Blowin' in the wind

Today at work I met with a student, James, who I've tutored many times, a student with a creative fire who wants to be a TV writer. Over the last two semesters, James would come to me with an idea for a script, or part of a draft, or a logline, and we'd talk about how he could develop it and structure his stories. He's a writer who sees his characters first and weaves the story around them. Often all he needed was someone in his corner to say, "You can do this!" This student, in my opinion, is very sensitive, talented and has a lot to say with his writing. Today he came by to say good-bye. He had to drop out of school because of not having a spot in the dorms, and having to live in a homeless shelter. His ma kicked him out last semester, and he's been living in shelters and where ever he can crash ever since. Today he told me that the woman at VESID told him that he's not cut out for school because he got such bad grades last semester. She told him to just quit trying and get back to the shelter to try something else.

To. Try. Something. Else.

People, the only thing more atrocious than this situation is the fact that it is by no means a unique situation. I hear stories like this every other day at the community college I tutor for. When are we going to stop bickering about stupid shit and make our education system work for everyone, for our future, for the future of this country and the very planet? I hate to sound like a dirty Hippie, but Peter, Paul and Mary sang it best:

How many years can some people exist
Before they’re allowed to be free?
How many times can a man turn his head
And pretend that he just doesn’t see?

Luckily, James has an aunt in Atlanta who has invited him to live with her and get back on track. I asked him if she is a good person, and he says she is, although she can be annoying. He says he can deal with annoying; he intends to get into a community college and get himself plugged into the indie film scene there. I encouraged him to get P.A. positions and start networking, and I offered to write a letter of reference should he need it. He thanked me and promised to stay in touch. I have no idea if I'll ever hear from him again, but I hope I will, and I hope he will have better things to tell me next time.

When I wonder why I do what I do for very little pay, no benefits, no professional development, and a whole lot of stress, I think of students like James. I can't do this job forever (for all the reasons I just gave), but for now, I feel like I'm part of the solution, even if it is slapping band aids over gaping gun shot wounds. I've noticed among my colleagues a certain sense of "it doesn't matter what I do; this situation is so far out of control, I will never make a difference. What am I doing here?" If I can help one student, like James, to ignore the critics, the ignorance, and the worm of self-doubt, I can say that I know why I am here.