Steve and Marc told the class they were proud to have handled the problem.

Issues which in another setting might have erupted into angry name-calling were in this group openly addressed. Did Jamie brag too much about his newly restored car, or were the others just jealous? Did Brett have a mutually trusting relationship with his girlfriend, or was he just using her? Was Rob's depression serious, or was he just self-absorbed?
 
Bottom-line conclusions were rarely reached, but that didn't matter. The group was contented with working through. They repeatedly congratulated themselves on their unity and open-mindedness.
 
Until one day, when a previously silent member of the class, seated far away from the group, spoke up.
 
“I'm tired of hearing about how close we all are,” Bob said, “because I don't think it's true.” 
 
Huh? Around him, several jaws fell.
 
“Can you guys handle the truth?” he demanded. “About eighteen of you are close and care for each other. The other six...it's like we're invisible.”
 
Embarrassed silence hung in the air. It took a few moments for this new awareness to sink in. Was it possible for one person in a relationship to feel satisfied and fulfilled, while another felt miserable and isolated?
 
“The truth is,” Bob continued, “I'm tired of waiting to be included. At this point, frankly, I've got no use for any of you.”
 
Discontented rumbling. A few faces went dark with anger. “That's your problem, man,” one boy shot back.
 
“No, it isn't,” I said, entering the conversion for the first time. “If you say you're a close class, then that has to include everyone, not just some of you.”
 
Well, this was going to be harder than they'd thought. Relationships were tough. Not only was each one different, the same one was different for each person. It took more than love. It took trust, understanding, hard work, empathy, and insight. Sometimes things broke down. Sometimes you had to go backward and start over. 
 
So, for at least a week, the group was subdued. Bob still sat apart from everyone else. But once or twice someone specifically asked for his opinion, and briefly, he gave it.
 
Then, one day, Mike was organizing their monthly get-together. The group had been meeting every fourth Saturday at 11:00 p.m. in a shopping mall's parking lot to check out each other's speakers, tires, and paint jobs.
 
“So,” Mike said, wrapping up, “will everybody be there?” Nods all around. Someone turned to Bob and asked, “Will you come too?”
 
Seconds passed. “I might,” he replied.
 
Satisfied, the class turned its attention elsewhere. I watched Bob for just a moment longer, as he stared at his feet and tried to hide a smile.

Coleen Armstrong’s distinguished teaching career includes several state and national recognition awards.  She is the author of Please Don’t Call My Mother:  How Schools and Parents can Work Together to Get Kids Back on Track and The Truth about Teaching:  What I Wish the Veterans had Told Me.