When I was in high school, I never would’ve done what Anthony did.  Students face enough stress just walking through the halls of a public school, finding a place to sit at lunch, or taking yet another standardized test.  With all that anxiety hitting students like high-voltage electricity, who needs to stir up a little more?

And my 7th period class isn’t exactly a pool of tranquility.  Don’t get me wrong, I love that class, but they’re more like kernels of popcorn in a hot pan.  Emilio, wearing his football jersey, likes to shout across four rows of desks at Luciana about what he thinks is her silly-looking shirt.

“What did you say,” she’ll yell as she finishes her makeup.

“I said your shirt looks funny!”

The little argument continues until Ruby, sitting by Emilio, steps in to referee.

And we have a chef.  The only place students are allowed to eat snacks is sitting on the couch, which comes through peer nominations, and Eli takes full advantage of that.  When he’s there, he makes waffles.  As I’m pontificating about the symbolism in A Raisin in the Sun, the batter in his little red machine is sizzling away.

Add all that to Ethan covertly playing video games while KJ is grabbing Jack’s arm to get his pen back, and you have beautiful chaos.

Mrs. Scott, the co-teacher in the class, likes comparing it to bull riding.  “For a few seconds,” she says, “You feel like you’re in control, like you could make it the full 8 seconds, and then before you know it. . .WHAM. . . you’re bucked off.”

Two weeks ago, in the midst of all that chaos, Anthony found his voice.

“Good afternoon students!” I shouted when the bell rang.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ahnfeldt!” they yelled back.  The greeting helps us focus, and the yelling comes pretty naturally to them, so I always get a nice response.

“Emilio, look up here,” I said, trying to redirect his attention.  “Ethan, close your laptop.”

Ethan closed it and looked up.

I waited.

“Who’s got an Instant Replay?” I asked.

Nobody raised their hands, which wasn’t a surprise.  Instant Replays are words students print out from songs or movies, and they get extra-credit if they share them with the class.  But the public speaking part and the assignment not being required tend to be a deterrent.

I scanned the room, and then, like a little bit of sunshine, I saw Anthony slowly lift his hand.

“Yes!” I shouted, pumping my fist.  “You have one Anthony?”

He nodded his head as the class looked back at him.  He’s a poet of sorts.  With his thick, black hair, and his guitar leaned up against him, the class expects him to say something profound.

He started to get up, but I stopped him.

“Wait for the song,” I said, running behind my desk.  Party in the USA was queued up on my computer, and I hit play.  Miley Cyrus started singing, and Anthony pulled a piece of paper from his backpack.  He walked up to the front of the room, failing miserably at hiding the shy smile growing on his face.

Before starting, he walked up to my desk and leaned in close.

“Is it okay if I give a trigger warning for suicide?” he whispered.

“Sure Anthony,” I whispered back, wondering what was coming.

I faded the music.

“Just a warning,” he said, leaning against the podium, “this is about suicide.”

I offered an option for kids who wanted to leave—“If anyone is uncomfortable, you can step into the hallway.”

Four kids immediately left their desks and walked out, and suddenly, the popcorn stopped popping.  Everyone watched their peers leave and then locked in on Anthony.

“This is suicide awareness month,” he said, his smile fading, “and I want to read some words that kinda capture how I’ve felt at times.”

“Life has no meaning,” he said.  He was looking down at the words on his paper.  “There isn’t really anyone who wants to die, is there?  Birth, death, birth, death.  Life is born and life dies.”

He finished and then looked up.

“I had a good childhood,” he said.  “I had all kinds of energy playing with my friends, but then some hard things happened, and I started struggling with depression. I guess you could say I lost my spark.”

He paused a minute, gathering himself.  The AC vent rattled above him.

“That’s when I started having suicidal thoughts.  I just didn’t see the point.  It was hard, you know.”  He nodded his head as if to answer his own question.

He looked at me, and I nodded back at him.

“But eventually,” he said, “I found my spark again.  That’s all I wanted to say.”

He gave another smile to soften the blow of his words, but most of us didn’t know how to react.  Some clapped, but most just watched him fold up his paper.  I knew many of the people in that room had faced the same pain he had faced.

The classroom went silent as Anthony came out from behind the podium.

Then, Nathan spoke up.

“Hey bro, come here.”

Nathan was sitting on the couch, but he stood up as Anthony approached, reaching out his arms, and then Anthony kind of fell into him.  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  Nathan was hugging him, reminding him he wasn’t alone!  We watched them for a moment, and then Anthony went back to his seat.

The class quietly watched as he sat down, and then Sonny reached out his hand to give him a dap (kind of a sideways high-five).  There was a crisp pop as their hands met, and my heart did a little dance.

I stood up behind the podium to say something.

“Thank you, Anthony, for being brave,” I said.  “You don’t know who in here may have needed to hear that.  I’m glad you’re still with us.”

He nodded his head.

And as Anthony gave me another smile, I saw it.  I saw the spark he was talking about.  Nothing earth shattering had happened, but because he chose to speak into the chaos, God used his spark to light a flame in all of us.  He took us in a direction I never expected—from riding bulls to experiencing love, the only thing that makes life worth living.

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