Della has tutoring on Tuesday nights. Once a week I leave campus early, pick her up from school, drive her to the tutor’s apartment, and sit in the car for ninety minutes. I’ve tried a couple of other arrangements, but this is the one that works.
In the spring and fall, when it’s still light, I bring a two-inch stack of student essays with me. They keep me company as I wait. I scribble against the steering wheel and picture the faces of the eighteen-year-olds who wrote them, printed them out, and handed them over to me, a near stranger with a pen. I feel the weight of their vulnerability in my lap. Many of them have been hurt by a teacher somewhere along the way. I try to be one of the teachers who un-hurts them.
