Stewart in the semi finals! Marisa pulls off the win against Liberty Benfield of Vandergrift 5-7, 6-4, 6-1. We fight on to day 2! #state#oyb@AthleticsMISD
Just thought it was kind to share this! 😭❤
I'm a substitute teacher. Different school every week. Kids never remember your name. You're just "the sub."
Last year, I got assigned to a rough middle school. 8th grade English. The regular teacher left a note: "Good luck with Marcus. Sits in the back. Won't participate. Don't push it."
First day, I spot Marcus immediately. Hood up, headphones in, head down on the desk.
I didn't call him out. Just started class.
Halfway through, I'm reading a poem about loneliness. I see his head lift slightly. He's listening.
After class, everyone leaves. Marcus stays behind, packing slowly.
"You actually like poetry?" I ask.
He shrugs. "It's whatever."
"That poem I read—Langston Hughes. You know his stuff?"
"A little." He pauses. "My mom used to read it to me."
"Used to?"
"She died two years ago. Cancer."
My heart sank. "I'm so sorry, Marcus."
He shrugged again, but I could see his jaw tighten. "It's fine. Everyone says that."
"What if instead of saying sorry, I just... brought more poems tomorrow? We could talk about them if you want."
He didn't answer. Just walked out.
But the next day, he came to class early. Sat in the front. No hood. No headphones.
For the next two weeks (I extended my assignment), Marcus and I had this routine. After class, we'd spend 15 minutes talking about poetry, life, grief.
He told me about his mom. How she worked two jobs but still made time to read to him every night. How the house felt empty without her voice. How his dad tried but didn't really know how to talk about feelings.
"She'd want you to keep going," I said one day. "Keep reading. Keep feeling. That's how you keep her alive."
On my last day, Marcus handed me a folded piece of paper.
"I wrote something," he mumbled. "You don't have to read it now."
I waited until I got to my car. Unfolded it. It was a poem. About his mom. About loss. About learning to breathe again.
It was beautiful. Raw. Real.
I drove back into the school. Found him in the hallway.
"Marcus, this is incredible. Have you shown this to anyone?"
"No. It's stupid."
"It's not. It's powerful. You have a gift."
He looked at me like I'd just told him he could fly.
I helped him submit it to a youth poetry contest. Didn't tell him.
Three months later, I got an email. Marcus won second place. $500 prize and publication in a national magazine.
I texted his dad (got the number from the school). He called me crying.
"He hasn't smiled in two years. He's smiling now."
Sometimes all someone needs is to be seen. To be heard. To be told their pain matters.
"I hope this story reminds you that good people still exist.
Everyone’s favorite hype man made it to Raiderville tonight 🤝
Skyler Gill-Howard led everyone in a prayer before a worship service started
@KLBKsports | @TexasTechFB
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