Despite his obvious courage， Al had been with us for only a short while and was still trying to fit in. So I was a little surprised when he volunteered to read during author' s chair. I had one of those teacher moments， when I smiled and nodded for him to read， while inside I said a silent prayer that the other students would not tease the new kid after he read. The room fell silent， and Al began to read.
"If I had one wish， it would be to meet my dad... " He started out loud and clear and held the attention of my usually restless seventh graders as he read on for what seemed like fifteen minutes. He told of how he had never known his father， who had left the family when Al was a baby. He shared the intimate details of his struggles to be the only man in the house at such a young age， of having to mow the lawn and fix broken pipes. He revealed to us the thoughts that raced through his mind constantly about where his father might be and why he might have left.
My eyes scanned the room for snickering faces of seventh-grade kids who I knew were prone to jump at a weakness and try to crack a joke， but there were no snickers. There were no rolling eyes or gestures insinuating boredom or pending attacks. All of my seventh-grade students were listening， really listening. Their eyes were on Al， and they were absorbing his words like sponges. My heart was full.
Al continued on， telling of nightmares at night， of never knowing a man so important to him， yet so unreal. I could hear his voice growing shaky as he read such passionate and honest words， and I saw a tear roll down one of his dimpled cheeks. I looked to the audience. There were tears on Jessica' s face and on the faces of a few others seated quietly， intently listening.
They are letting him do this， I thought. They are allowing him to share something he perhaps has never shared before， and they aren' t judging him or teasing him. I felt a lump in my own throat.