An E for Effort 460 words

Jerome Hubbard had been all over the news, his handsome face haunted me when it went viral over the Internet, it was plastered on the cover of every newspaper in the nation, and even some magazines. His story was intriguing in an oddly perverse way, but it seemed like most of America had forgotten he was a murderer. Rather, most people couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor kid.

Jerome had been the main topic of discussion in our break room for nearly a month. I couldn’t believe ten years had passed since he was a student at Cassidy High School, but what was even more surprising was how people simply wouldn’t let it go.

"I heard he's been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder," Mrs. Kline whispered to us just three days before the trial.

"I thought that only happened to soldiers," said Coach Johnson.

A few of the teachers turned their heads politely, so he did not see him laugh at the comment.

"No, John," Mrs. Green, the school guidance counselor said in a soft voice, "Children can also suffer from this disorder, and in Jerome's case, it's a definite possbility."

Principal Chalmers, who rarely participated in teacher gossip, had fallen victim to the obsession.

"I wonder what made him do such a thing after all this time?" she said, looking sadly at the headline of the morning paper, "At least the media has given him some dignity. After all that poor kid went through, it's a wonder he gradauted college."

I didn't feel the need to chime in. Everyone knew my position on the subject. This whole thing, despite the protests of my co-workers and my husband, was entirely my fault. My intentions had been good, but as they say, the road to hell was paved by good intentions, and the guilt I felt over ruining his life would stay with me forever.

With the world obsessing over Jerome's story and the shock of a seemingly normal kid doing something so awful, I couldn't help but feel a little more than slightly awkward when Mrs. Green called me to her office and aplogized for not listening to my warning. I suppose it was because no one, except for me, found anything particularly odd about him at the time.

In all my years of teaching, my gut always told me when something was going on with one of the kids, and I always acted on it, no matter how ridiculous it sounded to the other teachers. With Jerome, in particular, I could sense something was wrong the day he entered my classroom. No one believed me, including Mrs. Green. Jerome was an excellent student, an athlete, and seemed to have a bright future. Still, something about him appeared false, like he was trying to hard.

When I noticed bruises on his wrists and arms, I sat down with him, and he confessed to being abused by his father since he was a boy. Although my instinct had been right, I hadn't feel empowered by it. My obligation as his teacher was to report it, which I did. There was a discrete investigation, and inevitably he was taken out of his home and sent to live with his aunt. I had opposed the idea, thinking he needed a more substantial change. After all, his aunt lived in our town, and Jerome would still be subject to the idle gossip of what had happened to him, and the constant reminder
of his home life would forever be his cross to bear. But Social Services had taken over by this time, and didn't really care what a mere teacher thought of his future. They just wanted me to keep my mouth shut. Sadly, I didn't.

The last time I spoke to Jerome, he had seemed positive about the change. He was a junior, after all, and had several scholarship opportunities when he graduated. I never knew the last thing I said to him would have such an impact nearly a decade later.

“Jerome,” I had declared, quite candidly, “What your parents did to you was wrong. They deserve to be punished for their actions, and I’m sure once this is all said and done, justice will prevail.”

Being a high school History teacher, I was a firm believer in the judiciary process. After what happened to Jerome’s parents, however, I discovered just how flawed the system actually is. His father, who was a wealthy man, received a slap on the wrist for years of physical and mental abuse. His mother, who knew all about her son’s mistreatment wasn’t even charged. I was saddned when I heard about it, but still believed I had done something good for this kid. I had changed his life for the better, and for that I was proud.

When I turned on the 6 o’clock news a decade later and saw Jerome’s face, thin and expressionless, on the television, I was astounded. It turned out his aunt had been just as abusive as his father. Life had not turned out to be better for him, after all. So, Jerome, acting on his own misguided sense of justice brutally murdered her and then went to visit his parents where he stabbed his father thirty times and shot his mother in the stomach. She was still in a coma, but not expected to recover.

Now the guilt welled up inside of me each time I saw that impassive face on the television screen, and I couldn’t help but remember the old adgage said about teachers:

“As a teacher, I possess a tremendous power to make a child's future miserable or joyous. It is up to me to make sure I keep to the former.”

I had failed.