Michael was a big boy. He was at least a head taller than the other fourth-graders, and he had a sturdy build and swaggering gait. On the first day of school while the others compared new sneakers and cool outfits, Michael watched from his seat, his arms spilling over onto the desk next to his.

I remember thinking on that first day that his inability to fit in his desk and chair was an awkward analogy for his inability to comfortably ‘fit in.’ Michael’s story had begun, and it would unfold in other unique ways as time passed.

I quickly learned that Michael had significant trouble with academics, especially his reading and writing. More surprising, however, was the way he compensated. At times, when he’d misread a word or reply to a question incorrectly, he’d laugh so hard at himself that his whole upper body shook. He once referred to Abraham Lincoln as Abraham “Lincoln Log.” We all laughed, myself included.

He gave to us, as if a gift, precious pauses of laughter and joy. This was the charming side of Michael… but there was a dark side, too.

The first time it happened, I had finished modeling a writing exercise and had just answered every what if, can I, how long question imaginable before settling everyone in to begin. It was quiet. I was walking the floor, glancing over shoulders, reading ideas, smiling with approval, and encouraging poky window gazers to move along.

All of a sudden, I heard the repeated sound of metal crashing into the floor. I turned to see Michael, clutching both sides of his desk, rage distorting his face so I barely recognized him. He was slamming his desk against the floor over and over, until I raced over and calmed him down.

“I can’t do it,” he said, breaking the awkward silence, and then tucked his head into his arms and began to sob.

I was concerned that this episode would affect Michael’s relationship with the others in the class, but this fear was unnecessary. Shortly after the incident, his response about “George Washing Machine” restored the comical camaraderie in the classroom.

When Love that Dog, a Sharon Creech masterpiece, first came out, I was thrilled to see that the publisher was sponsoring a “Love that Pet” poetry contest. It took a bit of convincing, but we decided each of us would craft a poem about a pet using the techniques we learned from the main character Jack, as well as from the master poets whose work appeared throughout the book. Our art teacher offered to teach the class block printing so they could illustrate their poems, too.

With careful steering, Michael grasped it. He was expressing himself in ways he had never done before. Throughout the process of crafting this poem (and numerous others that were to follow), his desk episodes lessened.

Replacing the turbulence, he instead began to sigh to express his frustration. And they were the kind of sighs where he seemed to acknowledge that good and bad could occur simultaneously, and that that was okay.

When it was done, Michael’s poem mimicked him; in places it laughed and in others, it sobbed.

We compiled the poems into a classroom anthology and entered it in the contest. Weeks later… we were notified we had won. We couldn’t believe it! We won!

We had a Poetry Reception in the evening for parents where we shared our poems as well as cake and punch. We displayed our artwork and autographed programs. The author, Sharon Creech, even provided some congratulatory comments which I copied and glued into the front cover of 20 copies of Love that Dog, one for everyone.

My daughter, who was five years old at the time, came to the Poetry Reception. Today she is a teenager but she still recalls Michael’s gentle manner and how he shared his pocketful of candy with her. She remembers how he recited his poem to her flawlessly while I was busy arranging chairs and balloons. She always asks if I’ve heard from him, as if implying that someday I will.

Unfortunately, I don’t know where Michael is. He left our district after completing just that one year. The lesson I learned from him, though, is helping kids find their voice is almost like helping them find their way in the world. That’s the way it was for Michael. It may sound cliché, but with him it rang true.