Risky Business

In my first year as a Resident Counselor for the Governor's School for International Studies (GSIS) at the University of Memphis, a four-week summer program for high school juniors and seniors, it was my direct responsibility to supervise 10 students who lived on my floor and check-in on them each night. Of course I would attend classes and plenaries with all of the students, but these guys were closer to me than the other students. On one of the first few days of the program, one of my residents named Jack asked if he could sit with me and the other RCs during lunch. We opened our table to him and tried to get to know him better, knowing that it can be a difficult time adjusting and making friends at GSIS. When we first started conversing it was clear that he didn't really want to talk much and when he did talk he was asking us details about his Geography class presentation that was due at the end of the month and other strictly academic business. It became clear that Jack was one of the smartest kids from his school and he isn't the best at socializing. It was also clear that Jack was a textbook nerd; he was short, wore glasses, always raised his hand in class, and carried large books around with him. He fit the stereotype so well that when he told us he was a linebacker on his high school football team, it took us some photo evidence until we believed him. 

After lunch and afternoon class, the students have four hours of free time until the next programming begins. During this time, students take an afternoon nap, work out at the rec center, study in the library, or just hang out with each other. I knew sooner or later that Jack would fall in with the other students and make some great friends just as I had when I went through the program as a student in 2012. But as I was working the afternoon desk, Jack came up to me and asked if I wanted to play Risk with him. None of the other students in the lobby wanted to play with him and not that I didn't want to play with him either, it was just that Risk isn't a two-person game, and I knew that a big group was going to go swim at the rec center so I wanted him to go with them. The group invited him to come with them, but he rejected the offer and he and I played two-person Risk for a good ten minutes until the game was over. This happened three days in a row until I encouraged him to hang out with his peers but he just wanted to play Risk with me. But after the first few days, I ran into Jack in the lobby in his swimming trunks, towel around his neck, and grinning from ear to ear. I knew that that today was the day he would go swimming with his new friends. 

Over the course of the month, everyone had become obsessed with him. He was incredibly nice by respecting the multiple perspectives presented in the program, he always helped others in understanding course material, he knew how to have fun by occasionally singing and dancing at the weirdest times, he put in hard work in his assignments and during most bed checks I would already find him passed out cold in his same clothes, and I don't think I ever saw him without a smile on his face the rest of the month. 

When it came to say goodbye on the last day, Jackson took my "month book" (basically a yearbook) and wrote about how he, a lone student from a small east Tennessee school who sits alone at his school lunch and his best friends are his younger brothers, had the best experience of his high school career and it wouldn't have been possible without me. Jack taught me a lot that summer; that small interactions really do matter, that wearing you heart on your sleeve and being your most authentic self should be cherished, not hidden. But most of all, Jack taught me about what it's like to be outside your comfort zone but still be open and willing to try new things, take in new experiences, and let go of insecurities. Now, Jack is a senior, a semi-finalist for the national merit scholarship, potential valedictorian, eagle scout, and aspiring material scientist. We often forget that teachers are not always the wisest or most accomplished person in the room, and instead we should remember that we’re all students in the school of life.